by James Ellroy
Moe lit a cigarette. Moe popped digitalis.
“Tell me what you’re thinking. Go to two syllables if you have to.”
Littell brainstormed—one quick brain draft. Propose it/convince Moe/refine the draft. Gift Mr. Hoover/earn a gift reciprocal/earn back to BLACK RABBIT.
Moe rolled his eyes. “A trance you’re in. Like the Vegas sun finally got to your head.”
Littell coughed. “Are you still buffered from your old-line skim people?”
“The ones we replaced? The ones we shitcanned for the Mormons?”
“Right.”
Moe rolled his eyes. “We always buffer. It’s how we survive.”
Littell smiled. “Let’s give some of them up to the Feds, as soon as Mr. Hughes takes over a few hotels. It will buttress our publicity campaign, it will make Mr. Hoover happy, it will tie the Feds here up in litigation.”
Moe dropped his cigarette. Moe singed deep-pile carpet. Moe toed the butt flat.
“I like it. I like all deals that fuck disenfranchised personnel.”
“I’ll call Mr. Hoover.”
“You do that. You say hi and give him our best regards, in your best lawyer way.”
Voices boomed eight tables up—tax rates/tax incentives. Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked eight yards. They bypassed two tables.
“I know you been through this with Carlos and Sam, but I want you to hear it from my perspective, which is we do not want a fucking repeat of the 1960 election. We want to back a strong guy who’ll come down hard on all this agitation and civil unrest and stand firm in Vietnam, as well as leave us the fuck alone. Now, per the aforementioned goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior, let me say this. We’ve heard that he’s no longer schlepping hate pamphlets, that he’s cleaned up the seedier aspects of his act, and that him and his Mormons are getting tight with that well-known political retread Richard M. Nixon, who has always hated the Reds a good deal more than he’s hated the so-called Mafia. We want you to talk to Wayne Senior and get an indication as to whether Nixon will run, and if he says yes, you know what we want and what we’re willing to pay.”
Voices boomed ten tables up—tax nuts/tax credits.
Littell coughed. “I’ll call him when I get a—”
“You call him in the vicinity of the next five minutes. You meet him and lay it out. You get him to plant the seed with the Nixon people, and you tell him you’ll be the guy to sit down with Nixon, if and when that shifty cocksucker runs.”
Littell said, “Jesus Christ.”
Moe said, “Your goyishe savior. A presidential cat in his own right.”
Voices boomed ten tables up—Negro hygiene/Negro sedation.
The T-Bird—hole 10.
Play crawled. Duffers hacked. Oldsters bumped carts. Littell sipped club soda. Littell watched hole 9.
Women dumped shots. Women blew putts. Women sprayed sand. Ball beaters all—no Janice types.
He called Wayne Senior. He made the meet. He called Mr. Hoover. He got an aide. He promised news. He promised hard data. Mr. Hoover was out. The aide said he’d find him. The aide called back. The aide said:
Mr. Hoover’s busy. Talk to SA Dwight Holly—he’s in Vegas now.
Littell agreed. Littell assessed.
Mr. Hoover loves Dwight. Dwight’s his assessor. Dwight will see you and assess. Work Dwight/work said assessment/work back to BLACK RABBIT.
A breeze strafed through. Golfers blew shots. Putts blew way wide. Littell brainstormed. Littell watched hole 9.
Work Wayne Senior. Glean data. His union broke laws. His union ignored civil-rights codes. Glean said data. Leak it to Bobby. Maybe now/maybe later/maybe ’68.
He’d be free. He’d be “retired.” Bobby might run for Prez. Funnel the leaks/buffer the leaks/cloak the source disclosure.
Littell watched hole 9. Wayne Senior played up.
He dumped his approach. He hit the trap. He chipped out wide. He three-putted. He laughed. He left his golf pals.
He walked over brisk. Littell arranged a lawn chair.
“Hello, Ward.”
“Mr. Tedrow.”
Wayne Senior leaned on the chair. “Things run dense with you. Every word has its meaning.”
“I’ll state my case briefly. I’ll have you back on the tee in five minutes.”
Wayne Senior smirked. Wayne Senior grinned aw-shucks.
“I thought we might work at a thaw. We could commiserate over a certain woman and go from there.”
Littell shook his head. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“That’s a shame, because Janice certainly does.”
A ball shanked close. Wayne Senior ducked.
