by James Ellroy
Wayne rotated east. Wayne saw the war grow. Wayne saw horse grow konkurrent. Wayne rotated west. Wayne saw the war grow—every night on TV.
Barb saw the war. Barb loathed the war. Barb watched the war on TV. There’s Barb. She’s in Da Nang. She scores this white powder.
She toured Da Nang. She saw the maimed. She saw Pete fucked up. She dug pills. She craved more. She found it. She found horse. She sniffed horse. She disproved Pete’s assertion: We control horse/we contain horse/all whites verboten.
Barb flew home. Barb brought hospital snapshots. Barb watched the war on TV.
She had Pete full-time. She loved it. Pete loves the war. Barb hates the war. Barb sparks their war for real.
She ragged the war. She talked antiwar shit. She rode horseback.
She took tastes. It went up her nose. It went there under Pete’s eyes. She scored horse. She disproved Pete. She disproved containment.
Small tastes. No arc up to skin pops. No mainline spikes.
Wayne knew she did it. Pete didn’t. Wayne looked at her closer. Wayne loved her long-distance. Wayne lived to WATCH.
He watched in Vegas. He watched in L.A. He watched in Vietnam. The war escalated. The war was the Life uncontained.
Pete was wrong. We couldn’t win. We couldn’t force containment. Pete was wrong. White horse would reign. White horse would smash containment. Barb proved him wrong. GIs would follow her. White horse would reign uncontained.
Wayne watched the war. Wayne read body counts. Wayne prowled dope galleries. Wayne logged rumors.
More troops were pledged. That meant more bomb runs. That meant more ground expansion.
Mr. Kao expanded. Mr. Kao bombed Ba Na Key. Dope fields burned. Mr. Kao’s Laotian rivals de-expanded.
Stanton said Kao’s kool. Kao won’t fuck us. We’re localized. We’re self-contained. We’re fine in West Vegas.
Wayne and Pete knew otherwise. Wayne and Pete knew this:
We’re too localized/we’re too contained/we’re hamstrung in West Vegas.
Wayne pressed Pete. Wayne pressed the case. Let’s press Stanton. Let’s press Carlos. Let’s tell them this: Let’s push white horse in L.A.
Pete said, “Don’t shuck me.” Pete said, “It’s about Wendell Durfee.” Pete knew him. Pete knew his shit. Pete knew his dreams.
Bongo/King Arthur/Cassius Cool/black faces/white backdrops/white sheets. Cur-ti and Leroy. Otis Swasey. The dead whore/her trailer/the ball in her teeth.
The dreams reran. The dreams dredged Wayne Senior. It was dream clockwork. Dream and wake. Father Rabbit’s there on your pillow.
The dreams recycled. The dreams reran. The dreams ran in rotation.
Rotate east—see Bongo—you killed him there. Rotate west—see black faces—you found them there. Rotate south—see new faces—they lynch that type there.
White sheets. Klan sheets. Bob Relyea—Wild Rabbit. Bob tweaked him.
Bob told him: Your daddy loves you. He misses you. He told me so. He digs on you. He’s Daddy Rabbit. He’s hip. He’s cool. He funds my Klan. We fight mail fraud. We help Mr. Hoover.
We hate smart. We contain. We consolidate. We fuck the bad haters. We spread the good hate.
Dreams. Reruns. Rotations.
Sleep on planes—crash time zones—see faces. Hate smart. Consolidate. Hail Father Rabbit!
The dreams reran. The concept held. The gist accrued: He needs you. He sees you. He wants you.
91
(Las Vegas, Bay St. Louis, Cuban Waters, 4/1/66–10/30/66)
Wars:
The real war. The TV war. Barb’s running fire.
They watch the news. He comments. He says we’ll win. Barb says we shouldn’t. Barb says we can’t and we won’t.
He says I’ve been there. He says I know. She says I’ve been there. She says I know. They escalate. They debate control. They debate containment. TV wars—parlor shit—sniper attacks.
It raged. It escalated. It stopped. Barb nuked him. Barb won.
She said, “Nobody’s controlling the war, and you don’t control the dope traffic, because I met a doctor in Da Nang, and he sends me little tastes, and I boot them when I get bored to death or afraid that you’ll fall off a fucking boat in the fucking Cuban sea.”
He flipped out. He threw shit. He taxed out his heart. He tossed chairs. He broke windows. He chucked the TV out. One hoist—two hundred pounds airborne. One badass heart-patient trick.
The TV flew. The TV dropped fourteen stories. The TV dive-bombed a blue Ford.
