by James Ellroy
They drove to 83rd and Clifford. They passed junkyards and dumps. Liquor stores and blood banks. Mohammed’s Mosque #12.
They passed the alley. They caught a tease: Streetlights/faces/a blanket spread out.
A fat man rolled. A plump man slapped his forehead. A thin man scooped cash.
Moore stopped at 82nd. Moore grabbed his pump. Wayne pulled his piece. Moore popped in earplugs.
“If he’s there, we’ll arrest him. Then we’ll take him out to the sticks and cap him.”
Wayne tried to talk. His throat closed. He squeaked. Moore winked. Moore yukked haw-haw.
They walked over. They cleaved to shadows. They crouched. The air dried up. The ground dropped. Wayne lost his feet.
They hit the alley. Wayne heard jive talk. Wayne saw Wendell Durfee.
His legs went. He stumbled. He toed a beer can. The dice men perked up.
Say what?
Who that?
Mama, that you?
Moore aimed. Moore fired. Moore caught three men low. He sprayed their legs. He diced their blanket. He chopped their money up.
Muzzle boom—twelve-gauge roar—high decibels in tight.
It knocked Wayne flat. Wayne went deaf. Wayne went powder blind. Moore shot a trashcan. The sucker flew.
Wayne rubbed his eyes. Wayne got partial sight. Dice men screamed. Dice men scattered. Wendell Durfee ran.
Moore aimed high. Moore sprayed a wall. Pellets bounced and whizzed. They caught Durfee’s hat. They sliced the band. They blew the feather up.
Durfee ran. Wayne ran.
He aimed his piece up and out. Durfee backward-aimed his. They fired. Blips lit the alley. Shots cut the walls.
Wayne saw it. Wayne felt it. Wayne didn’t hear shit.
He fired. He missed. Durfee fired. Durfee missed. Barrel flames. Sound waves. No real sound worth shit.
They ran. They stopped. They fired. They sprinted full-out.
Wayne popped six shots—one full cylinder. Durfee popped eight shots—one full-load clip.
The flares stopped. No light. No directional signs—
Wayne stumbled.
He slid. He fell. He hit gravel. He ate alley grit. He smelled cordite. He licked cigar butts and dirt.
He rolled over. He saw roof lights. He saw cherry lights twirl. Two prowl cars—behind him—DPD Fords.
He caught some sounds. He stood up. He caught his breath. He walked back. His feet scraped. He heard it.
Moore stood there. Cops stood there. The dice men lay prone. They were cuffed/shackled/fucked.
Shredded pants. Pellet burns and gouges—cuts to white bone.
They thrashed. Wayne heard partial screams.
Moore walked over. Moore said something. Moore yelled.
Wayne caught “Bowers.” His ears popped. He caught whole sounds.
Moore flashed his sandwich bag. Moore spread the flaps. Wayne saw blood and gristle. Wayne saw a man’s thumb.
5
(Dallas, 11/23/63)
Window wreaths / flags / ledge displays. 8:00 a.m.—one day later—the Glenwood Apartments loves Jack.
Two floors. Twelve front windows. Flowers and JFK toys.
Littell leaned on his car. The facade expanded. He got the sun. He got Arden Smith’s car. He got her U-Haul.
He borrowed a Bureau car. He ran Arden Smith. She came back clean. He got her vehicle stats. He nailed her Chevy.
She felt dirty. She saw the hit. She ran from the PD. That U-Haul said RUNNER.
She lived in 2-D. He’d checked the courtyard. Her windows faced in—no flags/no trinkets/no shrine.
He worked to midnight. He cleared an office space. Floor 3 was bedlam. Cops grilled Oswald. Camera crews roamed.
His bum ploy worked. Rogers walked. The bums escaped clean. He saw Guy B. He told him to brace Lee Bowers.
He read the wit statements. He read the DPD notes. They played ambiguous. Mr. Hoover would issue a mandate. Agents would secure it. Single-shooter evidence would cohere.
Lee Oswald was trouble. Guy said so. Guy called him “nuts.”
Lee didn’t shoot. The pro shooter did. Said pro shot from Lee’s floor perch. Rogers shot from the fence.
Lee knew Guy’s cutout. Cops and Feds worked him all night. He named no names. Guy said he knew why.
The kid craved attention. The kid was fucked-up. The kid craved the solo limelight.
