The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 2
Janice Lukens Tedrow made rooms tilt. She played indolent wife. She played scratch golf. She played A-club tennis.
Wayne Senior feared her spark. She watched Wayne grow up. She torched reciprocal. She left her doors open. She invited looks. Wayne Senior knew it. Wayne Senior didn’t care.
There’s his wife.
Lynette Sproul Tedrow. Perched in his lap. Grad night at Brigham Young.
He’s shell-shocked. He got his chem degree—BYU/’59—summa cum laude. He craved action. He joined Vegas PD. Fuck summa cum laude.
He met Lynette in Little Rock. Fall ’57. Central High desegregates. Rednecks. Colored kids. The Eighty-Second Airborne.
Some white boys prowl. Some white boys snatch a colored boy’s sandwich. Lynette hands him hers. The white boys attack. Corporal Wayne Tedrow Jr. counters.
He beats them down. He spears one fuck. The fuck screams, “Mommy!”
Lynette hits on Wayne. She’s seventeen. He’s twenty-three. He’s got some college.
They fucked on a golf course. Sprinklers doused them. He told Janice all.
She said, “You and Lynette peaked early. And you probably liked the fight as much as the sex.”
Janice knew him. Janice had the home-court advantage.
Wayne looked out a window. TV crews roamed. News vans double-parked. He walked through the suite. He turned off the TVs. Three Oswalds vanished.
He pulled his file. All carbons: LVPD/Dallas County Sheriff’s.
Durfee, Wendell (NMI). Male Negro/DOB 6-6-27/Clark County, Nevada. 6’4”/155.
Pander beefs—3/44 up. “Well-known dice-game habitue.” No busts outside Vegas and Dallas.
“Known to drive Cadillacs.”
“Known to wear flamboyant attire.”
“Known to have fathered 13 children out of wedlock.”
“Known to pander Negro women, white women, male homosexuals & Mexican transvestites.”
Twenty-two pimp busts. Fourteen convictions. Nine child-support liens. Five bail jumps.
Cop notes: Wendell’s smart/Wendell’s dumb/Wendell cut that cat at Binion’s.
The cat was mobbed up. The cat shanked Wendell first. The council set policy. The LVPD enforced it.
“Known Dallas County Associates”:
Marvin Duquesne Settle/male Negro/Texas State custody.
Fenton “Duke” Price/male Negro/Texas State custody.
Alfonzo John Jefferson/male Negro/4219 Wilmington Road, Dallas 8, Tex. “Gambling partner of Wendell Durfee.”
County Probation: (Stat. 92.04 Tex. St. Code) 9/14/60–9/14/65. Employed: Dr Pepper Bottling Plant. Note: “Subject to make fine payments for term of probation, i.e.: every 3rd Friday (Dr Pepper payday) County Prob. Off.”
Donnell George Lundy/male Negro/Texas State custody.
Manuel “Bobo” Herrara/male Mexican/Texas State cust—
The phone rang. Wayne grabbed it.
“Yeah?”
“It’s me, son. Your new best buddy.”
Wayne grabbed his holster. “Where are you?”
“Right now I’m noplace worth bein’. But you meet me at eight o’clock.”
“Where?”
“The Carousel Club. You be there, and we’ll find us that burrhead.”
Wayne hung up. Wayne got butterflies.
Wendell, I don’t want to kill you.
2
Ward J. Littell
(Dallas, 11/22/63)
There’s the limo. It’s on the runway. It’s late-model FBI black.
The plane taxied up. It passed Air Force One. Marines flanked the tailhatch. The pilot cut the engine. The plane fishtailed. The ramp popped and dropped.
Littell got out. His ears popped. His legs uncramped.
They worked fast. They rigged his flight plan. They flew him two-seat non-deluxe.
Mr. Hoover called him—D.C. to L.A.
He said, “The President was shot and killed. I want you to fly to Dallas and monitor the investigation.”
The hit occurred at 12:30. It was 4:10 now. Mr. Hoover called at 12:40. Mr. Hoover got the news and called fast.
Littell ran. The limo driver popped the door. The backseat was stuffy. The windows were smoked. Love Field was all monochrome.
Stick figures. Baggage crews. Newsmen and charter planes.
The driver pulled out. Littell saw a box on the seat. He opened it. He emptied it out.
One special agent’s shield. One FBI photo ID card. One Bureau-issue .38/holster.