He raged. His veins throbbed. His pump swelled. He crashed. He dive-bombed the couch. Barb talked up a truce.
I’m no junkie. I sniff it. I taste it. I never shoot up. I hate your work. I hate the war—it covers you.
He tried to fight. He gobbled air. His pump puttered and slogged. Barb held his hands. Barb held the cat. Barb talked très slow.
I hate your work. I hate the Life. I hate Vegas now. We’ll ride it out. We’ll survive it. We’ll win.
They made up. He got calm. He got some back-end wind. They made love. They wrecked the couch. The cat refereed.
Shit got said. Shit got aired. Shit went unsaid. No vows of abstinence/no vows to stop/no vows to change.
Truce.
They split the Stardust. They moved into the Cavern. They bought a new TV. Barb watched the war. Barb sulked and judged. He worked the biz. He ran dope. He ran guns.
Barb worked the Cavern. Barb wore go-go gowns. Barb showed off skin-plus. Dig it: No pinholes/no bruises/no tracks.
Truce.
They lived. They made love. He traveled. Barb flew then. He knew it. Barb flew White Powder Air.
They lived the truce. He nailed the Shit Clause:
Barb was right—the war was fucked—we couldn’t win. Barb was right—they had big love—they’d stick and win. Barb was wrong—white horse had teeth—white horse bit to win.
White flag/ceasefire/truce.
He conceded points. He owed Barb. He brought her to Dallas. The truce held. The clause held. The ink ran.
You’ve got Barb. Jane is dead. Ward knows it. Ward said it once. Ward said Jane left me. Ward stopped short then.
Ward knew Jane’s backstory. That scandal file told him. Ward could fill in the rest. Arden runs to Danny. They set sail. Gulf waters entice. They’re tapped and tired—long years of flight.
Ward lost a woman. Carlos lost a boat. Carlos lost a spy. Carlos lost Danny. Carlos killed Danny. Carlos dropped la Causa flat.
The new boat bored him. The boat runs bored him. It was gadfly shit. The runs bored Pete. The runs vexed Pete. The runs stressed his pump.
Coast prowls and gun transfers—too easy. Raft runs and scalp hunts—light counts.
It’s 1/66. Pete gets frustrated. Pete sends Flash in. Flash is Cuban. Flash is dark. Flash fits right in.
Flash tours Cuba. Flash meets Fuentes and Arredondo. They hit the hills. They tour kampsites. They see kadre gun-stocks.
Big kampsites. Big personnel. Big inventories stocked.
They lead a raid. They run sixty men. They blitz a Militia camp. They flank in. They lob shells. They pop bazookas. They run in under cover. They flank wide. They throw Zippo flames.
They killed eighty men. They lost three men. They shaved beards boocoo. Pete loved it. Pete revived behind it. Pete dropped pump weight boocoo.
Weight was weight. Shit was shit. Work was work. The docs said don’t smoke. He did it. The docs said eat light. He did it. The docs said work light. He said Fuck You.
He worked the dope biz. He worked Tiger Kab. He worked the Cavern. The Cavern pandered. The Cavern rocked.
Hipsters loved it. Hipsters dug Milt C. and Junkie Monkey. Horn dogs loved it. Horn dogs drooled for Barb B. Sonny Liston loved it. Fruits loved it. Fruits swished in and Liberace’d.
Wayne Senior came by. Wayne Senior waxed nice. Need some help? Call if so—I know grind-joint casinos. Pete waxed nice. Pete said sure—I’ll do that.
Wayne Senior came b
ack. Wayne Senior lost money. Wayne Senior talked.
Life’s cruel. Life’s odd. Ward Littell’s with my ex. How’s my son? I know he’s tough now. I know he works for you.
Pete waxed nice. Pete waxed bland. Pete waxed noncommittal. Wayne Senior talked. Wayne Senior talked truce. Wayne Senior said I miss my son—I know he’s been wiiiiiild places.
Wayne Senior waxed anxious. The word was out—Drac’s on his way. Drac the bloodsucker. Drac the Mob puppet. Drac the greedy centipede.
The prelude ran long. Pete worked it for three years. Pete notched some gooood benefits.
You’re forty-six years old. You’re a killer. You’re a frog arriviste. You’re rich. You’re worth two million legit.
Pas mal, mais je m’en fous.
Preludes and fringe benefits. Money and debits. Barb and white horse. Barb and ennui. Barb and Vietnam.
They played a game. He got her nude. He got in tight. He checked her arms. He checked her veins. He checked her toes. He tickled her all over. He checked for needle tracks.
None.
It’s contained. I control it. I taste little drops.
