The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  He regrouped. He compromised. He punted. He said I’ll work in Milwaukee. I’ll push white horse there. We’ll live in Sparta full-time.

  Barb howled. Barb said never.

  They talked. They fought. They made love. He regrouped. He repunted. He recompromised. He said I’ll split Vietnam. I’ll dump Tiger Kamp on John Stanton. John to run it/Wayne to rotate/Mesplède to assist.

  Barb tweaked him. Barb said you love Wayne. Barb said he hit me. Okay—he knows you—you win.

  They talked truce. They notched points. They nailed details. He said I’ll stay in Vegas. I’ll run Tiger Kab and the Cavern. I won’t touch the dope. I’ll just surveille shipments in.

  I have to—the heat’s up—Drac brought publicity. I’ll work in Vegas and rotate to you in Sparta.

  Barb bought the plan. Said plan stressed Vietnam. Said plan stressed his exclusion.

  They made love. They sealed the pact. They fucking snowmobiled. Fucking Sparta, Wisconsin—Lutherans and trees.

  Pete scoped the ballroom. Pete watched the floor. Sal M. looked over. Sal M. looked away.

  Dom’s bun boy filed missing-persons. LVPD worked the case. It got some ink. Cops checked out the Cavern. Pete bribed them. They dumped the case resultant.

  Otash watchdogged Sal. Sal learned his script. It was simple shit: I just loooove civil rights! Otash worked with Dwight Holly. They redid Sal’s pad. They ripped out a closet. They hung 1-way glass and rigged a camera. Said camera faced Sal’s bed.

  Fred T. assisted. Fred T. bugged lamps. Fred T. bugged walls. Fred T. bugged mattress springs.

  Pete scoped the ballroom. Pete watched the floor. Celebs hobnobbed. Celebs sucked up to King.

  Otash said, “You see the paper? Jack Ruby died.”

  “I saw it.”

  “You guys went back. Sam G.’s dropped a few hints.”

  Sal looked over. Pete cued him—go in strong now.

  Sal shagged a waiter. Sal cadged a drink. Sal chugalugged. Sal flushed bright. Sal mingled. Sal walked.

  Fruit Alert—Bayard Rustin—fruit fly at ten o’clock high. Bayard’s got backscratchers—Burl Ives plus two—Sal’s moving in tight.

  Sal sees Bayard. Bayard sees Sal. Two smiles and wet lips aflutter. Strings swell. “Strangers in the Night.” “Some Enchanted Evening.”

  Burl’s pissed. Who’s this punk? I’m old-line Left. Sal said hi. Sal drifted off. Bayard eye-tracked his ass.

  Otash said, “Contact.”

  A bell rang. It’s chow time. Hold for pygmy banquet fare.

  Cliques dispersed. The guests hit the tables. Sal eye-tracked Bayard. Sal sat nearby.

  Bayard saw him. Bayard wrote a napkin note. Pat Brown passed it down. Sal read it. Sal blushed. Sal passed a note back.

  Pete said, “Liftoff.”

  They killed time.

  They walked next door. They hit Trader Vic’s. They quaffed mai-tais. They noshed rumaki sticks.

  Cops passed through. Cops dished updates.

  Dinner’s done. King’s talking. King’s dripping foam at the mouth. He’s Red. He’s a puppet. I know it. The peaceniks love him. It burns me. My son’s in Vietnam.

  A TV kicked on. The barman flipped channels. The barman shut off the sound. There’s war news on three channels. There’s choppers and tanks. There’s Commie King on two more.

  Pete checked his watch. It was 10:16. Hold for fruit flies on high. Otash wolfed a puu-puu platter. His cummerbund swelled.

  10:28:

  Sal walks in. Sal sits down. Sal ignores them.

  10:29:

  Bayard walks in. Bayard sits down. Bayard greets Sal: Child, how are you! I’m such a fan!

  Otash got up. Pete got up. Pete grabbed a shrimp spear for the road.

  Setup:

  They hit Sal’s pad. They aired out the closet. They prepped the camera. They loaded film. They waited. They sat still.

  The closet was hot. They popped sweat. They stripped to socks and shorts.

  They sat still. They killed the lights. Their watch dials ran fluorescent.

  11:18. 11:29. 11:42.

  Poof—doorway light. Off the bedroom—stage right.

  Pete squared the camera. Otash rolled film. More light/bedroom fixtures/beams overhead.

  Sal walked in. Bayard squeezed in tight. They laughed. They touched. They brushed hips. Bayard kissed Sal. Otash went ugh. Sal kissed Bayard back.

  Pete squared the camera. Pete nailed the bed. Pete got Ground Zero in mid-shot.

  Sal said, “Martin gives a good speech, but you’re handsom—”

  Sal stopped. Sal stopped what the—

  His voice fluttered. His voice echo-chambered. His voice woofered. His voice tweetered. His voice bounced high and wide.

  FUCK—

  Overfeed. Overamp. Microph—

  Bayard tweaked. Bayard hinked. Bayard looked around fast. Bayard yodeled. Bayard yelled, “Hell-o!” Bayard got echoes back.

  Sal grabbed his neck. Sal blitzed a kiss. Sal squeezed his ass. Bayard shoved him. Sal hit the bed. A mattress-mike snapped.

  It hit the floor. It bounced. It rolled. It stopped.

  Pete said, “Shit.”

  Otash said, “Fuck.”

  Bayard yelled—“Hell-o, J. Edgar!”—Bayard got echoes back.

  Sal grabbed a pillow. Sal hid his face. Sal nellied out. Sal kicked his legs nonstop.

  Bayard looked around. Bayard saw the mirror. Bayard ran up.

  He hit the glass.

  He gouged his hands.

  He tore his hands up.

  102

  (Silver Spring, 1/6/67)

  Bank work:

  The B. of A. South of D.C. Tithe tunnel 3.

  Littell wrote a deposit slip. Littell wrote a withdrawal slip. Littell scrawled an envelope.

  Seven grand—one Drac-pilfered deposit. Five grand—one tithe withdrawn. A donation from “Richard D. Wilkins”—tithe pseudonym 3.

  Littell got in line. Littell saw a teller. Littell showed his slips and bankbook. The teller smiled. The teller ran his paperwork. The teller metered his check.

  He checked his book balance. He creased the check. He sealed the envelope. He walked outside. He dodged snowdrifts. He found a mail chute.

  He dropped the letter. He checked for tails. Standard procedure now.

  Negative. No tails extant. He knew it.

  He stood outside. It felt good. The cold air revived him. He was tired. He’d been running—all-Bureau ops.

  He toured sixteen cities. He did sixteen bug jobs. He bugged sixteen Mob meeting spots. He worked solo. Fred T. was booked. Fred T. had work with Fred O. He had off-time himself. It was Drac-approved. Drac’s Mormons filled his spot.

  Said Mormons haggled in Vegas. They said sell us the DI. They said sell us more hotels.

  He flew loops. He did bug jobs. He called Moe D. Moe was jazzed. Moe said we’ll bilk Drac—I know it.

  He flew circuits. Chicago/K.C./Milwaukee. St. Louis/Santa Barbara/L.A. He nursed plans. He hit L.A. He acted.

  He went through Jane’s file. He sifted dirt. He culled dirt on second-line hoods—all East Coast men.

  It was prime Arden data. It detailed hijacks and Mob hits. It was non-tangential. It was non-fund-book-related. It was not related to: Carlos/Sam G./John Rosselli/Santo/Jimmy/et al.

  He typed out the facts. He wrote succinct. He print-wiped the paper. He flew back out. He traveled. He bugged more meet spots. He hit Frisco/Phoenix/Philly. He hit D.C. and New York.

  He stayed in Manhattan. He booked a hotel room. He used a pseudonym. He altered his appearance. He cosmeticized.

  He bought a beard. It was dark blond and gray. It was superb quality. It covered his scars. It reshaped his face. It aged him ten years.

  He met Bobby once. He met Bobby three days pre-Dallas. Bobby would remember him. Bobby knew his look.

  He bought work clothes. He bought contact lenses. He surveilled Bobby’s billet: The UN Towers/old brick/off 1st Avenue.

  He brace
d the doorman. The doorman knew Bobby. The doorman said Bobby rotates. Bobby runs south to D.C. Bobby runs back to New York.

  Littell watched. Littell waited. Bobby showed two days in. Bobby brought a young aide north.

  A thin boy. Dark hair and glasses. Said boy looked bright. Said boy adored Bobby. Said boy’s adulation glowed.

  They walked the East Side. Constituents waved. The boy rebuffed hecklers and creeps. Littell tailed them. Littell got close. Littell heard Bobby speak.

  The boy had a car. Littell got the plate stats. Littell ran them through the DMV. He got Paul Michael Horvitz/age 23/address in D.C.

  Littell called Horvitz. Littell dropped hints. Littell said he had information. Horvitz bit. They arranged a meet—on for tonight in D.C.

  Tellers walked out. A guard locked the bank. Snow fell. It felt cold. It warmed him.

  He prepped. He worked up mannerisms. He culled a new wardrobe. He dredged up a drawl.

  One tweed suit. One soft chambray shirt. Beard/lisp/fey posture.

  He showed early. He named the spot: Eddie Chang’s Kowloon. The lighting was murky. Said lighting would camouflage.

  He got a booth. He sprawled invertebrate. He ordered tea. He watched the door. He checked his watch.

  There’s Paul.

  It’s 8:01. He’s punctual. He’s youthful and sincere. Littell geared up—be aged/be fey.

  Paul glanced around. Paul saw couples. Paul saw one solo act. He walked back. He sat down. Littell poured him tea straight off.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

  “Well, your call intrigued me.”

  “I was hoping it would. Young men like you get all sorts of dubious overtures, but this is certainly not one of them.”

  Paul dumped his overcoat. Paul untied his scarf.

  “Senator Kennedy gets the overtures, not me.”

  Littell smiled. “That’s not what I meant, son.”

  “I got your meaning, but I chose to ignore it.”

  Littell sprawled. Littell drummed the table.

  “You look like Andrew Goodman, that poor boy who died in Mississippi.”

  “I knew Andy at the COFO School. I almost went down myself.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.”

  “Are you from there?”

  “I’m from De Kalb. It’s a smidge between Scooba and Electric Mills.”

  Paul sipped tea. “You’re some sort of lobbyist, right? You knew you couldn’t get to the senator, so you thought you’d find yourself an ambitious young aide.”

  Littell bowed—courtly/très South.

  “I know that ambitious young men will risk looking foolish and go out on a snowy night on the off-chance that something is real.”

  Paul smiled. “And you’re ‘real.’ ”

  “My documents are wholly real, and one thorough reading will convince you and Senator Kennedy of their authenticity.”

  Paul lit a cigarette. “And yours?”

  “I claim no authenticity, and would prefer that my documents speak for themselves.”

  “And your documents pertain to?”

  “My documents pertain to misdeeds perpetrated by members of organized crime. I will supplant the initial batch with subsequent parcels and deliver them to you in discreet bunches, so that you and/or Senator Kennedy can investigate the allegations at your leisure and your discretion. My only requirement is that there be no public disclosure pertaining to any information I give you until late 1968 or early 1969.”

  Paul twirled his ashtray. “Do you think Senator Kennedy will be President or President-elect then?”

  Littell smiled. “From your mouth to God’s ears, although I was thinking more of where I’ll be then.”

  Wall vents popped. The heat came on. Littell broke a sweat.

  “Do you think he’ll run?”

  Paul said, “I don’t know.”

  “Does he remain committed to the fight against organized crime?”

  “Yes. It’s very much on his mind, but he feels uncomfortable going public with it.”

  Littell popped sweat. His tweeds broiled. His faux beard slipped. He splayed his hands. He cupped his chin. It played effete. It stopped the slip.

  “You can depend on my loyalty, but I would prefer to remain anonymous in all our transactions.”

  Paul stuck his hand out. Littell passed the notes.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/8/67. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript (OPERATION BLACK RABBIT Addendum.) Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director, BLUE RABBIT.

  DIR: Good afternoon.

  BR: Good afternoon, Sir.

  DIR: I read your memo. You attribute the failure of a Stage-2 operation to faulty condensor plugs.

  BR: It was a technical failure, Sir. I would not blame Fred Otash or BIG RABBIT.

  DIR: The blameworthy one is thus Fred Turentine, the reptilian “Bug Man to the Stars,” a lowly minion of Otash and BIG RABBIT.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: I gain no succor from foisting blame on a hired hand. I gain only dyspeptic fury.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: Give me some good news to allay my agitation.

  BR: Otash was very good on the post-op. He leaned on Mineo and warned him to keep quiet. I would strongly suggest that PINK RABBIT will not risk personal ridicule or bad publicity for the SCLC by going public with word on the shakedown.

  DIR: I was looking forward to the film. Bayard and Sal, O bird thou never wert.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: Let’s discuss CRUSADER RABBIT.

  BR: He did a superb job on the installations, Sir.

  DIR: Did you have him spot-tailed?

  BR: On three occasions, Sir. He’s tail-savvy, but my men managed to sustain surveillance.

  DIR: Expand your answers. I have a lunch date in the year 2010.

  BR: CRUSADER RABBIT was not spotted doing anything remotely suspicious.

  DIR: Besides installing illegal bug-mounts at our behest.

  BR: Including Bobby Kennedy’s place in Santa Barbara, Sir.

  DIR: Thrillingly ironic. CRUSADER bugs his savior and my bete noire. Unwitting complicity of a high order.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: How long will it take to recruit men to man the listening posts?

  BR: A while, Sir. We’ve got sixteen locations.

  DIR: To continue. Update me on WILD RABBIT.

  BR: He’s doing well, Sir. You’ve seen the results. We keep getting mail-fraud indict—

  DIR: I know what we keep getting. I know that we do not come close to getting anything remotely resembling satisfaction in the matter of one Martin Luther King, aka RED RABBIT, aka the Minstrel Antichrist. Our attempts to dislodge him and subsume his prestige have consumed tens of thousands of man-hours and have garnered nil results. He has turned us into dung beetles and rare, indigenous African birds who peck through elephant shit, and I am woefully sick and tired of waiting for him to discredit himself.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: You’re a rock, Dwight. I can always count on you to say “Yes, Sir.”

  BR: I would like to seek more radical means to nullify RED RABBIT. Do I have your permission to bring in a trusted friend and explore the possibilities?

  DIR: Yes.

  BR: Thank you, Sir.

  DIR: Good day, Dwight.

  BR: Good day, Sir.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/14/67. Telephone call transcript. Taped by: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: “FBI-Scrambled”/“Stage-1 Covert”/ “Destroy Without Reading in the Event of My Death.” Speaking: BLUE RABBIT, FATHER RABBIT.

  BR: Senior, how are you? How’s the connection?

  FR: I’m hearing some clicks.

  BR: That’s my scrambler. The beeps mean we’re tap-proof.

  FR: We should be talking in person.

  BR: I’m down in Mississippi. I can’t get away.

  FR: You’re sure it’s—

  BR: It’s fine. J
esus, don’t go cuntish on me.

  FR: I won’t. It’s just that—

  BR: It’s just that you think he’s got superhuman powers, and he doesn’t. He can’t read minds and he can’t tap scrambled frequencies.

  FR: Well, still …

  BR: Still, shit. He’s not God, so quit acting like he is.

  FR: He’s something similar.

  BR: I’ll buy that.

  FR: Did he—

  BR: He said yes.

  FR: Do you think he knows what we’re planning?

  BR: No, but he’ll be glad to see it happen, and if he thinks it’s us, he’ll make sure the investigation obfuscates.

  FR: That’s good news.

  BR: No shit, Sherlock.

  FR: People hate him. King, I mean.

  BR: Those that don’t love him, yeah.

  FR: What about the bug—

  BR: We’re A-OK on that front. I talked him into letting me wire sixteen spots. He’ll read the transcripts, hear the hate building and get his rocks off.

  FR: There’s a scapegoat aspect here.

  BR: That is correct. Guinea hoods hate coloreds and civil-rights fucks, and they love to talk about it. Hoover hears the hate, the whole thing starts feeling inevitable, pow, then it happens. The whole Mob-hate thing serves to muddy the waters and gets him thinking that it’s too big to mess with.

  FR: Like Jack Kennedy.

  BR: Exactly. It’s coming, it’s inevitable, it’s accomplished and it’s good for business. The nation mourns and hates the clown we give them.

  FR: You know the metaphysic.

  BR: We all went to school on Jack.

  FR: How long will it take to get the bugs in place?

  BR: About six weeks. You want the punch line? I had Ward Littell do the mounts.

  FR: Dwight, Jesus.

  BR: I had my reasons. One, he’s the best bug man around. Two, we may need him somewhere down the line. Three, I needed to throw him a bone to keep him in the game.

  FR: Shitfire. Any game with Littell in it is a game to fix from the get-go.

  BR: I threw Hoover a bone. He hates Bobby K. almost as much as he hates King, and he shares all his dirt with LBJ. I had Littell bug one of Bobby’s hotel suites.

  FR: I’m getting chills, Dwight. You keep dropping the “Mister” off “Hoover.”