The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 50
Mail-fraud news. News per one arm of BLACK RABBIT. A big success/gloat-worthy. A telling omission.
Littell translated said omission. Littell knew this:
He’s got new plans. He’ll escalate.
Wait. Do nothing. Let his hate show. Let his hate self-indict.
The Boys had plans. It’s time for relocation—Sam G. leaves custody.
Littell drove him home. Sam packed his bags. They flew to Mexico City. Sam bought knickknacks. Sam bought a house. Sam discussed his schemes.
We buy the ’68 election. We throw it to our candidate. He takes our cash. He bows. He obeys. He pardons Jimmy Hoffa. He lets us expand. He ignores our colonizations.
We move south. We colonize. We plant our casinos. Let us thrive—don’t fuck with said colonies—right-or left-wing.
Memo: We buy the candidate. We buy the bulk of him. Drac supplies 25%. We collude. Drac gets perks—time will determine which or what.
Jimmy’s through. He’s dead on appeals. He’ll be jailed next spring. Let him stew. Buy a candidate. Elect him.
Said candidate waits. Said candidate pardons Jimmy. We get one pardon. We get one colony policy—per nations right-or left-wing.
Cuba was left-wing. They couldn’t plant casinos there. Their plant targets were all right-wing. Think back. Go back three years—fall ’63.
The hit plan’s on. The Boys are mad. The Boys want their Cuban casinos. They tried to kill Castro. They indulged covert ops. They failed.
Sam enlists Santo. Santo lures Johnny Rosselli. They brace the Beard. They make nice—please return our casinos. The Beard says no. They clip Jack. The world rocks and sways.
Then to now—plans crass and audacious.
Like the war—Big Pete’s preferred misalliance.
He met Barb for lunch. They met once a week. They discussed it. Barb hated the war. Barb felt new love for Bobby. Barb assailed Pete.
Barb talked political. Barb talked lounge gossip and segued. Barb said “exploitation.” Barb said “mass murder” and “genocide.”
Barb was moody. Barb took pills. Barb anesthetized. They discussed Pete’s business. They discussed Pete’s compartments.
Barb temporized. Barb straddled fences. Barb compartmentalized: I love Pete/I hate Pete’s business/I hate Pete’s war.
He loved her. Wayne loved her. She knew it. All men loved her. He told her. She knew it.
She said I like it. She said I hate it. She said I outgrew it late.
She knew Jane left him. She didn’t know details. She teased him per Janice. He told her flat-out. He played it blunt—Janice was diversion.
Janice was sex. Janice was style. Janice was will bravura.
Wayne Senior beat her. Janice still limped. Janice still got cramps. Janice still shot scratch golf. Janice still played A-club tennis.
She charged the net. She limped. She cramped. She slammed shots. She made points. She won by attrition.
She rebuffed Mormon goons. Said goons were putting feelers out. Wayne Senior misses Wayne Junior.
She replied one way. Her words were Get Fucked. It was her one response verbatim.
He liked her. He loved Barb. He loved Jane.
Barb got dreamy looks. She hid from Pete then. He envied her looks. He envied her sedation.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 10/30/66. Internal memorandum. Topic: OPERATION BLACK RABBIT. To: BLUE RABBIT. From: Director. Marked: “Stage-1 Covert”/“Eyes Only”/“Read and Burn.”
BLUE RABBIT,
I have been digesting my July phone call to CRUSADER RABBIT for some time. I could not read his response to my mention of WHITE RABBIT’s alleged confession, and perceived his mental state to be problematic.
WHITE RABBIT was, of course, your brother. I have given your repeated assertions that his confession was fabricated considerable thought. You have stated that CRUSADER RABBIT is the only one in our purview capable of such a fabrication, and I cannot in any way dispute that assessment.
CRUSADER RABBIT troubles me. As you have noted, his paramour, Arden Breen/Jane Fentress, disappeared last October and has presumably been killed by members of organized crime. I suspect that her absence and assuredly grisly fate have contributed to CRUSADER RABBIT’s funk. You have often characterized CRUSADER RABBIT as a “wimp,” but I would add that his propensity for kamikaze action marks him as the world’s most dangerous wimp.
All told, I think we should reinstate our spot-surveillance of CRUSADER RABBIT and reinstate our Trash and Mail Covers. These actions will supplant our decision to exclude him from all aspects of OPERATION BLACK RABBIT.
