by James Ellroy
A Negro hurled a beer can. A Negro dumped an ashtray. Cigarette butts breezed.
Littell hit Conn. Ave. Water mains erupted. Firemen lugged hoses. Cops stood by fire trucks.
The Kowloon was open. Eddie Chang was feisty. Eddie Chang fed local cops.
Littell walked in. Littell grabbed the back booth. The barman turned the TV up.
Live local feed. Negroes with gas cans. Cars belly-up.
Three men watched. They were bluff-hearty types. They had hardhats and beer guts.
One man said, “Goddamn animals.”
One man said, “We gave them their civil rights.”
One man said, “And look what we got.”
Littell sprawled. Littell went invertebrate. Littell culled Deep South anecdotes.
Paul Horvitz walked in.
He saw Littell. He brushed his pants off. He walked over. He shook his coat sleeves. Ash dropped and whirled.
He dug his feet in. He spanned the booth. He gripped two hat posts.
“An FBI man talked to Senator Kennedy, an hour ago. He showed him a photograph of a man who looked very much like you, without your beard. He said your name was Ward Littell, and he called you a ‘provocateur.’ The senator heard that name and saw that picture and almost freaked out.”
Littell stood up. His knees shook. He banged the tabletop. He tried to talk. He went cottonmouthed. He st-st-st-stuttered.
Paul grabbed his coat. Paul pulled him close. Paul tore his beard off. Paul slapped him. Paul shoved him. Paul knocked his glasses off.
Littell fell back. Littell dumped the table. Paul fast-walked out.
The hardhats twirled their stools. The hardhats looked over. The hardhats flashed shit-eating grins.
One man flashed a Fed badge.
One man said, “Hi, Ward.”
One man said, “Mr. Hoover knows all.”
114
(Los Angeles, 4/8/68)
Some crazy A-rab. Two names the same.
Wayne brought him up. Wayne said he muscled him. The A-rab stiffed the Cavern. The A-rab packed hate tracts. The A-rab packed a piece.
Wayne got his hate-mail gig. Wayne pulled hate letters. Guess what? The A-rab sent Bobby K. notes.
Craaaazy shit. “Jew Pigs”/“RFK Must Die.”
Pete drove freeways. Pete looped L.A. Pete drove old-man slow.
He felt weak. He felt sapped. He felt drained. He took midget steps now. His breath sputtered. He carried a cane. He measured his steps. He got minor satisfaction. He got more wind each day.
You’re young. You’re strong. The docs said so. The next one kills you. The surgeon said so.
They split your chest. They cleared your tubes. They stitched and stapled you. You checked out. You bought surgical clippers. You de-stitched yourself slow. You used scotch for disinfectant. You used scotch for anesthetic. You used scotch for the pain.
Pete drove freeways. Pete looped downtown L.A. Pete drove old-man slow.
Carlos bopped to his bedside. Carlos said the boat job—bravo. Carlos mentioned the “small favor.” I know you know about it. I know Ward told you.
Pete said sure. You get a favor. I get retirement.
Carlos said go to L.A. Find Fred Otash a stooge.
Carlos said I like Fred. Wayne Senior referred him. I like Wayne Senior too. He’s classy. He’ll get Ward’s job. Ward retires soon.
Pete left the hospital. Pete flew to L.A. Pete saw Fred O. Fred O. was skinny. Fred O. said why.
He ran a stiff. He ran him for eight months. He ran the King fall guy.
Bob Relyea worked the gig. Dwight Holly played ramrod. Wayne Senior ran ops. Wayne Junior was sequestered now. Wayne Junior worked backup.
He killed Wendell Durfee. The LAPD caught it. They had questions still. The snuff vibed revenge/the vic killed your wife/we’d like to talk to you.
Pete weighed the details. Pete gauged Fred O. Pete tore the “small favor” up.
Oh shit. The Boys need a stooge. It’s a Bobby hit.
Fred O. confirmed it. Fred O. named no names. Fred O. confirmed implicit. Pete recalled the A-rab. Fred O. was Lebanese. Call it synergy.
Pete dished on the A-rab. Pete dished partial stats. Fred O. fucking drooled. Pete flew to Vegas. Pete kissed the cat hello and goodbye. Pete tossed Wayne’s Cavern room.
He found his hate-mail copies. He went through them. He found the A-rab’s notes.
RFK MUST DIE! RFK MUST DIE! RFK MUST DIE!
He called Sonny Liston. He said where’d you brace that A-rab? Sonny said the Desert Dawn Motel. He hit the Desert Dawn. He bribed the desk clerk. He checked registration stats.
Bam: Sirhan B. Sirhan/Pasadena, California.