Littell said, “My people will be needing some men to work at Mr. Hughes’ hotels, along with some new couriers. I’d like to go through your union files and look for prospects.”
Wayne Senior twirled his putter. “I’ll pick the men. The last time we did business, my men quit the union and I lost my percentage.”
Littell smiled. “I reinstated it.”
“You reinstated it reluctantly, and you’re the last man on God’s green earth that I’d let in my files. Dwight Holly thinks you’re a bad man to trust with information, and I would guess that Mr. Hoover concurs.”
Littell cleaned his glasses. Wayne Senior blurred.
“I was told that you’ve become friends with Richard Nixon.”
“Dick and I are getting close, yes.”
“Do you think he’ll run in ’68?”
“I’m sure he will. He’d prefer to run against Johnson or Humphrey, but he’ll buck the younger Kennedy if he has to.”
Littell smiled. “He’ll lose.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “He’ll win. Bobby isn’t Jack by a long shot.”
A ball rolled up. Littell grabbed it.
“If Mr. Nixon runs, I’ll ask you to arrange a meeting with me. I’ll state my clients’ requests, gauge his response, and take it from there. If Mr. Nixon agrees to honor the requests, he’ll be compensated.”
Wayne Senior said, “How much?”
Littell said, “Twenty-five million.”
97
(New Hebron, 11/30/66)
Klantics:
Klan klowns hauled guns. Klan klowns oiled guns. Klan klowns klipped koupons.
They sat around. They worked inside. They ducked a hailstorm outside. The Führer Bunker—ripe with farts and gun residue.
Wayne lounged. Bob Relyea dipped numbers. Bob Relyea bitched.
“My fucking contacts are getting lazy. They want to burn the serial codes as part of the deal, that’s fine with me, even though Pete don’t like it. But doing the job myself is another fucking thing.”
Wayne watched. Wayne yawned. Bob dabbed M-14s. Bob dabbed pumps. Bob dabbed bazookas. He wore rubber gloves. He swiped a brush. He smeared caustic goo.
Wayne watched. The goo ate numbers—three-zero codes.
Bob said, “My contacts boosted some Army trucks near Memphis. There’s this little town called White Haven, where all the caucasoids moved to to get away from the spooks. Half the town’s Army EM.”
Wayne sneezed. The caustics stung. Wayne lounged and drifted. Wayne Senior/job deals/“Hate Smart.”
Bob said, “What do you call a monkey sitting in a tree with three niggers? You call him the Branch Manager.”
The Klan klods howled. Bob booted snuff. Bob dipped M-14s. Pete kalled the kompound. Pete found Wayne an hour back. Pete reworked Wayne’s rotation.
Don’t surveille the gun run. Don’t boat to Cuba. Fly to Vegas/meet Sonny/muscle a deadbeat.
Bob packed guns. Flash was due—kadre on kall. The karavan—New Hebron to Bay St. Louis.
Wayne stood up. Wayne toured the hate hut. Dig the wall-mounted shivs. Dig the Rebel drapes. Dig the wall photos: George Wallace/Ross Barnett/Orval Faubus.
Dig the group shots. There’s the Regal Knights. There’s a jail pic—three cons in the “Thunderbolt Legion.”
Said cons wore j
ail garb. Said cons grinned. Said cons signed their names: Claude Dineen/Loyal Binns/Jimmy E. Ray.
Bob said, “Hey, Wayne. You ever talk to your daddy?”
He drove north. He flew Memphis to Vegas. He thought about Janice. He thought about Barb. He thought about Wayne Senior.
Janice aged strong. Good genes and will meet carnal desires. Barb aged fast. Bad habits and will meet fucked-up desires. Wayne Senior looked old. Wayne Senior looked good. Wayne Senior had hate-smart desires.
Janice limped. She’d fuck harder now. She’d outgun her handicap. She’d compensate.
The plane touched down. Wayne got off bleary—1:10 a.m.
He walked down the ramp. He trailed some nuns. He dodged skycaps with dollies.
There’s Pete. He’s by the gate. He’s perched by some bag carts. He’s smoking.
Wayne hitched up his garment bag. Wayne walked over bleary.
“Put that fucking cigarette—”
Pete pushed a bag cart. It hit Wayne’s knees. It capsized him. It knocked him flat. Pete ran over. Pete stepped on his chest.
“Here’s the warning. I don’t care what you feel for Barb or what you think she’s doing to herself. Hit her again and I’ll kill you.”