Per the “Shakedown” adjunct:
I veto your recommendation that we target RED RABBIT. RED RABBIT will simply be too wary of entrapment.
The target will be PINK RABBIT. His heedless pursuit of homosexual encounters marks him as more suitable and vulnerable.
BIG RABBIT seems to have recovered from his heart attack. Contact him by 12/1/66.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/2/66. Miami Herald headline:
KING DECRIES “IMPERIALISTIC” WAR IN VIETNAM
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/4/66. Denver Post-Dispatch headline and subhead:
HOFFA WITH MARCH PRISON DATE
APPEAL LAWYERS GLUM
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/12/66. Atlanta Constitution subhead:
WAR A “MORAL OUTRAGE,” KING DECLARES IN SPEECH
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/16/66. Los Angeles Examiner subhead:
NO ’68 PREZ’L PLANS, RFK TELLS PRESS
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/17/66. San Francisco Chronicle subhead:
“DRAFT KENNEDY” MOVEMENT GROWING DESPITE
SENATOR’S STATED RELUCTANCE
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/18/66. Chicago Sun-Times headline and subhead:
KING SPEAKS TO DRAFT RESISTANCE WORKSHOP
HOOVER CALLS CIVIL-RIGHTS LEADER
“COMMUNIST PAWN”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/23/66. Washington Post subhead:
BACKLASH ON HOOVER FOR ANTI-KING REMARKS
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/24/66. Boston Globe subhead:
HOWARD HUGHES’ BIZARRE CROSS-COUNTRY TRAIN RIDE
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/25/66. Las Vegas Sun headline and subhead:
HUGHES TRAIN EN ROUTE
WHAT DOES BILLIONAIRE RECLUSE BODE FOR LAS VEGAS?
(November 27, 1966–March 18, 1968)
93
(Las Vegas, 11/27/66)
He’s coming.
He’s Mr. Big. He’s Howard Hughes. He’s the Count of Las Vegas.
Littell watched.
He joined newsmen. He joined camera crews. He joined Joe Vegas. Word leaked. The Count’s coming. The train station—11:00 p.m.
He’s coming. Check track 14. Behold the Drac Express.
The platform rocked. Newsmen cliqued up. Grips wheeled arc lights. Camera guys lugged film.
Littell watched.
He’d braced Drac’s Mormons. They talked renovation. They said they’d hit the DI. They said they’d Draculized. They germ-proofed the penthouse. They lugged freezers in. They stocked snacks and treats.
Snow cones/pizza/candy bars. Demerol/codeine/Dilaudid.
They said we launch soon. We negotiate and bargain. We buy the DI. The Boys said we launch soon. We bargain and set the price.
It’s large. Drac will balk. Drac will pout. Drac will pay. Drac will stump for a Mormon hegemony. Drac will shout: Mormons must run my casino!
The Boys will renavigate. The Boys will plot. The Boys will decree: Littell must brace Wayne Tedrow Senior.
They’ll talk. They’ll bargain. Small talk will run cruel. Wayne Senior will tweak him on Janice.
The platform shook. The rails shook. A train whistle blew.
He’s coming.
A cop van pulled up. Cops got out. Cops hauled equipment. A cop pushed a gurney. A cop wheeled a tent. A cop slung oxygen cans.
Cops shoved newsmen. Cops shoved citizens. Cops pulled cameras back. Newsmen pushed. Newsmen jockeyed. Newsmen shoved back.
Train lights comin
g—that whistle full blast.
Littell stood tiptoed. A kid jostled him. Littell stepped back. Littell got perspective.
Sparks flew. The train braked. The train stopped and sat. The crowd shoved. Flashbulbs popped. The crowd scattered.
They hit the train. They cupped their eyes. They peeped window slats. Doors cranked open—up and back—the crowd tailed the cop with the gurney.
Littell laughed. Littell knew Drac strategy. Littell knew diversions.
Look:
There’s gurney 2. There’s tent 2. They’re all the way back.
Mormons stepped out. Mormons signaled. Mormons dropped a ramp. Mormons formed a cordon. Mormons pushed a wheelchair. Mormons wheeled Drac.
He’s tall. He’s thin. He’s wearing a Kleenex-box hat.
94
(Las Vegas, 11/27/66)
He’s coming.