He flew back to L.A. He called the DMV. He got Sirhan’s full stats. He called Fred O. He said sit tight. He said I’ll stake him out.
Carlos called last night. Carlos waxed sly. You figured it out. Fred O. said so. You know, I’m not surprised.
Carlos waxed assertive then. Carlos said this:
Ward’s soft on Bobby. You know Ward. He’s liberal martyr Littell. Sever contact for now. Ward’s smart. Ward smells things. Conniver Littell.
Pete said sure. I’ll do it. You know I want out.
Carlos laughed. Pete saw Big D. Jack’s head goes ka-blooey. Jackie dives for scraps.
Chez Sirhan: A small crib/old wood-frame/near Muir High School. Car Sirhan: A jig rig/spinners and skirts/a coon maroon Ford.
Pete pulled up. Pete parked. Pete waited. Pete chewed Nicorette gum.
He thought about Barb. He ran the radio. He got some Barb tunes. He got the news—dig it—King Killer at Large!
He thought about Wayne. Wayne the spook assassin. Jigs from Wendell Durfee on up. He ran instincts. He laid bets. Wayne Senior sandbagged Wayne. Wayne Senior recruited him. It was fucked-up daddy stuff.
He ran the dial. He got more King. He got Bobby campaign stuff.
Sirhan walked out.
He darted. He walked funny. He smoked. He skimmed a racing form. He sideswiped a tree. He face-plowed a hedge.
Two kids walked by. They ogled Sirhan—dig on that freak!
Sirhan walked funny. Sirhan looked funny. Sirhan had wild hair and big teeth. Sirhan dropped his cigarette. Sirhan lit a cigarette. Sirhan flashed yellow teeth.
Sirhan got in his car. Sirhan U-turned. Sirhan drove southeast.
Pete tailed him. Sirhan was a track nut. Odds on Santa Anita. Odds on the spring meet.
Sirhan drove funny. Sirhan waved his hands. Sirhan straddled lanes. Pete tailed him close. Fuck the laws of tail work. Sirhan was stone nuts.
They drove southeast. They hit Arcadia. They hit the track lot. Sirhan brodied. Sirhan parked erratic. Pete parked close up.
Sirhan got out. Sirhan pulled a pint of vodka. Sirhan took little pops. Pete got out. Pete tailed him. Pete dogged him cane-first.
Sirhan walked funny. Sirhan walked fast. Pete walked heart-attack slow.
Sirhan hit the turnstiles. Sirhan dropped change. Sirhan said, “Bleacher seat.” Pete bought a cheap seat. Pete huffed for breath. Pete tailed Sirhan slooooooooooow.
Sirhan pushed through people. Sirhan pushed funny. Sirhan used darty elbows. People gawked—check that clown/what a freak!
Sirhan stopped. Sirhan pulled out his scratch sheet. Sirhan cognified.
He studied the sheet. He picked his nose. He flicked snot. He licked a pencil. He circled nags. He jabbed at his ears. He dug earwax. He sniffed it. He flicked it off.
He walked. Pete cane-walked slow. Sirhan pulled a wad of dollar bills. Sirhan hit the two-dollar window.
He bet six races. He bet all longshots—two dollars per. He talked funny. He talked stilted. He talked fast.
The cage man passed him tickets. Sirhan walked. Pete tailed him slow. Sirhan walked fast. Sirhan pulled his jug every six steps.
He took a pop. He took six steps. He imbibed again. Pete counted steps. Pete tailed him. Pete yukked.
They hit the bleachers. Sirhan studied faces. Sirha
n studied faces slooooow. He stared. His eyes darted. His eyes flared and flashed.
Pete got it:
He’s looking for demons. He’s scouting for Jews.
Sirhan stood still. Sirhan stared. Sirhan saw big beaks. Sirhan smelled Jew.
Sirhan walked. Sirhan grabbed a seat. Sirhan perched by some groovy girls. The girls checked him out. The girls went ugh. The girls went P-U.
Pete took a seat. Pete sat one bleacher up. Pete checked the view: the paddock/the track/the nags at the gate.
The bell rang. The nags tore ass. Sirhan went nuts.
He yelled. He shrieked go go go. His shirttail hiked up. Pete saw a bullet pouch. Pete saw a .38 snub.
Sirhan slurped vodka. Sirhan yelled in Arabic. Sirhan beat his chest to a pulp. The girls moved. The nags crossed the finish line. Sirhan tore a bet-stub up.
Sirhan sulked. Sirhan paced. Sirhan kicked paper cups. He studied his scratch sheet. He picked his nose. He flicked hunks of snot.