His old photo. His old gun.
He gave them up in ’60. Mr. Hoover forced him out. He had cover tools now—new and old—he had cosmetic reinstatement.
Mr. Hoover stashed said tools. In Dallas. Mr. Hoover predicted the hit.
He knew the locale. He sensed the time frame. He was passively complicit. He sensed Littell’s involvement. He sensed Littell’s need to quash talk.
Littell looked out his window. The tint made funhouse distortions. Clouds imploded. Buildings weaved. People blipped.
He brought a radio. He played it flying in. He got the basic stats:
One suspect caught—a kid—a sheep-dipped leftist. Guy Banister dipped him. The kid killed a cop. Two cops were set to kill him. Phase Two went bad. The second cop botched his assignment.
Littell holstered up. Littell studied his ID.
Cop/lawyer then. Mob lawyer now. Hoover foe to Hoover ally. A one-man law firm with three clients:
Howard Hughes/Jimmy Hoffa/Carlos Marcello.
He called Carlos. Ten a.m. L.A. time. Carlos was happy. Carlos beat Bobby K.’s deportation bill.
Bobby tried Carlos in New Orleans. Carlos owned New Orleans. Carlos was jury-proof there.
Kennedy hubris:
The jury acquits Carlos. Bobby sulks. Jack dies one hour on.
The streets were dead. Windows zipped by. Ten thousand TVs glowed.
It was his show.
He developed the plan. Pete Bondurant helped. Carlos okayed it and went with Guy Banister’s crew. Guy embellished his plan. Guy revised it. Guy botched it.
Pete was in Dallas. Pete just got married. Pete was at the Adolphus Hotel. Guy B. was here. Guy B. was somewhere close.
Littell counted windows. All tint-distorted. Smudges and blurs. His thoughts blew wide. His thoughts cohered:
Talk to Pete. Kill Oswald. Ensure a one-shooter consensus.
The limo hit downtown Dallas. Littell pinned on his shield.
There’s Dealey Plaza. The PD building’s close. Look for:
The book building/a Hertz sign/Greek columns.
There—
The columns. The sign. Mourners at Houston and Elm. A hot-dog vendor. Nuns sobbing.
Littell shut his eyes. The driver turned right. The driver pulled down a ramp. The driver stopped hard and fast. The back windows slid down.
Somebody coughed. Somebody said, “Mr. Littell?”
Littell opened his eyes. Littell saw a basement garage. There’s a kiddy Fed standing there. He’s all uptight.
“Sir, I’m Special Agent Burdick, and … well, the ASAC said you should come straight up and see the witnesses.”
Littell grabbed his briefcase. The gun chafed his hip. He got out. He stretched. He cleaned his glasses.
Burdick stuck close. Burdick rode him tight. They walked to a freight lift. Burdick pushed 3.
“Sir, I have to say it’s a madhouse. We’ve got people saying two shooters, three, four, they can’t even agree where the shots—”
“Did you isolate them?”
“Well … no.”
“Who’s interviewing them?”
The boy stuttered. The boy gulped.
“Which agencies, son?”
“Well, we’ve got us, DPD, the Sheriff’s, and I—”
The door opened. Noise boomed in. The squadroom was packed.
Littell looked around. Burdick got antsy. Littell ignored him.
The witnesses were antsy. The witnesses wore name tags. The witnesses perched o
n one bench.
Thirty-odd people: Talking. Fretting. Contaminating facts.
Back-wall cubicles. Cops and civilians—holed up in interview slots. Flustered cops and civilians in shock.
Forty desks. Forty phones. Forty cops talking loud. Odd badges on suitcoats. Wastebaskets dumped. Inter-agency chaos and—
“Sir, can we—”
Littell walked over. Littell checked the bench. The wits squirmed. The wits smoked. Full ashtrays jumped.
I saw this/I saw that/his head went pop! A talkathon—bad work—pure mass-witness slop.
Littell looked for standouts. Solid types/credible wits.
He stood back. He framed the bench. He saw a woman: Dark hair/handsome/thirty-five-plus.
She sat still. She stayed calm. She watched an exit door. She saw Littell. She looked away. She never blinked.
Burdick walked a phone up. Burdick mimed “Him.” Littell grabbed the phone. The cord stretched taut.
Mr. Hoover said, “Be concise.”
Littell cupped his free ear. The room noise half died.
“The preliminary stage of the investigation has been ineptly executed. That’s all I’m certain of at this point.”
“I’m not surprised and I’m not disappointed, and I’m thoroughly convinced that Oswald acted without assistance. Your job is to cull the names of potentially embarrassing witnesses who might contradict that thesis.”
Littell said, “Yes, sir.”
Burdick held up a clipboard. Note slips were clamped in. A witness log/clamped witness statements/driver’s licenses attached.
The phone went dead. Burdick grabbed it. Littell grabbed the clipboard. It bulged. The clip wobbled.
He skimmed the slips.
Two-line statements. Confiscated DLs. Detainment insurance. Ambiguous data: 3/4/5/6 shots/1/2/3 directions.
The stockade fence. The book building. The triple underpass. Head-on shots. Missed shots. Shots from behind.
Littell checked DL pix.
Wit #6: Shots at Houston and Elm. Wit #9: Shots off the freeway. The calm woman: 2 shots/2 directions. Her stats: Arden Smith/West Mockingbird Lane.
The smoke was bad. Littell stepped back. The smoke made him sneeze. He bumped a desk. He dropped the log. He walked to the interview slots.
Burdick tailed him. The room noise doubled. Littell checked the slots.
Shoddy work—no tape machines/no stenos.
He checked slot #1. A thin cop braced a thin kid. The kid laughed. What a gas. My dad voted for Nixon.
Littell checked slot #2. A fat cop braced a fat man.
The cop said, “Mr. Bowers, I’m not disputing what you told me.”
Mr. Bowers wore a railroad cap. Mr. Bowers squirmed.
“For the tenth time then, so I can go home. I was up in the tower behind that fence on the knoll. I saw two cars cruising around there about … shit … a half hour before the shooting, and two men standing right at the edge of the fence, and then just as I heard the shots, I saw a flash of light from that very spot.”
The cop doodled. Mr. Bowers tapped a cigarette. Littell studied him. Littell got queasy.
He didn’t know the shooter plan. He did know credible wits. Bowers was intractably firm. Bowers was good.
Burdick tapped Littell. Littell swung around. Littell knocked him back.
“What?”
Burdick stepped back. “Well, I was just thinking that DPD pulled these three guys, bums or something, out of a railroad car behind the fence, about a half hour after the shooting. We’ve got them in the tank.”
Littell went more queasy.
Littell said, “Show me.”
Burdick walked point. They passed the slots. They passed a coffee-break room. Hallways crossed. They veered left. They hit a mesh-front pen.
An intercom popped: “Agent Burdick. Front desk, please.”
Burdick said, “I should catch that.”
Littell nodded. Burdick fidgeted. Burdick took off from a crouch. Littell grabbed the mesh. The light was bad. Littell squinted hard.
He saw two bums. He saw Chuck Rogers.
Chuck was Pete’s man. Wet arts/CIA. Chuck was tight with Guy B.
Rogers saw Littell. The bums ignored him. Rogers smiled. Littell touched his shield. Rogers mimed a rifle shot.
He moved his lips. He went “Pow!”
Littell backtracked.
He walked down the hall. He turned right. He hit a bisecting hall. He made the turn. He saw a side door.
He pushed it open. He saw fire steps and rungs. Across the hall: A men’s room and a door marked “Jailer.”
The men’s room door opened. Mr. Bowers walked out. He stretched. He zipped his fly. He settled his nuts.
He saw Littell. He squinted. He keyed on his shield.
“FBI, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, I’m glad I ran into you, ’cause there’s something I forgot to tell the other guy.”
Littell smiled. “I’ll pass it along.”
Bowers scratched his neck. “Okay, then. You tell him I saw some cops rousting these hoboes out of a hay car, and one of them looked like one of the guys I saw by the fence.”
Littell pulled his notebook.
He scribbled. He smeared some ink. His hand shook. The book shook.
Bowers said, “I sure feel sorry for Jackie.”
Littell smiled. Bowers smiled. Bowers tipped his cap. He jiggled some coins. He ambled. He walked away sloooooow.
Littell watched his back.
Bowers ambled. Bowers turned right. Bowers hit the main hall. Littell flexed his hands. Littell caught his breath.
He worked the Jailer door. He jiggled the knob. He forced it.
The door popped. Littell stepped in.
A twelve-by-twelve space—dead empty. A desk/a chair/a key rack.