He checked her ankles. He tickled her. He traced her veins. She touched him. She pulled him in.
The game helped. The game hurt. The game took him back:
It’s hot. His heart rips. He leaps for her shoe.
92
(Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Washington, D.C., Boston, New Orleans,
Chicago, Mexico City, 4/1/66–10/30/66)
Mourner. Lover bereft.
She died. She left a file. She left a legacy. He tracked her southbound. He ran logic.
Logic:
Otash sees the scandal files. Otash spots Carlos and Jane. Otash calls Pete. Pete doubts Jane. Pete’s doubts pre-exist. Jane runs. Jane finds Danny Bruvick.
He called airlines. He checked flights. He found the name Arden Breen. She flew to Mobile, Alabama. She flew to Bon Secour.
Logic:
Pete had Gulf ties. Pete ran guns. Pete gigged from Bon Secour. Pete interceded. Pete bucked Carlos. Pete made Jane run.
Carlos found Danny. Carlos found him with Jane.
That was theory logic. It was buttressed by facts. It was shaped by news clips.
She was dead. He mourned her. He worked with Carlos. They both kept mute. Carlos said nothing. Pete stayed mute. They both misread it. They both called it this way: Ward doesn’t know what we know.
I know. I did the logic. I dream the gist.
Carlos kills flamboyant. His teams pack power tools. Carlos kills slow.
Chainsaws/shears/drills. Lathe chisels and fungo bats.
He dreamed it. He heard it. He saw it. He slept with it. He lived it. He didn’t drink. He didn’t seek numbness. He didn’t anesthetize. He worked. He maneuvered. He hidey-hole stashed.
He hit the bank. He grabbed Jane’s file. He studied it: six folders/typed notes/comprehensive.
Jane knew him. The file nailed him.
She predicted his embezzlements. She tracked his travels. She surmised his bank accounts. She critiqued his technique. She guessed at amounts. She assumed his guilt tithes.
She prowled his papers. She linked facts. She extrapolated lucidly. She prowled his trash. She studied said trash. She corroborated spectacularly.
She nailed his target businesses. She estimated profits. She ball-parked skim flow. She predicted overhead. She guessed launder fees. She calibrated foreign currencies.
He devised the fund-book plan. She ran up to speed.
She tracked his travels. She tallied phone calls. She tracked his lies and omissions.
She nailed it:
The Hughes incursion. The full trust breach. The Boys sell Drac Las Vegas.
Casino profits/cash-flow charts/skim currency/front men/hidden points/rigged prices.
She took common knowledge—Hughes wants Las Vegas—she tracked back inductively.
The text jumped. The file nailed Jules Schiffrin. Jane knew Jules. Jules revealed things unwittingly. Jane extrapolated. Jane thus ascribed:
Jules builds the pension fund. Jules builds dummy books. Jules builds the “real” book scam.
Details. Facts. Guesses. Assertions. Astonishing—all new text—things he didn’t know.
The text jumped. The file nailed Jimmy Hoffa.
Jimmy killed Arden’s father. Eyewits spieled facts off-the-cuff. Jimmy cut management deals. Jimmy ordered beatings. Jimmy ordered hits.
Jane was smart. Jane allegedly hated her father. Jane lied. Jane drew heat off Jimmy. The file was Jane’s revenge: long-standing/long-planned.
The text jumped. The file nailed the Boys.
Carlos/Sam G./John Rosselli/Santo/Moe Dalitz/hoods in K.C.
Details. Facts. Rumors. Assertions.
Per: Hits/botched hits/extortion. Judges bought/juries bought/cops purchased wide. Rackets developed/rackets ditched/rackets reborn and revised.
Astonishing. Incendiary. Densely inclusive.
Jane builds a testament. Jane grows weary then. Jane gets tweaked and runs.
Jane holds the file. Jane forfeits it. Jane pays off her Dallas debt. Jane pays him for two years as “Jane.”
Her testament. His now. His safeguard. Tell Carlos. Tell all the Boys:
I’ve served you. I’m tired. Please let me run.
He picked a bank in Westwood. He rented a stash vault. He stashed the file. He mourned Jane.
He dreamed. He saw icepicks and drills deployed. He prayed. He tallied his dead from Big D on up.
He stole. He bilked Howard Hughes. He tithed the SCLC. He mourned. His grief transmogrified. His hurt grew into HATE.
Carlos killed Jane. His hate bypassed him. His hate bypassed all the Boys. His hate dispersed and coalesced. His hate found Mr. Hoover.
He watched him.