He’s off the train. He’s in the car. He’s got this dumb hat. Wayne walked the DI. The floor buzzed electric. Ghouls circulated. Wayne logged rumors.
He’s overdue. He’s due soon. He’s due now. He’s got plane-crash scars. He’s got skin disease. He’s got neck bolts like Frankenstein.
Ghouls positioned. Ghouls vultured. Ghouls swarmed the casino. Ghouls stood on chairs. Ghouls slung cameras. Ghouls perched with autograph books.
Ghouls swarmed outside. Wayne saw Barb there. Glass walls provided views. Barb saw Wayne. Barb waved. Wayne waved back.
Ghouls prowled. Hotel fuzz prowled. Somebody yelled, “Limos!” Somebody yelled, “Him!”
Ghouls whooped. Ghouls dispersed. Ghouls ran outside. Wayne checked the glass walls. Wayne caught a view.
He saw cops. He saw limos. He saw a mock Howard Hughes. He made him. He popped him—back in ’62.
He hosted a kid’s show. He flashed his dick. He groped prepubescents. Cops called him “Chester the Molester.”
Ghouls jumped him. Chester posed for pix magnanimous. Chester signed autographs. A limo eased by. A window went down. Wayne caught a blip: White hair/dead eyes/dumb hat.
Somebody yelled, “He’s a fake!” The ghouls up and ran. The ghouls chased the limo.
Barb walked inside. Wayne saw her. Wayne detoured up.
“Aren’t you working tonight?”
Barb laughed. “I could ask you the same thing.”
Wayne smiled. “I was thinking of Pete and Ward, and how this whole thing started.”
Barb yawned. “Tell me over coffee, all right?”
A ghoul ran by. They dodged him. They walked to the bar. They grabbed seats and faced the casino.
A waitress showed. Barb cued her. She brought coffee fast. The floor was slow. Chester shot craps. Ghouls meandered through.
Barb sipped coffee. “It’s been months, and I still want a cigarette.”
“Not like Pete does.”
Chester rolled. Chester crapped out. Chester blew money.
Barb watched him. “There’s these secrets that people know.”
“Not everyone.”
Barb unrolled her napkin. Barb twirled her spoon.
“To start, there’s a certain city in Texas. Then there’s the plans the Outfit has for Mr. Hughes.”
Wayne smiled. “Tell me some secrets I don’t know.”
“For instance?”
“Come on. Pete has half the rooms in Vegas bugged.”
Barb twirled her knife. “All right. Donkey Dom’s shacked at the Cavern. He’s four nights in with Sal Mineo, and they haven’t left the suite. Bellboys are bringing them poppers and K-Y. Pete’s wondering how long it can last.”
Wayne laughed. Wayne checked the floor. Chester rolled. Chester made his point. Chester made money.
Barb smiled. Barb walked. Barb hit the john. Ghouls swarmed Chester. Chester-Hughes magnetized.
Chester sponged love. Chester bowed magnanimous. Chester posed for pix.
Barb walked back. Barb walked unsteady. She sat down. Her lids dipped. Her eyes went smack-back.
She smiled. She twirled her knife. Wayne slapped her. She gripped the knife. She stabbed down. She missed Wayne’s hands.
Wayne slapped her. Barb stabbed down. The blade hit the table. It stuck. It twanged. The knife held.
Barb touched her cheek. Barb rubbed her eyes. Barb shot some tears.
Wayne grabbed her hands. Wayne bent her arms. Wayne jerked her head low.
“You’re strung out. You’re sticking shit up your nose and fucking over Pete every time you do it. You think you’re high and mighty because you hate the war and Pete’s business, but it’s just a bullshit excuse, because you’re a no-talent lounge chick with a dope habit and limited fucking—”
Barb jerked her hands. Barb grabbed the knife. Wayne slapped her. She dropped the knife. She rubbed her cheek. She wiped her eyes.
Wayne touched her hair. “I love you. I’m not going to let you fuck yourself over without a fight.”
Barb stood up. Barb wiped her eyes. Barb walked off smack-back unsteady.
Floorshow:
Chester performed. Crowds cliqued up—all drunks and geeks. Chester posed. Chester huckstered Las Vegas. Chester ran airplane crash riffs.
Newsmen bopped by. Newsmen yukked. Fuck you—you’re that kidsshow freak.
Wayne watched. Wayne scoped the floor.