Paperwork—tacked to a corkboard:
Vagrant sheets—“Doyle”/“Paolino”/“Abrahams”—no mug shots attached.
Call it: Rogers packed fake ID. Rogers booked in with it.
One key on the rack—cell-size/thick brass.
Littell grabbed the sheets. Littell pocketed them. Littell grabbed the key. He gulped. He walked out brazen. He walked to the pen.
He unlocked the door. Rogers primed the bums. He pumped them up. He went “Ssshh now.” He gave a pep talk.
We got ourselves a savior—just do what I say.
The bums huddled. The bums stepped out. The bums hugged the wall.
Littell walked.
He hit the main hall. He faced the squadroom. He blocked the view. He signaled Rogers. He pointed. The fire door—go.
He heard footsteps. The bums squealed. The bums giggled loud. The fire door creaked. A bum yelled, “Hallelujah!” The fire door slammed.
Littell caught a breeze. His sweat froze. His pulse went haywire.
He walked to the squadroom. His legs fluttered and dipped. He grazed desks. He bumped walls. He bumped into cops.
The wit bench was smoked in. Twenty cigarettes plumed. Arden Smith was gone.
Littell looked around. Littell scanned desks. Littell saw the wit log.
He grabbed it. He checked statements and DLs. Arden Smith’s package—gone.
He checked the slots. He checked the halls. He checked the main window.
There’s Arden Smith. She’s on the street. She’s walking fast. She’s walking away.
She crossed Houston. Cars swerved by her. She made Dealey Plaza.
Littell blinked.
He lost her. Jack’s mourners shadowed her up.
3
Pete Bondurant
(Dallas, 11/22/63)
The bridal suite. The fuck pad supreme.
Gilt wallpaper. Cupids. Pink rugs and chairs. A fake-fur bedspread—baby-ass pink.
Pete watched Barb sleep.
Her legs slid. She kicked wide. She thrashed the sheets.
Barbara Jane Lindscott Jahelka Bondurant.
He got her back early. He s
ealed up the suite. He closed out the news. She’ll wake up. She’ll get the news. She’ll know.
I fucked Jack in ’62. It was lackluster and brief. You bugged some rooms. You got his voice. You taped it. The shakedown failed. Your pals regrouped. You killed Jack instead.
Pete moved his chair. Pete got fresh views. Barb tossed. Her hair swirled.
She didn’t love Jack. She serviced Jack. She cosigned extortion. She wouldn’t cosign death.
6:10 p.m.
Jack should be dead. Guy’s boy ditto. Chuck Rogers had a plane stashed. The crew should be out.
Barb twitched. Pete fought a headache. Pete popped aspirin and scotch.
He got bad headaches—chronic—they started with the Jack squeeze. The squeeze failed. He stole some Mob heroin. A CIA man helped.
Kemper Cathcart Boyd.
They were très tight. They were mobbed up. They shared spit with Sam G. They worked for Carlos M. They worked for Santo Trafficante. They all hated Commies. They all loved Cuba. They all hated the Beard.
Money and turf—dual agendas. Let’s pluck the Beard. Let’s repluck our casinos.
Santo and Sam played both ends. They sucked up to Castro. They bought “H” off Brother Raúl. Carlos stayed pure. Carlos did not fuck la Causa.
Pete and Boyd stole the dope. Sam and Santo nailed them. Pete got the word. They did biz with Fidel.
Carlos stayed neutral. Biz was biz. Outfit laws overruled causes.
They all hated Bobby. They all hated Jack. Jack fucked them at Pigs. Jack raided Cuban exile camps. Jack nuzzled the Beard.
Bobby deported Carlos. Bobby fucked with the Outfit très large. Carlos hated Jack and Bobby—molto bravissimo.
Ward Littell hated them. Ward smuggled Carlos back. Ward played factotum. Ward ran his deportation case.
Ward said, Let’s clip Jack. Carlos liked it. Carlos talked to Santo and Sam.
They liked it.
Santo and Sam had plans. They said let’s clip Pete and Boyd. We want our dope back. We want revenge.
Ward talked to Sam and Carlos. Ward pressed Pete’s case. They quashed said clip plan.
The catch:
We let you live. You owe us. Now whack Jack the K.
Guy Banister was working up a hit plan. His plan resembled Littell’s. Hit plans were running epidemic. Jack pissed off mucho hotheads. The cocksucker was doomed.