The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 62
Wendell puked wine and bile. Wayne stepped on his neck. Wayne full-weight-pinned him. Wayne dug through his sack.
He grabbed a hypo. Wendell thrashed. He shot his neck up. Wendell de-thrashed. Wendell soared. Wendell went smack-back.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed a hypo. Wayne shot his hands up. Wendell shuddered. Wendell resoared. Wendell went more smack-back.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed a hypo. Wayne shot his hips up. Wendell grinned. Wendell soar-soared. Wendell went waaay smack-back.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed a hypo. Wayne shot his knees up. Wendell grinned. Wendell soooooared. Wendell smaaacked out and up.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed the tape. Wayne pulled a strip up. He taped Wendell’s mouth. He rolled three loops dense. He cinched Wendell’s neck up.
He dropped the tape. He grabbed the mag. He cocked it back. He fixed the silencer. He bent low. Wendell’s eyes rolled back.
Wayne grabbed his right hand. Wayne shot off his fingers. Wayne shot off his thumb. Wendell squirmed. Big “H” constrained him. His eyes rolled waaaay back.
Wayne dumped the shells. Wayne reloaded. Wayne cocked his piece back. He grabbed Wendell’s left hand. He shot off his fingers. He shot off his thumb.
Wendell squirmed. Big “H” constrained him. His eyes rolled mooooore back.
Wayne dumped the shells. Wayne reloaded. Wayne cocked his piece back. Wendell puked. Bile blew out his nostrils. Wendell shit in his pants.
Wayne leaned down. Wayne aimed tight. Wayne shot his legs off at the knees. Blood spritzed. Bone chips flew. Wayne grabbed the towelettes.
Wendell’s stumps twitched. Wayne grabbed a chair. Wayne watched him bleed to death.
The flight ran late. He flew numb. He dozed L.A. to Vegas. He smelled things that weren’t there.
Cordite and blood. Cheap wine. Burned silencer threads.
The plane landed. He got off. He smelled things that weren’t there.
Burned bone and vomit. Scented towelettes.
He walked through McCarran. He found a phone. He got an operator. She patched Sparta direct.
He heard eight rings. He got no answer. No Barb and Pete there.
He walked outside. He veered toward the cab line. Two men walked up. They flanked him. They braced him. They slammed a two-cop press.
It’s Dwight Holly. It’s a swarthy guy. It’s that guy Fred Otash.
Shakedown Fred—skinny now—this cadaver.
They grabbed him. They led him. He felt limp. He felt numb. He saw two cars double-parked. He saw a Fed sedan. He saw Wayne Senior’s Cadillac.
They stopped between cars. They patted him down. They let him go slack. He stumbled. He almost fell. He smelled Wendell dead.
Holly said, “Durfee wasn’t for free.”
Otash said, “We stiffed that tipoff through Sonny.”
Holly said, “I’ve got a print transparency on you. If you say no, I’ll have a guy roll it around Durfee’s room.”
Wayne looked at them. Wayne saw them. Wayne got IT. Wayne Senior/his hate talk/the hate-mail intercepts.
Wayne said, “Who?”
Holly said, “Martin Luther King.”
109
(Sparta, 3/31/68)
TV news—breaking:
LBJ’s out. The war fucked him up. He won’t seek Term Two. It’s Humphrey v. Bobby. The race looks tight.
Barb watched the news. Pete watched Barb. Barb dug on the Bobby aspects. The house was cold. Barb’s sister was cheap. Barb’s sister skimped on the heat.
He flew Saigon to Sparta. Barb welcomed him reluctant. Barb ragged him incessant. Barb ragged his travel-ban breach.
Barb flipped channels. Barb caught war news. Barb caught some Memphis strike.
Trash workers. A support march. One riot so far. Sixty injured/looter damage/one nigger kid dead. Crazy King’s there. Crazy King’s between riots. One “Poor People’s” riot on tap.
Barb watched the news. Pete watched Barb. Barb watched the news rapt. Pete popped gum. Pete obeyed Barb’s rule—don’t smoke inside.
He chewed gum. He chewed double sticks. He fretted shit. He called Bob’s kompound. He got a weird tone. It vibed disconnect.
He called the Cavern. He left Wayne a message. Wayne never called back. He punked out. He stalled his speech. He set his flight back.
Barb flipped channels. Barb caught Bobby. Barb caught Crazy King. Pete stood up. Pete blocked the screen. Pete turned off the set.