Mr. Hoover spoke in D.C. Mr. Hoover wooed the American Legion. He watched. He stood at the back of the hall.
The hall roared. Mr. Hoover sailed clichés. Mr. Hoover attacked Dr. King. Mr. Hoover looked old. Mr. Hoover looked frail. Mr. Hoover spewed HATE.
Littell watched.
Mr. Hoover ceded irony. Mr. Hoover ceded taste. Mr. Hoover relinquished control. Mr. Hoover spewed HATE. It was unassailable/unvanquishable/unmediated.
Littell gauged it.
Mr. Hoover was old. The world outgrew him. He outlived his reign of control. His hate dispersed. His hate coalesced. His hate found Dr. King.
Littell gauged his own hate.
He lived by hubris. He overcommitted. He outflanked his sphere of control. His hate dispersed. His hate condensed. His hate scattergunned. He outgrew his world. He retained his ideals. He outgrew his love of intrigue. His hate dispersed and coalesced. His hate found John Edgar Hoover.
He acted on it. He acted passively. Wait. Do nothing yet. Let Mr. Hoover HATE.
Let the world rock. Let Dr. King meld with Bobby. They have bold designs. They despise the war. They may collaborate.
Dr. King planned revolt. Lyle Holly detailed it. Littell destroyed Lyle’s notes. Let Dr. King live the notes. Let Dr. King act nonpassively.
Peace broadsides. Voter drives. Antislum campaigns. Revolt in its early stages—planned through ’68.
Wait. Do nothing yourself. Let Mr. Hoover HATE.
His hate burns. His hate shows. His hate discredits him. Dr. King plans. Dr. King schemes. Dr. King’s status grows.
Don’t push too hard. Don’t push too fast. Don’t strain credibility. Let the world rock at its own pace. Let some things go.
LBJ fights his foreign war. Mr. Hoover approves. LBJ pushes civil rights. Mr. Hoover fumes silently. Mr. Hoover spews hate.
LBJ might assess him. Edgar—you’re moribund. You’ve got to go.
The war will extend. The war will divide. The war might derail LBJ. Bobby might run in ’68. Dr. King might downscale his agenda. Bobby might endorse it.
He watched Bobby. He read the Senate Record. He tallied Bobby’s votes. Bobby was smart. Bobby never said “The Bo
ys.” Bobby hated circumspectly.
Hate strong. Hate brave. Don’t hate like Mr. Hoover.
Mr. Hoover called him. The phone rang in mid-July. Mr. Hoover stirred some fear.
The spot tails were gone. He knew it. He was safe per Chuck Rogers. He was safe per Lyle H.
Still—Mr. Hoover stirred fear.
He was brusque. He was rude. Howard Hughes and Las Vegas—update me on that.
Littell said Drac’s crazy. Drac fears state taxes. Drac’s booked a whole railroad train. Drac trained to Boston. Drac brought his Mormons. Drac booked a floor at the Ritz.
Drac wants hotels. I’ve braced the registered owners. It’s pro forma. The Boys have the points. The Boys will rig the fees.
Mr. Hoover laughed. Mr. Hoover schemed. Mr. Hoover promised a no-skim-bust policy. Let’s not stir enmity. Why stir publicity? Why sully the Count and his kingdom?
Littell digressed. Littell said Drac has a plan. He’ll hit Vegas in late November.
The red tape will clear. He’ll have his cash. He’ll storm the DI then. He’s booked a floor. He’ll bring his slaves. They’ll bring his blood and dope.
Mr. Hoover laughed. Mr. Hoover probed:
I pulled some bugs. I pulled some taps. A House Committee made me. I got a tip: Lyle Holly braced Bobby. Lyle sent him a posthumous “confession.”
Littell feigned shock: Not Lyle H.! Not our WHITE RABBIT!
Mr. Hoover probed. Mr. Hoover ranted. Mr. Hoover steamed. He disdained WHITE and CRUSADER. He dissected their “twin moral voids.” He blasphemed WHITE the betrayer.
Littell assessed the rant. Littell concluded: He doesn’t suspect me/he buys the “confession”/he buys the “betrayal” that way.
Mr. Hoover digressed. Mr. Hoover attacked Dr. King. His HATE showed. His HATE beamed. His HATE crescendoed.
Littell said let me help. You know I have documents. They detail my “Mob donations.”
Mr. Hoover said no. Mr. Hoover said it’s too little. Mr. Hoover said it’s much too late.
Littell heard hate. Littell heard resolve. Littell knew this: He’s got new plans. He’ll escalate.
Mr. Hoover signed off. Mr. Hoover omitted: