The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 66
“If I told you I could help you settle the one score that counts, would you want to do it?”
Janice said, “Yes.”
She slept.
She ate pain pills. She drifted off. Wayne fluffed her hair on a pillow. Wayne pulled a quilt over her.
He checked his watch. It was 6:10 p.m.
He walked to his car. He grabbed two laundry bags. He grabbed a scratch pad and pen. He walked back. He bolted the door. He walked the living room. He pat-checked the walls. He patted and touched.
No hollow thunks/no wall seams/no panels.
He walked the bedroom. He worked around Janice. He patted and touched. No hollow thunks/no wall seams/no panels.
He walked Littell’s study. He slid out a cabinet. He saw a wall seam. He found a catch and flipped it. A panel slid back.
He saw shelves. He saw a .38 snubnose. He saw ledgers stacked.
He opened the blue ones. He saw Teamster nomenclature. He opened the brown ones. He saw typed notes and hand scrawl. He skimmed the text.
Arden-Jane indicts Teamsters. Arden-Jane indicts mobsters. Arden-Jane culls anti-Mob facts.
Book 2—page 84:
Arden-Jane rats “Chuck the Vice” Aiuppa. Arden-Jane rats Carlos M. She heard a rumor. She confirmed it. She transcribed.
March ’59. Outside New Orleans. Carlos gives “Chuck the Vice” work. A “cajun fuck” fucked Carlos. Carlos says clip him.
“Chuck the Vice” obeys. “Chuck the Vice” kills said fuck. “Chuck the Vice” buries him.
Across from Boo’s Hot-Links—six miles from Fort Polk. Look there—you’ll find the bones.
Wayne pulled page 84. Wayne grabbed his scratch pad. Wayne wrote a note:
Mr. Marcello,
My father bought Arden Breen–Jane Fentress’s file from her before she left Ward Littell. Ward has no idea that such a file exists.
My father plans to extort you with information contained in the file. Can we discuss this? I’ll call you within 24 hours.
Wayne Tedrow Jr.
Wayne checked Littell’s desk. Wayne found an envelope. Wayne dropped the page and note in.
He sealed the envelope. He addressed it: Carlos Marcello/Tropicana Hotel/Las Vegas.
He grabbed the ledger books. He filled a laundry bag. He walked out. He killed the bedroom lights. He kissed Janice.
He touched her hair. He said, “I love you.”
119
(Lake Tahoe, 6/4/68)
News flash! It’s over! Bobby K. wins!
The TV ran figures. Percentage points and precincts. It’s Bobby decisive. It’s Bobby’s big win.
Pete watched. Ward watched near-comatose. Ward watched shell-shocked.
They got Wayne’s tip. They jumped him. They spiked him with Seconal. Pete drove him up. They hid in Wayne Senior’s lodge.
Wayne was in Vegas. Fred O. was in L.A. Fred O. was priming Sirhan.
Ward slept crypt-style. Ward slept sixteen hours. Ward slept cuffed to a bed. He woke up. He saw Pete. He knew. He refused to talk. He said zero words. Pete knew he’d want to see.
Pete cooked pancakes. Ward ate zero. Pete ran the TV. They waited. Ward watched election news. Pete twirled his cane.
He’d called Barb. She said Fuck You. I won’t run. I won’t hide.
Pete babied Ward. Pete said talk to me please. Ward shut his eyes. Ward shook his head. Ward cupped his ears.
News flash! The Ambassador live! Bobby proclaims victory!
A camera cut to close-up. Bobby’s all tousle-haired. Bobby’s grinning all teeth.
The phone rang. Pete grabbed it.
“Yeah?”
Wayne said, “It’s me.”
Pete watched the TV. The picture skipped and settled. His pulse skipped. Bobbyphiles cheered Bobby.
“Where are—”
“I just talked to Carlos. He had plans for you and Barb, but I talked him out of it. You’re free to do whatever you want, and Ward is retired as of now.”
“Jesus Chr—”
“Dallas and up, partner. I pay my debts.”
The picture skipped and settled. Pete put the phone down. Pete felt his pulse skip.
Bobby splits the podium. Bobby waves. Bobby steps away. The camera pans a doorway—Bobby adieu—the camera cuts back.
The camera pans Bobbyphiles. A mike gets the gunshots. A mike gets the screams.
Oh God—
Oh no.
No not that—
Senator Kennedy has been—
Pete hit the remote control. The TV bipped off.
Ward cupped his ears. Ward shut his eyes. Ward fucking screamed.
120
(Lake Tahoe, 6/9/68)
Reruns:
The eulogies. The High Mass. The funeral scenes. Wakes plural—King and Bobby.
He watched. He watched all day and night. He watched four days on.
Reruns:
The kitchen chaos. The cops with Sirhan. The Feds with James Earl Ray. Caught in London. “I’m a patsy.” A familiar theme.
He watched TV. He watched four days on. It would end soon. The news would shift. The news would move on.
Littell flipped channels. Littell saw L.A. and Memphis.
He was hungry. His food was gone. Pete stocked for two days. Pete left four days back. Pete cut the phone lines free.
Pete said walk to Tahoe. It’s six miles tops. Catch a Vegas train.
Pete was disingenuous. Pete knew he wouldn’t. Pete knew he’d stay. Pete caught the drift. Pete left his gun behind. Pete told him straight:
They killed King too. You should know that. I owe you.
Littell said goodbye. One word and no more. Pete squeezed his hands. Pete walked away.
Littell flipped channels. Littell caught The Triad: Jack/King/Bobby. Three funeral shots. Three artful cuts. Three widows framed.
I killed them. It’s my fault. Their blood’s on me.
He waited. He watched the screen. Let’s try for all three. He flipped channels. He got one and two. He lucked on all three.
There—old footage. It’s pre-’63.
They’re in the White House. Jack’s at his desk. King’s standing with Bobby. The image held. One picture/all three.
Littell grabbed the gun. Littell ate the barrel. The muzzle roar shut off all three.
121
(Sparta, 6/9/68)
The cat hissed. The cat snarled. The cat paced his cage.
The cab hit ruts. Pete bounced. His knees bumped the cage. Sparta in bloom. Mosquitoes meet Lutherans and trees.
He flew unannounced. He brought truce papers. He brought seller’s deeds. He sold the Cavern. He took a loss. He sold Tiger Kab to Milt C.
The cat hissed. Pete scratched his ears. The cab cut due east.
His wind was back. He ditched his cane. He still tired easy. He was fried/fragged/frappéed. He was frazzled and free.
He tried for regret. He fretted the bad shit on Ward. He ran his fears for Wayne T. Nothing jelled persistent. You’re fried/fragged/frappéed. You’re frazzled and free.
The cat snarled. The cab cut south. The driver read address plates. The driver pulled over. The cab grazed the curb.
Pete got out. Pete saw Barb. She’s pruning fucking trees. She heard the cab. She looked over. She saw Pete.
Pete took one step. Barb took two steps. Pete jumped and took three.
122
(Las Vegas, 6/9/68)
He’s home.
The lights are on. The shades are up. One window’s cracked free.
Wayne parked. Wayne walked up. Wayne opened the door and walked in.
He’s upside the bar. It’s ritualized. He’s got his nightcap. He’s got his stick.
Wayne walked over. Wayne Senior smiled. Wayne Senior twirled his stick.
“I knew you’d be by.”
“What made you think that?”
“Certain allegedly unrelated events of the past few months and how they relate to this burgeoning partnership of ours.”
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br /> Wayne grabbed the stick. Wayne twirled it. Wayne did a few tricks.
“That’s a good place to start.”
Wayne Senior winked. “I’m sitting down with Dick Nixon next week.”
Wayne winked. “No, I am.”
Wayne Senior laughed—faux rube/yuk-yuk.
“You’ll meet Dick in good time. I’ll get you a box seat at the inauguration.”
Wayne twirled the stick. “I’ve spoken to Carlos and Mr. Hughes’ people. We’ve come to some agreements, and I’m assuming Ward Littell’s position.”
Wayne Senior twitched. Wayne Senior smiled in slow-motion. Wayne Senior built a slow-motion drink.
One hand’s clenched. It’s on the bar rail. One hand’s pure free.
Their eyes met. Their eyes held. Their eyes locked shitfire.
Wayne pulled his cuffs. Wayne freed a ratchet. Wayne snared one wrist. The cuff snapped on. Wayne Senior jerked back. Wayne jerked him back in.
Wayne flicked the spare cuff. Wayne freed the ratchet. Wayne cuffed the bar rail crisp.
Good cuffs/LVPD/Smith & Wesson.
Wayne Senior jerked. The cuff chain held. The bar rail squeaked. Wayne pulled a knife. Wayne flicked the blade. Wayne cut the bar phone cord.
Wayne Senior jerked the chain. Wayne Senior dumped his stool. Wayne Senior spilled his drink.
Wayne twirled the stick. “I reconverted. Mr. Hughes was pleased to know that I’m a Mormon.”
Wayne Senior jerked. The ratchets scraped. The bar rail held strong. The chain links went screeee.
Wayne walked out. Wayne stood by his car. The Strip lights twinkled waaay off. Wayne saw incoming beams.
The car pulled up. The car stopped. Janice got out. Janice weaved and anchored her feet.
She twirled a golf club. Some kind of iron. Big head and fat grips.
She walked past Wayne. She looked at him. He smelled her cancer breath. She walked inside. She let the door swing.
Wayne stood tiptoed. Wayne made a picture frame. Wayne got a full window view. The club head arced. His father screamed. Blood sprayed the panes.