Barb said, “Shit.”
Pete popped his gum. “Hear me out on some things. You’ll like part of it.”
Barb smiled. “You’re getting ready to snow me. I can tell.”
“Here’s the good part. The Boys want to scuttle the biz, the funnel, and the whole operation. I’m going along with it.”
Barb shook her head. “If that was most of it, you’d be smiling.”
“You’re right. There’s mo—”
“I know there’s more, I know it’s bad, so tell me.”
Pete gulped. Pete swallowed. Pete choked his gum back.
“Part of it went bad. I’ve got to pick Wayne up in Vegas and make one more Cuban run. I need you to hole up somewhere until it’s over and I cut some kind of deal with the Outfit.”
Barb said, “No.”
Boom—case closed—like that.
Pete gulped. “I’ll dump Tiger Kab and the Cavern then. We’ll go someplace else.”
Barb said, “No.”
No drumroll—no pause—no inflection.
Pete gulped. “I can finesse it. There’s some risk, sure, but I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think the Boys would buy my explanation.”
Barb said, “No.”
No fanfare—all deadpan—no shit.
Pete gulped. Pete coughed his gum up.
“If I don’t pay this off, the word will go out. The wrong guys will think, ‘He knew the story and let it all go.’ They’ll start thinking I’m weak, which will cause us trouble somewhere down the line.”
Barb said, “No. Whatever it is is bullshit, and you know it.”
No recourse—I know you—that’s that. No tears yet—tears pending—eyes wet.
Pete said, “I’ll be back when it’s over.”
Charter flight: La Crosse to Vegas. Junket geeks/smoky cabin/cramped seats.
The geeks were insurance men. The geeks were Shriners and Moose. They drank. They swapped hats. They cracked jokes.
Pete tried to sleep. Pete fucked with IT.
He’d called Stanton. He called loooong distance. He called Saigon to Bay St. Louis. He brought up the Cuban run. He said I want to go. Please let me say adios.
Stanton said yes.
He mopped up in Saigon. He laid cover tracks. He bought weapons. He fixed the warehouse window. He worked on the QT. He installed new glass/new mesh. He called Mesplède. He said I’ll handle it. He said I’ll breach the breach.
He bought three guns: one Walther and two Berettas. He bought three silencers. He bought three inside-the-pants rigs.
Booty. Swag. Cars/furs/watches/antiques. THE BIG FUCKING LIE revealed.
The flight bumped. They ran low-pressure sweeps. The junket geeks pawed the stews. The junket geeks laughed. The junket geeks preached.
Pro-war stuff. All clichés. We can’t pull out. We’ll forfeit Asia. We can’t look weak.
Pete shut his eyes. Pete heard the geeks. Pete saw home movie flicks.
There’s Betty Mac. It’s visit twelve million. There’s Chuck the Vice Freak. There’s Barb. She says, “No”—eyes working on tears.
We stand firm. We bong the Cong. We never surrender. We stomp the peace freaks.
It droned on. It went stereophonic. He tried to sleep. He failed. He fought this exhaustion. He got this idea:
Fuck it all. Fuck it now. Forfeit the kadre kode breach.
The plane touched down. Pete got off. Pete walked to Air Midwest.
He bought a ticket. He splurged. He booked first-class to
Milwaukee/connector to Sparta/two flights one-way.
He had a layover. He had four hours to kill.
He walked to the gate lounge. He schlepped his gun bag. He sprawled across four seats. He fell. It was soft and dark. He had newspapers as sheets.
He opened his eyes. He saw ceiling lights. He saw Ward Littell. Ward had his ticket. Ward flicked the edge.
“You were going back. Barb will like that.”
Pete sat up. His newspaper sheets fell.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
Ward cleaned his glasses. “Barb called. She said you were going south on some insane errand, and could I stop it.”
Pete yawned. “And?”
“And I put a few things together and called Carlos.”
Pete lit a cigarette. It was 6:10 now. His flight left at 7:00.
“Don’t stop there. I want to see where this is going.”
Ward coughed. “Part of it is from Carlos, part of it I put together my—”
“Jesus, just tell—”
“Carlos is cutting off your business. It was part of a ruse to get weapons to Castro, so that he could funnel them to rebels in Central America. It all played into my foreign-casino plan, and I never knew anything about it.”
Fill-in/paint-by-number/link-the-dots diverse. Stanton and Carlos/the fake funnel/the BIG LIE complete.