Wayne saw starbursts. Wayne saw sky. Wayne saw Pete’s shoe. He sucked air. He ate jet fumes. He got breath.
“I was telling her something you won’t, and I fucking did it to help you.”
Pete flicked his cigarette. Pete burned Wayne’s neck. Pete dropped a note on his chest.
“Take care of it. You and Sonny. Barb’s gone, so we’ll pretend this never happened.”
A nun walked by. Said nun shot a look—you pagans stop that!
Pete walked off. Wayne sat up. Wayne got more breath. Two punks strolled by. They saw Wayne recumbent. They giggled it up.
Wayne stood up. Wayne dodged skycaps and bag carts. Wayne hit a phone booth.
He dropped coins. He dialed. He got a buzz tone. He got three rings. He got Him.
“Who’s calling at this ungodly hour?”
Wayne said, “I want that job.”
98
(Las Vegas, 12/1/66)
Onstage: Milt C. and Junkie Monkey.
Milt said, “What’s all this tsuris with Howard Hughes?”
Junkie Monkey said, “I heard he’s a swish. He moved in to get next to Liberace.”
The crowd yocked. The crowd roared.
Milt said, “Come on. I heard he was shtupping Ava Gardner.”
Junkie Monkey said, “I’m shtupping Ava. She traded up from Sammy Davis. Sammy’s on the golf course. This square comes up to him and says, ‘What’s your handicap?’ Sammy says, ‘I’m a one-eyed shvartze Jew. Nobody will sell me a house in a nice neighborhood. I’m trying to effect a peace accord between Israel and the Congo. I’ve got no place to hang my Sy Devore beanie.’ ”
The crowd yocked. Milt moved his lips. Milt puppet-talked bad. Pete watched. Pete smoked. Pete mourned Barb.
She was three days gone. She didn’t call. She didn’t write. He didn’t call. He didn’t write. He braced Wayne instead.
It was bullshit. Wayne was right. He knew it. Barb split. He exploited it. He indulged. He smoked. He ate burgers. He worked the Fuck-It Diet. He boozed. He caught Milt. He caught Barb’s crew. The Bondsmen sans Barb—Shit City.
The lounge was packed. Young stuff mostly. Milt drew hip kids.
Junkie Monkey said, “Frank Sinatra saved my life. His goons were stomping me in the Sands parking lot. Frank said, ‘That’s enough, boys.’ ”
The crowd yocked. Pete smoked. A geek tapped his arm. Pete turned around. Pete saw Dwight Holly.
They hit Pete’s office. They stood by the wet bar. They crowded each other. They stood in tight.
Pete said, “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, as in ’64. Your boy Wayne killed three shines.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “And you made out.”
Dwight shrugged. “Wayne fucked me up, but you and Littell set it straight. Now, ask me if I came to say thanks.”
Pete poured a scotch. “You were in town, so you thought you’d drop by.”
“Not quite. I’m in town to see Littell, which I’d prefer you keep to yourself.”
Pete sipped scotch. Dwight tapped his chest.
“How’s your ticker?”
“It’s fine.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking.”
“You shouldn’t be jerking my chain.”
Dwight laughed. Dwight poured a scotch.
“How’d you like to help me entrap a Commie sympathizer?”
“You and Mr. Hoover?”
“I won’t say yes or no to that. Silence implies consent, so draw your own conclusions.”
Pete said, “Lay it out. The money first.”
Dwight swirled scotch. “Twenty grand for you. Ten each for your bait, your backup, and your bug man.”
Pete laughed. “Ward’s a good bug man.”
“Ward’s a prince of a bug man, but I’d prefer Freddy Turentine, and I’d prefer that Ward be kept in the dark about this.”
Pete grabbed an ashtray. Pete stubbed his cigarette.
“Give me one good reason why I should fuck Ward over to help you.”
Dwight undid his necktie. “One, all this shit is tangential to Ward. Two, it’s a high-line gig that you won’t be able to resist. Three, you’re in the Life for life, you’ll fuck up sooner or later, and Mr. Hoover will intercede for you, no questions asked.”
Pete sipped scotch. Pete rolled his neck. Pete tapped his head on the wall.
“Who?”
“Bayard Rustin, male Negro, age fifty-four. Civil-rights agitator with a yen for young white boys. He’s horny, he’s impetuous, he’s as Red as they get.”
Pete tapped his head. “When?”