Some guys sat down—jarheads in dress blues. Sirhan slid close. Sirhan talked shit. Sirhan offered his jug.
The jarheads imbibed. Pete listened. Pete heard:
“The Jews steal our pussy.”
“Robert Kennedy pays them.”
“That is no shit I tell you.”
The jarheads yukked. The jarheads goofed on the spastic. Sirhan got pissed and reached for his jug. The jarheads tossed it over his head. The jarheads goofed double-hard.
They stood up. They stretched tall. They tossed the jug high. Sirhan was short. They were tall. They made Sirhan leap.
Keep away—Semper Fi—three-handed.
They tossed the jug. Sirhan leaped. Sirhan lunged and jumped. Keep away/hot potato/three hands.
The jug traveled. The jug flew shell-game fast. The jug fell and broke. The jarheads laughed. Sirhan laughed—à la Daffy Duck.
An onlooker laughed. He was fat and frizzy-haired. Dig his beanie and mezuzah.
Sirhan called him a “pussylicker.”
Sirhan called him a “vampire Jew.”
Pete watched the races. Pete watched The Sirhan Sirhan Show.
Sirhan noshed candy bars. Sirhan picked his teeth. Sirhan lost bets. Sirhan sulked. Sirhan picked his toes. Sirhan hassled blond girls. Sirhan dug earwax. Sirhan talked shit.
Jews. RFK. The pus puppets of Zion. The Arab revolt.
Sirhan trawled for Jews. Sirhan scratched his balls. Sirhan aired his feet. Sirhan walked to the paddock. Pete tailed him close. Sirhan hassled jockeys.
I was jockey once. I was hot walker. I hate Zionist pigs. The jockeys razzed him—fuck you, Fritz—you’re a camel jockey.
Sirhan walked to the bar. Pete tailed him. Sirhan drank vodka shooters with candy-bar chasers. Sirhan chomped ice cubes.
Sirhan trawled for Jews. Sirhan fixed on big schnozzolas. Sirhan jumped stools. Sirhan walked to the john. Pete tailed him. Sirhan trawled urinals.
Sirhan bagged a toilet stall. Pete loitered close. Sirhan shit long and loud. Sirhan walked out. Pete walked in. Pete saw toilet scrawls:
Pigs of Zion!
Blood Licker Jews!
RFK Must Die!
Pete called Fred O. Pete said, “He looks good.” Pete drove downtown. Pete hit the Hall of Justice. Pete hit the state horse race board.
He flashed a Rice Krispies badge. He conned a clerk. He cadged an employee file check.
The clerk showed him a file bank. He saw six drawers alphabetic. The clerk yawned. The clerk split. The clerk took a java break.
He pulled the S drawer. He finger-walked. He found “Sirhan, Sirhan B.” He skimmed two pages. He got:
Sirhan was a hot walker. Sirhan fell off horses. Sirhan bonked his head repeatedly. Sirhan drank too much. Sirhan gambled too much. Sirhan defamed Jews.
He found a memo. The board sent Sirhan to a shrink. A pork dodger/Dr. G. N. Blumenfeld/out in West L.A.
Pete laughed. Pete walked. Pete found a pay phone. He called Fred O. He said, “He looks great.”
He tired fast. He tired hard. It killed him. The day fucking killed him. Cane tails at age forty-seven.
He hit his motel. He took his pills. He snarfed his blood-thinning drops. He chewed Nicorette gum. He ate his rabbit-food dinner.
He was shot. He was dead whipped. He tried to sleep. His circuits disconnected. Recent shit recohered.
Barb/the boat/the Big Lie. Wayne/the King hit/Bobby.
Barb made sense. Nothing else. Barb dug on Bobby. Barb would mourn Bobby. Barb might link him to the hit. She might do a “Not Again” number. She might freak and split. She might leave him for Bobby and Jack.
It scared him. Nothing else did. No outrage or fugue for la Causa. No fear outside that.
My shit’s too exhausting. I’m dispersed and dead whipped. I’m shot.
He checked the Yellow Pages. He got the shrink’s address. He slept.
He got six hours. He revived. He went out sans cane. G. N. Blumenfeld/office on Pico/out in West L.A.
2:30 a.m.—sleepytime L.A.
He drove out. He parked curbside. He checked the building: Stucco/one-story/six doors in a row.
He grabbed his penlight. He grabbed a pocket knife. He grabbed his Diners Club card. He got out. He tilt-walked. Where’s my fucking cane?
He made the door. He flashed the lock. He tapped the keyhole. Go—the knife blade/the card/one sharp twist.
He got leverage. He applied force. The door popped.
He tilt-walked inside. He caught his breath. He pulled the door shut. He flashed the waiting room. He saw clown prints. He saw one desk and one couch.