“It was a shuck, Ward. The whole thing.”
“I know.”
“Bob Relyea. What about—”
“He dropped his Klan gig and went off on another operation. Wayne’s working with him, and Carlos said that’s all he knows.”
Pete grabbed the ticket. Ward grabbed it back.
“You flew to Saigon. You put some things together. I’m going off what you told Barb.”
Pete grabbed his bag. The guns rubbed and scraped.
“You’re leading me. You talked to Barb, you talked to Carlos, you found me. Let’s start there.”
Ward squared his glasses. “Carlos learned that Stanton, Guéry, and Elorde have been skimming off his portion of the profits. He actually wants you to take them and their Cuban contacts out. He said if you do that and another ‘small favor,’ he’ll retire you.”
A speaker popped. Flight 49—nonstop to Milwaukee.
“Do you think he means it?”
“Yes. They want to clean this thing up and move on.”
Pete checked the gate. The flight crew stood there. Baggage carts rolled.
“Call Barb. Tell her I almost came home.”
Ward nodded. Ward crumpled the ticket.
“There’s one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Carlos wants you to scalp them.”
110
(Memphis, 4/3/68)
Rabbits:
WILD RABBIT. RED RABBIT. DEAD RABBIT soon.
Wayne pulled curbside. Wayne parked. Wayne watched the New Rebel Motel.
The Mustang pulled up. Fred O. walked over. The shooter got out. There’s skinny Fred O. He’s starved to look different. There’s skinny Jim Ray. He’s starved off crystal meth.
They laughed. They huddled. Fred O. passed the box. It was long and bulky. It contained a 30.06.
Hi-end scope. Geared for soft-point bullets. Contact spread/blunt impact/bad for ballistic IDs.
Jimmy had his rifle. Bob had the same one. Fred O. had rifle 3. It was one-shot test-fired. It was print-smeared by Jimmy.
D-day was tomorrow. Jimmy might shoot. Jimmy might punk out. Bob will shoot instead.
Fred O. ran Jimmy. Fred O. said he’d shoot. Fred O. was sure.
The Plan:
There’s a rooming house. It’s a wino pad. It’s across from the Lorraine Motel. King’s at the Lorraine. He’s in room 306. It’s off a balcony. There’s a wino pad vacancy. Fred O. made sure. Fred O. held said flop for a week.
He “checked in.” He stayed away. He’ll “check out” tomorrow. Jimmy will check in. He’ll get that room. It’s near a bathroom perch-site.
He might shoot. He might punk out. Thus Bob shoots instead.
There’s a brush patch by the wino pad. It supplies cover. It supplies trajectory. The wino pad runs back to Main Street. The Lorraine’s on Mulberry.
Jimmy shoots. Jimmy exits—way off Mulberry. He wipes his rifle. He drops the rifle. He drops it in a doorway.
Fred O. lurks near. Fred O. grabs the rifle. Fred O. drops rifle 3. It’s print-smeared. It’s smeared by Jimmy. It’s smeared by transparency.
Jimmy splits. Jimmy drives to the safe house. Wayne’s waiting there. It’s a cheap apartment. It’s furnished.
With booze empties/dope baggies/needles. With white powder/dope fits/crystal meth.
With a suicide note—forged by Fred Otash.
I flew on meth. I killed Nigger King. I’m scared now. I escaped Jeff City. I refuse to go back. I’m a hero. I’m a martyr. Hey, World, take that.
Wayne waits. Wayne geezes Jimmy up. Wayne shoots Jimmy then. Jimmy dies on a speed rush.
Panic. Suicide. Your stock “lone assassin”—gone on crystal meth.
Wayne watched the New Rebel. Fred O. stood outside. Jimmy walked in. Fred O. looked over. Fred O. saw Wayne and winked.
Wayne winked back. Wayne shoved off. Wayne drove to the Lorraine Motel.
He parked close in. He checked the lot. He checked the balcony. He checked the wino pad. He checked the brush patch. He checked the street.
The patch was thick. It flanked a cement wall. A passageway led to Main Street. They perch in the patch. They shoot or don’t shoot. They walk to Main Street.
Wayne watched the motel. Negro men hobnobbed. They stood on that balcony.
No cops attendant. Dwight Holly confirmed said. Dwight Holly tapped cop frequencies. Memphis was uptight. They had riots and marches. They had cops alert on Code 3. More shit was planned. One more march boded. It was set for April 5th.