“Next month, in L.A. There’s an SCLC fund-raiser at the Beverly Hilton.”
“That’s cutting it close.”
Dwight shrugged. “The bait’s the only holdup. Do you think you—”
“I’ve got the bait. He’s young, he’s queer, he’s attractive. He’s got some potential cop shit hanging over him, which—”
“Which Mr. Hoover will frost out, no questions asked.”
Pete tapped his head. Pete tapped it hard. Pete sparked a headache.
“I want Fred Otash on backup.”
“Agreed.”
“Plus Freddy Turentine and ten grand for expenses.”
“Agreed.”
Pete’s stomach growled. The scotch fucked with it. Pete thought Cheeseburger.
Dwight smiled. “You bit fast. I thought I’d have to work you.”
“My wife left me. I’ve got time to kill.”
Otash said, “Sal scores tonight. I’ll lay you six to one.”
Car surveillance—Fred O.’s car—the seats pushed way back. Fred O.’s farts and Fred O.’s cologne.
They watched the street. They watched Sal’s car. They watched the Klondike Bar. Pete lit a cigarette. Pete had gas. Pete snarfed two cheeseburgers late.
“Of course he’ll score. He’s a half-assed movie star.”
He flew straight out. He called Otash. He briefed him. They checked Sal’s pad. Sal was gone. They checked Sal’s known haunts: The 4-Star/the Rumpus Room/Biff’s Bayou.
Shit—no Sal car/no Sal.
They checked the Gold Cup. They checked Arthur J’s. They checked the Klondike—8th and LaBrea.
Tilt—
Pete said, “You’re sure he won’t rabbit?”
“On Dom? Sure I’m sure.”
“Tell me why.”
“Because I’m his new daddy. Because I’m the guy he has coffee with every morning. Because I’m the guy who dumped Dom and his fucking car down a lime pit in the fucking Angeles Forest.”
Pete chained cigarettes. “The Vegas end’s good. No cops so far.”
“Dom was a fly-by-night. You think his pimp boyfriend will file a missing-persons report?”
Sal
walked out. Sal had a date. Sal hung on some hunky young quiff.
Otash hit the horn. Pete hit the lights. Sal blinked. Sal saw the car. Sal stalled the quiff and walked over.
Pete rolled his window down. Sal leaned on the ledge.
“Shit. It’s a life sentence with you guys.”
Pete flashed a snapshot reminder. Streetlight hit Donkey Dom’s thumb. Sal blinked. Sal gulped. Sal vibed sick.
Pete said, “You like dark stuff, right? You get the urge once in a while.”
Sal weaved a hand—dark meat/comme ci comme ça.
Otash said, “We’re fixing you up.”
Pete said, “He’s a nice guy. You’ll thank us.”
Otash said, “He’s cute. He looks like Billy Eckstine.”
Pete said, “He’s a Communist.”
99
(Las Vegas, 12/2/66)
Tour time:
The DI sub-penthouse. Big Drac’s sub-lair. Littell as tour guide. Dwight Holly as tourist.
Look:
There’s the blood pumps. There’s the drips. There’s the freezers. There’s the candy. There’s the pizza. There’s the ice cream. There’s the codeine. There’s the meth. There’s the Dilaudid.
Dwight loves it. Dwight yuks. Dwight offends Mormons. Said Mormons scowl at said Fed.
Big Drac’s incursion—now one week in.
The legislature waives anti-trust laws. The legislature delivers—go, Drac!
Buy the DI. Buy the Frontier. Buy the Sands. Buy big! Buy laissez-faire! Buy the Castaways. Gorge yourself. Buy the Silver Slipper.
Littell cracked windows. Dwight looked out. Dwight saw nuts with signs: “We love H.H.!”/“Wave to us!”/“Hughes in ’68!”
Dwight laughed. Dwight tapped his watch—real business now.
They walked. They trekked hallways. They bagged a storeroom. File boxes hemmed them in.
Littell pulled his list out. Moe prepped it last night.
“Skim couriers. Easy litigations by any and all standards.”
Dwight faked a yawn. “Expendable, buffered, non-Mormon couriers that divert heat from Dracula and ingratiate you with Mr. Hoover.”
Littell bowed. “I won’t dispute it.”
“Why should you? You know we’re grateful, and you know we’ll prosecute.”
Littell creased the list. Dwight grabbed it. Dwight dropped it in his briefcase.