Littell checked his watch—8:16 a.m.—sun and low clouds.
He counted flags. He counted wreaths. The Glenwood loved Jack. He knew why. He used to love Jack. He used to love Bobby.
He never met Jack. He met Bobby once.
He tried to join them. Kemper Boyd pushed his case. Bobby disdained his credentials. Boyd spread his loyalty. Boyd worked for Jack and Bobby. Boyd worked for the CIA.
Boyd got Littell a job. Ward, meet Carlos Marcello.
Carlos hated Jack and Bobby. Jack and Bobby spurned Littell. He built his own hate. He fine-tuned the aesthetic.
He hated Jack. He knew Jack. Scrutiny undermined image. Jack was glib. Jack had pizzazz. Jack had no rectitude.
Bobby defined rectitude. Bobby lived rectitude. Bobby punished bad men. He hated Bobby now. Bobby dismissed him. Bobby spurned his respect.
Mr. Hoover bugged Mob hangouts. Mr. Hoover picked up hints. He smelled the hit. He never told Jack. He never told Bobby.
Mr. Hoover knew Littell. Mr. Hoover dissected his hatred. Mr. Hoover urged him to hurt Bobby.
Littell had evidence. It indicted Joe Kennedy for long-term Mob collusion. He met Bobby—for one half hour—just five days back.
He stopped by his office. He played him a tape. The tape nailed Joe Kennedy. Bobby was smart. Bobby might link tape to hit. Bobby might gauge the tape as a threat.
Do not talk Mob Hit. Do not stain the name Kennedy. Do not stain sainted Jack. Feel complicitous. Feel guilty. Feel baaaad.
Your Mob Crusade killed your brother. We killed Jack to fuck you.
Littell watched a newscast. Late last night—Air Force One hits D.C. Bobby walks out. Bobby walks calm. Bobby consoles Jackie.
Littell killed Kemper Boyd. Carlos ordered it. Littell shot Boyd on Thursday. It hurt. He owed the Boys. It cancelled his debt.
He saw Bobby with Jackie. It hurt more than Boyd.
Arden Smith walked out.
She walked out fast. She lugged a satchel. She carried skirts and sheets. Littell walked over. Arden Smith looked up. Littell flashed his ID.
“Yes?”
“Dealey Plaza, remember? You witnessed the shooting.”
She leaned on the U-Haul. She dropped the satchel. She weighed down the skirts.
“I watched you at the squadroom. You measured your chances and made your move, and I have to say I’m impressed. But you’ll have to explain why you—”
“My information was redundant. Five or six people heard what I did, and I wanted to put the whole thing behind me.”
Littell leaned on the car. “And now you’re moving.”
“Just temporarily.”
“Are you leaving Dallas?”
“Yes, but that has nothing to do—”
“I’m sure it has nothing to do with what you saw in the motorcade, and all I’m interested in is why you stole your preliminary statement and driver’s license from the witness log and left without permission.”
She brushed her hair back. “Look, Mr.—”
“Littell.”
“Mr. Littell, I tried to do my citizen’s duty. I went to the police department and tried to leave an anonymous statement, but an officer detained me. Really, I’d had a shock, and I just wanted to go home and start packing.”
Her voice worked. It was firm and southern. It was educated.
Littell smiled. “Can we go inside? I’m uncomfortable talking out here.”
“All right, but you’ll have to forgive my apartment.”
Littell smiled. She smiled. She walked ahead. Kids ran by. They shot toy guns. A boy yelled, “Don’t shoot
me, Lee!”
The door was open. The front room was chaos. The front room was packed and dollied.
She shut the door. She squared off chairs. She grabbed a coffee cup. They sat down. She lit a cigarette. She balanced the cup.
Littell pulled his chair back. Smoke bothered him. He pulled his notebook. He tapped his pen.
“What did you think of John Kennedy?”
“That’s an odd question.”
“I’m just curious. You don’t seem like someone who’s easily charmed, and I can’t picture you standing around to watch a man drive by in a car.”
She crossed her legs. “Mr. Littell, you don’t know me. I think your question says more about you and Mr. Kennedy than you might be willing to admit.”
Littell smiled. “Where are you from?”
“Decatur, Georgia.”
“Where are you moving to?”
“I thought I’d try Atlanta.”
“Your age?”
“You know my age, because you checked me out before you came here.”