He’d be dead. Memphis would burn. Wayne knew it. Jimmy would shoot. Fred O. said so. Fred knew it.
Fred O. ran Jimmy. Jimmy ran L.A. to Memphis. Jimmy made stops in between. Jimmy was wacked. Jimmy took hypnosis courses. Jimmy went to bartender’s school. Jimmy shot meth. Jimmy bought skin mags. Jimmy jacked off and read porno books.
Jimmy joined the Friends of Rhodesia. Jimmy placed swinger ads. Jimmy got rhinoplasty. Jimmy stalked Dr. King in L.A. Jimmy stalked March 16/17.
Fred O. surveilled him. Fred O. knew then: He’ll shoot proactively. Fred O. recruited him proactive. Fred O. was cloaked as “Raul.”
Fred had King’s travel plans. Dwight Holly pouched them. They came from an FBI source.
King went to Selma. He arrived on 3/22. Fred O. and Jim Ray were there. The conditions were sub-par. Fred O. stalled D-day.
King stayed in Selma. Jimmy drove to Atlanta. He knew King lived there. King foxed him. King flew to Jew York. King had business there.
Dwight got a tip. His Fed source pouched it. RED RABBIT to Memphis. Arrival 3/28. There’s a garbage strike there.
Dwight recruited Wayne on 3/30. “Raul” goosed Jimmy Ray. Cash perks and meth—Memphis dead-ahead.
It was NOW. Fred said so. Fred knew it. Jimmy was strung out. Jimmy craved the “Bounty.” Jimmy craved this mock Holy Grail.
Wayne watched the balcony. Wayne saw activity.
Dwight ran death-threat checks. The Memphis Feds supplied facts. King logged eighty-one death threats. Klan threats mostly.
King blew them off. King shined them on. King scorned security.
Wayne watched the balcony. Wayne saw Dr. King. They went back. They intertwined. They had symmetry.
He went to Little Rock. He enforced integration. He saw King there. He saw that fuck film. It was FBI-shot. He saw King there. He killed three coloreds. King indicted Las Vegas. King almost went there. He killed Bongo in Saigon. King hated his war. He killed Wendell Durfee. Wayne Senior found Durfee. King served his vengeance cause.
Wayne Senior knew:
You want it. I made you. It’s yours.
Wayne Senior said you learned. Wayne Senior said you paid. Wayne Senior said you earned this shot.
Wayne Senior bragged:
Ward Littell’s retiring. Mormon heavies love me. I’ll get his Hughes spot. It’s certain. I know. I was told.
Carlos Marcello called me. We talked. We discussed Littell’s retirement. We discussed general business. We discussed the Hughes spot.
Carlos said this:
Littell worked for Hughes and me. You take that full spot. Littell suborns Nixon. Littell retires then. You go from there. You work with Nixon. You secure our requests. You insure our warranty.
Wayne Senior said this:
My son the chemist. You know him. I know he’s outgrown Pete B.
Carlos said this:
We’ll find a spot. We’ll bring Wayne in. It’s adios to Pete B.
Wayne watched the balcony. Wayne saw King laugh. Wayne saw King slap his knees.
I hate smart. I’ve killed five. You can’t outhate me.
111
(Bay St. Louis, 4/3/68)
Castoff—9:16 p.m. Light wind. Course south-southeast.
The last gun run. The kadre kurtain kall.
Pete walked the deck. His pants fit tight. He wore three guns in. He wore his shirt out. His gut bulged. The silencers chafed.
He flew in. They held castoff. He flew in late. He looked for Wayne in Vegas. He tapped out. Carlos called him.
Carlos was Carlos. Fuck the Big Lie. Carlos was brusque:
“You found some things out. So what? You were never dumb, Pete.”
“Bob’s off somewhere. He’s working with Wayne. He don’t get hurt like the rest.”
“Don’t act aggrieved. Bring me some scalps. Remember, you owe me for Dallas.”
The boat pitched. The boat dipped. The boat leveled. Pete walked the deck. Pete thought it through. Pete fought butterflies.
They’re below deck. Get them alone/get them together. Hit the arms locker. Get a shotgun. Choke a tight spread.
Pilot the boat. You know how to. Head for Cuban seas. Lure Fuentes on. Lure Arredondo. Kill them/scalp them/dump them. Scalp and dump the rest.