He flashed a side door. He saw a caduceus. He saw G. N. BLUMENFELD. He walked over. He braced off the walls. His breath snagged and huffed.
He tried the door. It was unlocked. There’s the shrink chair. There’s the file bank. There’s the shrink couch.
His breath jerked. He got dizzy. He stretched out on the couch. He laughed—I’m Sirhan Sirhan—RFK watch out!
He got his breath. He stowed the yuks. His pulse leveled out. He flashed the file bank: A to L/M to S/T to Z.
He got up. He pulled drawer handles. The file drawers slid out. M to S—be there, you fuck.
He pulled drawer 2. He finger-walked. He found him: one folder/two pages/three-visit summary.
He flashed the pages. Quotes leaped:
“Memory loss.” “Fugue states.” “Disoriented condition.”
“Overdependence on supportive male figures.”
Boffo quotes. Fred O. would swoon. Hello, you camel jockey!
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/11/68. Atlanta Constitution headline and subhead:
SEARCH FOR KING ASSASSIN BROADENS
FBI IN MASSIVE HUNT
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/12/68. Houston Chronicle headline and subhead:
LAUNDRY-MARK CLUE ID’S ASSASSINATION SUSPECT
SEARCH WIDENS IN LOS ANGELES
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/14/68. Miami Herald subhead:
RIOT DAMAGE ASSESSED IN WAKE OF KING ASSASSINATION
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/15/68. Portland Oregonian headline and subhead:
ASSASSIN’S CAR FOUND IN ATLANTA
SEARCH FOR SUSPECT GALT BROADENS
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/19/68. Dallas Morning News subhead:
HUNT FOR KING ASSASSIN “#1 PRIORITY,” HOOVER SAYS
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/20/68. New York Daily News headline and subhead:
FINGERPRINT CHECK YIELDS PAYDIRT!
“GALT” REVEALED AS PRISON ESCAPEE!
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/22/68. Chicago Sun-Times headline and subhead:
RFK IN HUGE INDIANA PRIMARY PUSH
CITES LEGACY OF DR. KING
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/23/68. Los Angeles Examiner subhead:
SKID ROW MURDER VICTIM DURFEE REVEALED AS LONG-SOUGHT RAPIST-KILLER
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/7/68. New York Times headline:
RFK WINS INDIANA PRIMARY
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/10/68. San Francisco Chronicle headline:
RFK WINS NEBRASKA PRIMARY
/> DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/14/68. Los Angeles Examiner subhead:
SEARCH FOR KING ASSASSIN SHIFTS TO CANADA
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/15/68. Phoenix Sun subhead:
RFK IN OREGON-CALIFORNIA CAMPAIGN PUSH
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/16/68. Chicago Tribune subhead:
HOOVER SAYS KING ASSASSINATION “NOT A CONSPIRACY”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/22/68. Washington Post headline and subhead:
LOW TURNOUT FOR POOR PEOPLE’S MARCH
KING’S DEATH CITED AS REASON
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/26/68. Cleveland Plain Dealer subhead:
HUNT FOR SUSPECT RAY WIDENS
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/26/68. New York Daily News subhead:
RAY DESCRIBED AS “AMPHETAMINE ADDICT-LONER”
WITH BENT FOR “GIRLIE” MAGAZINES
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/27/68. Los Angeles Examiner subhead:
FRIENDS CITE RAY’S RACE-HATE HISTORY
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/28/68. Los Angeles Examiner subhead:
NO LEADS IN HUNT FOR SKID-ROW KILLER
LAPD LINKS VICTIM TO RECENT RAPE-MURDERS OF THREE WOMEN
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/28/68. Portland Oregonian headline and subhead:
RFK LOSES OREGON PRIMARY
MOVES CAMPAIGN TO CRUCIAL CALIFORNIA TEST
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/29/68. Los Angeles Times subhead:
HUGE CROWDS AS RFK STORMS STATE
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/30/68. Los Angeles Times subhead:
RECORD CROWDS CHEER RFK’S PLEDGE TO END WAR
DOCUMENT INSERT: 6/1/68. San Francisco Chronicle subhead:
RFK SETS BREAKNECK PACE IN CALIFORNIA CAMPAIGN
115
(Lake Tahoe, 6/2/68)
The hole-up:
Wayne Senior’s cabin / four rooms / secluded. Up mountain roads. Wide views and trout streams.
Home for now. Home since Memphis.
He had a scrambler phone. He had a food stash. He had a TV. He had shit to sort out. He had time to think.
Let’s wait. The Feds will get Jimmy Ray. LAPD will give up on Durfee.