Littell smiled. She smiled. She dropped ash in her cup.
“I thought FBI men worked in pairs.”
“We’re short-handed. We weren’t planning on an assassination this weekend.”
“Where’s your gun? All the men in that office had revolvers.”
He squeezed his pen. “You saw my identification.”
“Yes, but you’re taking too much guff from me. Something isn’t quite right here.”
The pen snapped. Ink dripped. Littell wiped his hands on his coat.
“You’re a pro. I knew it yesterday, and you just pushed too hard and confirmed it. You’re going to have to convince me—”
The phone rang. She stared at him. The phone rang three times. She got up. She walked to the bedroom. She shut the door.
Littell wiped his hands. Littell smeared his trousers and coat. He looked around. He broke down the room. He quadrant-scanned.
There—
A chest on a dolly. Four drawers all packed.
He got up. He checked the drawers. He brushed socks and underwear. He brushed a slick surface—card-size plastic—he pulled it out.
There—
A Mississippi driver’s license—for Arden Elaine Coates.
A P.O. box address. Date of birth: 4/15/27. Her Texas DL listed 4/15/26.
He put it back. He shut the drawers. He sat down fast. He crossed his legs. He doodled. He made mock notes.
Arden Smith walked out. Arden Smith smiled and posed.
Littell coughed. “Why did you watch the motorcade from Dealey Plaza?”
“I heard you had the best view there.”
“That’s not quite true.”
“I’m just saying what I heard.”
“Who told you?”
She blinked. “I wasn’t told. I read it in the paper when they announced the route.”
“When was that?”
“I don’t know. A month ago, maybe.”
Littell shook his head. “That isn’t true. They announced the route ten days ago.”
She shrugged. “I’m bad at dates.”
“No, you’re not. You’re good at them, just like you’re good at everything you try.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t know me.”
Littell stared at her. She popped goose bumps.
“You’re scared, and you’re running.”
“You’re scared, and this isn’t a real FBI roust.”
He popped goose bumps. “Where do you work?”
“I’m a freelance bookkeeper.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I structure deals to get businessmen out of trouble with the IRS.”
“I asked, ‘Where do you work?’ ”
Her hands jumped. “I work at a place called the Carousel Club.”
His hands jumped. The Carousel/Jack Ruby/Mob guy/bent cops.
He looked at her. She looked at him. Their brainwaves crossed.
6
(Dallas, 11/23/63)
Shit security. Fucked-up / negligent / weak.
Pete toured the PD. Guy scored him a pass. He didn’t need it. Some geek sold dupes. Said geek sold weed and pussy pix.
The ground doors stood open. Geeks hobnobbed. Door guards posed for pix. Camera cords snaked up the sidewalk. News vans jammed up the street.
Reporters roamed. Let’s bug the DA. Let’s bug the cops. Lots of cops—Feds/DPD/Sheriff’s—all motormouthed.
Oswald’s pink. Oswald’s Red. Oswald loves Fidel. He loves folk music. He loves dark trim. He loves Martin Lucifer Coon. We know it’s him. We got his gun. He did it alone. I think he’s queer. He can’t piss with men in the room.
Pete roamed. Pete checked hall routes. Pete sketched floor plans. He nursed a headache—a looong one—the fucker had legs.
Barb KNEW.
She said, “You killed him. You and Ward and those Outfit guys you work for.”
He lied. He bombed. Barb looked through him.
She said, “Let’s leave Dallas.” He said, “No.” She split to her gig.
He walked to the club. Biz was bad. Barb sang to three drag queens. She looked straight through him. He walked back alone.
He slept alone. Barb slept in the john.
Pete roamed. Pete passed Homicide. Pete stopped at room 317. Geeks cruised for looks. Geeks framed the door. A cop cracked it wide and obliged.
There’s Oswald. He looks beat-on. He’s cuffed to a chair.
The crowd closed in. The cop shut the door. Talk fired up:
I knew J.D. J.D. was Klan. J.D. was not. They got to move him soon. They sure will—to the County Jail.
Pete roamed. Pete dodged geeks with carts. Geeks sold poorboys. Geeks snarfed them. Geeks slurped ketchup.
Pete sketched hall routes. Pete took notes.
One bunco pen. One holding tank adjacent. Basement cells. A press room adjacent. Briefings/newsmen/camera crews.