He sipped bourbon. He sulked. He sniffed Barb’s napkin. He smelled her hand cream. He smelled her bath oil.
Chester signed autographs. Chester riffed on Jane Russell’s breasts. Chester eyed little kids.
Wayne sipped bourbon. His thoughts raced. He saw Janice walk by. She still limped. She still strutted. Her gray streak still glowed.
She walked the floor. She fed baby slots. She blew money. She nailed a jackpot. She scooped coins. She tithed a slot-machine bum.
The bum groveled. The bum gave thanks. The bum wore mismatched shoes. The bum braced a baby slot. The bum yanked the arm. The bum blew his dole.
He shrugged. He regrouped. He panhandled. He hit up Chester. Chester said, “Fuck you.”
Janice limped. Janice strolled. Janice left Wayne’s view. She’s out the back door now—dig that golf-course view.
She’s heading to Ward’s suite. It’s a late-night rendezvous.
Wayne sniffed the napkin. Wayne smelled Barb. Wayne got a Janice jolt. His thoughts raced. He vibed rendezvous.
He drove straight out. The road dipped. He drove eighty-proof. He walked straight in. He grabbed a jug off the bar. He walked straight through.
There’s the deck. There’s Wayne Senior. He’s close to old now. He’s sixty-plus. He’s old as brand-new.
He’s got the same grin. He’s got the same chair. He’s got the same view.
“You drink from the bottle now. Two years away gets me that.”
Wayne grabbed a footstool. “You make it sound like it’s the only thing I’ve learned.”
“Not hardly. I get reports, so I know there’s more.”
Wayne smiled. “You’ve been putting out feelers.”
“You’ve been rejecting them.”
“I guess the time wasn’t right.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “Howard Hughes and my son the same evening. Be still, my heart.”
The stool sat low. Wayne looked straight up.
“Don’t labor it. It’s just a coincidence.”
“No, it’s a confluence. Bondurant precipitates Hughes. Hughes means that Ward Littell will be begging favors soon.”
Wayne heard gunshots due north. Call it cop familiar. Broke gambler blows town. Broke gambler unwinds.
“Ward doesn’t beg. You should know that.”
“You’re leading me, son. You’re trying to get me to praise your ex-lawyer.”
Wayne shook his head. “I’m just trying to steer the conversation.”
Wayne Senior toed the footstool. Wayne Senior toed Wayne’s knee.
“Shitfire. What’s a father-son reunion without a few blunt questions?”
Wayne stood up. Wayne stretched. Wayne kicked the stool.
“Shitfire. You’re more of a hater than I ever was.”
“Come on, answer the question.”
“All right. I’ve relinquished my hate-tract business, in order to serve the cause of changing times at a higher level.”
Wayne smiled. “I see Mr. Hoover’s hand.”
“You see twenty-twenty, which tells me the years have not dulled your—”
“Come on, tell me.”
Wayne Senior twirled his cane. “I’ve been working with your old chums Bob Relyea and Dwight Holly. We’ve derailed some of the most outlandish overhaters in the whole of Dixie.”
Wayne slugged bourbon. Wayne sucked dregs. Wayne killed the jug.
“Keep going. I like the ‘overhaters’ part.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “You should. There’s hating smart and hating dumb, and you’ve never learned the difference.”
Wayne smiled. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for you to explain it.”
Wayne Senior lit a cigarette—gold-filigreed.
“I fully believe that coloreds should be allowed to vote and have equal rights, which will serve to increase their collective intelligence and inure them to demagogues like Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. Your pharmaceutical endeavor gives them the sedation that most of them want and insulates them from the fatuous rhetoric of our era. My policemen friends tell me that colored crime in white Las Vegas has not increased appreciably since your operation began, and your operation serves to isolate coloreds on their side of town, where they would much rather be anyway.”
Wayne stretched. Wayne looked north. Wayne checked the Strip view.
Wayne Senior blew smoke rings. “You’re looking pensive. I was gearing up for a smart answer.”
“I’m all out.”
“I got you at the right time, then.”
“In a sense, yeah.”
“Tell me about Vietnam.”
Wayne shrugged. “It’s futile bullshit.”
“Yes, but you love it.”
Wayne grabbed the cane. Wayne twirled it. Wayne did dips. Wayne did spins. Wayne did curlicues.
Wayne Senior snatched it. “Look at me, son. Look at me while I say this one thing.”