Pete roamed. Pete saw Jack Ruby. Jack’s hawking pens shaped like dicks.
He saw Pete. He seized up. He freaked. He dropped his dick pens. He bent loooow and scooped up.
His pants ripped. Dig those plaid BVDs.
Maynard Moore rubbed him wrong.
His bad breath. His bad teeth. His Klan repartee.
They met at a parking lot. They sat in Guy’s car. They faced a nigger church and a blood bank. Moore brought a six-pack. Moore sucked one down. Moore tossed the can out.
Pete said, “Did you brace Ruby?”
Moore said, “Yeah, I did. And I think he knows.”
Pete slid his seat back. Moore raised his knees.
“Whoa, now. You’re crowdin’ me.”
Guy dumped his ashtray. “Let’s have the details. You can’t shut Jack up once he starts talking.”
Moore cracked beer #2. “Well, everybody—the crew, I mean—is up at Jack Zangetty’s motel in Altus, Oklahoma, where men are men and cows are scared.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Cut the travelogue.”
Moore belched. “Schlitz, breakfast of champions.”
Guy said, “Maynard, goddamnit.”
Moore giggled. “Okay, so Jack R. gets a call from his old friend Jack Z. It seems that the pilot guy and the French guy want some cooze, so Jack R. says he’ll bring some up.”
The pilot: Chuck Rogers. The French guy: the pro. Let’s observe the no-names policy.
Pete said, “Keep going.”
Moore said, “Okay, so Ruby goes up there with his buddy Hank Killiam and these girls Betty McDonald and Arden something. Betty agrees to put out, but Arden don’t, which pisses off the French guy something fierce. He slaps her, she burns him with a hot plate, then hightails. Now, Ruby don’t know where Arden lives, and he thinks she’s got a string of aliases. And the worst part is that everybody saw the rifles and targets, and they might’ve seen a map of Dealey Plaza layin’ around.”
Guy smiled. Guy made the finger-throat sign. Pete shook his head. Pe
te flashed waaaay back.
A bomb hits. Flames whoosh. A woman’s hair ignites.
Moore belched. “Schlitz, Milwaukee’s finest beer.”
Pete said, “You’re going to clip Oswald.”
Moore gagged. Moore sprayed beer suds.
“Uuuh-uuuuh. Not this boy. That’s a kamikaze mission that you ain’t sendin’ me on, not when I got an extradition job and a candy-ass partner who won’t pull his weight.”
Guy dipped his seat. Guy pushed Moore back.
“You and Tippit fucked up. You owe that marker, so you have to pay it off.”
Moore cracked beer #3. “Uuuh-uuuuh. I’m not flushin’ my life down the shitter ’cause I owe some eye-talians a few dollars that they won’t even miss.”
Pete smiled. “It’s all right, Maynard. You just find out when they’re moving him. We’ll do the rest.”
Moore burped. “I’ll do that. That’s a job that won’t interfere with the other affairs I got goin’.”
Pete reached back. Pete popped the rear hatch. Moore climbed out. Moore stretched. Moore waved bye-bye.
Guy said, “Peckerwood trash.”
Moore shagged his 409. Moore laid rubber large.
Pete said, “I’ll kill him.”
Betty McDonald lived in Oak Cliff—Shitsville, U.S.A.
Pete called DPD. Pete played cop. Pete got her rap sheet: Four prosty beefs/one hot-check caper/one dope bounce.
He tapped out on “Arden.” He had no last name.
He went by the Moonbeam Lounge. Carlos owned points. Joe Campisi ran the on-site handbook.
Joe owned the DPD. Cops placed bets. Cops lost. Cops made Joe’s collections. Joe shylocked large—vig plus 20%.
Pete schmoozed with Joe. Pete borrowed ten cold. Pete tagged it a margin risk. Nobody said clip them. Nobody said scare them off. Nobody said shit. Guy wasn’t Outfit. Guy’s wishes meant shit.
Joe supplied a calzone. Pete ate on the freeway. The cheese fucked up his teeth.
He got off. He toured Oak Cliff. He found the address: A shotgun shack/dingy/three small rooms tops.
He parked. He dropped five G’s in the calzone box. He schlepped it on up. He knocked on the door. He waited. He checked for eyewits.
Nobody home—zero eyewits.
He got out his comb. He flexed the tines. He picked the lock clean. He walked in and closed the door slow.
