The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

Wayne looked around. Wayne saw a chip bucket. Wayne grabbed some Land o’ Gold reds.

  “Did you tell Buddy to send me to Dallas?”

  “No. But I’ve always thought a cold money run would do you some good.”

  Wayne said, “It was enlightening.”

  “What did you do with the money?”

  “Got myself in trouble.”

  “Was it worth it?”

  “I learned a few things.”

  “Care to tell me?”

  Wayne tossed a chip. Wayne Senior pulled his hip piece. He shot the chip. He nailed it. Plastic shards flew.

  Wayne walked inside. Wayne detoured by the dressing room. Janice shot him a view.

  Bare legs. A dance step. Streaked-hair allure.

  15

  (Las Vegas, 12/6/63)

  Dallas tweaked him. He should have killed Junior. Junior should have killed the spook.

  Vegas sparkled—fuck death—should-haves meant shit. Nice breeze/nice sun/nice casinos.

  Pete cruised the Strip. Pete logged distractions:

  The Tropicana course. Cocktail carts abundant. Drive-ins. Carhops on skates. Uplift abundant.

  Pete made two circuits. Shit popped out:

  Some nuns hit the Sands. They spot Frank Sinatra. They swoon and piss Frank off. They shvitz up his Sy Devore suit.

  Grief by the Dunes:

  Two cops grab two spics. The spics bleed very large. The scene vibes busboy brouhaha. Juan fucked Ramon’s sister. Ramon had first dibs. Shivs by the low-roller buffet.

  Nice mountains. Neon signs. Jap-tourist shutterbugs.

  Pete made three circuits. The Strip show wore thin. Pete re-tweaked Dallas.

  BE USEFUL: Sacred fucking text. The Hughes deal would take years. Ward said so. Carlos agreed. Carlos said Pete should push dope in Vegas—but—the other Boys have to agree.

  Ward was très smart. The Arden move was très dumb. Ward tripped on his dick—at a très bad time.

  Ward was in D.C. and New Orleans. Jimmy H. wanted him. Carlos beckoned. Carlos wants to snip loose ends. Carlos wants Ward’s take. Carlos trusts Ward—but Ward always ridicules slaughter.

  Arden saw the hit team. Arden knew Betty Mac. Arden knew Hank Killiam. A très safe bet: Carlos wants to clip them. A très safe bet: Ward calls it rash.

  A bug was spreading. Call it the Mercy Flu. Call it the Me-No-Kill Blues.

  He should have killed Junior. Junior should have killed the shine.

  He watched Junior work. He climbed an adjacent hill. He got a covert view. Junior diced Maynard Moore. Junior cut through his brain pan. Junior pulled slugs. His knife slipped. He ate bone chips. He hacked them out and rocked steady.

  He checked Junior out. Three intel squads: L.A./New York/Miami. His guys said Junior checked him out.

  His contacts hated Junior. They said Wayne Senior was a stud. They said Wayne Junior was a geek.

  Junior passed him the mercy bug. Junior let the nigger live. Junior misread his options. The nigger vibed stupe. The nigger vibed homing pigeon. The nigger might home back here.

  Pete cruised. Pete checked lounge marquees. Pete got the gestalt.

  Name acts. No-name acts. Dick Contino/Art & Dottie Todd/the Girlza-poppin’ Revue. Hank Henry/the Vagabonds/Freddy Bell & the Bellboys. The Persian Room/the Sky Room/the Top o’ the Strip.

  Jack “Jive” Schafer/Gregg Blando/Jody & the Misfits. The Dome of the Sea/the Sultan’s Lounge/the Rumpus Room.

  Call it: Toilets and carpet joints. Some high-end rooms. Call it for keeps:

  Find Barb a spot. Find her some nonunion backup. Scotty & the Scabs or the Happy Horseshitters—a fixed rate and a cut.

  Pete parked in the Sands lot. Pete hit some casinos—the Bird/the Riv/the DI. He caught a lull. Shit stood out boldfaced.

  He played blackjack. He observed:

  A pit boss bops on a card cheat. The fuck wears a card-sleeve prosthesis. The fuck shoots cards out his cuffs.

  He saw Johnny Rosselli. They schmoozed. They talked up the Hughes deal. Johnny praised Ward Littell—dig the threat implied.

  Ward’s crucial to our plans. You’re muscle—you’re not.

  Johnny said ciao. Two call girls hovered. It vibed three-way.

  Pete walked. Pete hit the Sands/the Dunes/the Flamingo. Pete dug the low lights and thick rugs.

  Sparks shot off his feet. His socks bipped and buzzed.

  He hit bars. He drank club soda. He honed his cave vision. He watched barmen work. Call girls ducked him. He was 6’5”/230. He vibed strongarm cop.

  What’s this:

  A barman pours pills—six in a shot glass—a waitress picks up.

  He braced the barman. He flashed a toy badge. He growled very gruff. The barman laughed. His son wore a badge like that. His son ate Cocoa Puffs.

  The man oozed style. Pete bought him a drink. The man spritzed on Vegas and dope.

  Horse/weed/cocaine—verboten. The fuzz enforced the trifecta. The Mob enforced the No-“H” Law.

  They tortured pushers. They killed them. Local hypes copped in L.A. Local hypes rode the Heroin Highway.

  Pills were cool: Red devils/yellow jackets/high hoppers. Ditto liquid meth sans spike. Drink it—don’t shoot it—fear the spike-phobic fuzz.

  The fuzz sanctioned pills. Two Narco units—Sheriff’s/LVPD. Pills got pipelined in: T.J. to L.A./L.A. to Vegas. Local quacks consigned pills. They fed barmen and cabbies. They fed pill fiends Vegaswide.

  The West LV coons craved white horse. Said coons itched to ride. The No Horse Rule de-horsed them and kept them de-satisfied.

  Pete walked. Pete hit the Persian Room. Pete watched Dick Contino rehearse. He knew Dick. Dick played squeeze-box gigs for Sam G. Dick owed the Chicago Cartel. The Boys attached his check. The Boys bought his food. The Boys paid his rent and bought his kids’ threads.

  Dick pitched a tale of woe—woe is me—lots of woe and no tail. Pete slid him two C’s. Dick spritzed the Vegas lounge scene.

  The Detroit Boys ran the local. The steward took bribes. He usurped the prime snatch. He suborned them to hook. They worked the Lake Mead cruise boats. Lounge kids kept rough hours. They ate breakfast exclusive. The lounge scene ran on Dexedrine and pancakes.

  Pete walked. Pete caught Louis Prima in rehearsal. An old geek chewed his ear off.

  Pops booked no-name acts. Pops father-henned the girls if they blew him. Pops told them who to avoid:

  Shvartze pimps. “Talent scouts.” Cockamamie “producers.” Skin-mag men and schmucks with no address.

  Pete thanked him. Pops bragged. Pops relived his salad days as a pimp. I ran trim—the best in the west—I scored for the late JFK.

  Pete broke three C-notes. Pete glommed sixty five-spots.

  He grabbed a scratch pad. He wrote down his phone number sixty fucking times. He hit a liquor store. He bought sixty short dogs. He grabbed his sap and drove to West Vegas.

  He cruised in slow. He wore the sap. He held his automatic. He saw:

  Dirt streets. Dirt yards. Dirt lots. Shack chateaus abundant.

  Tar-paper pads with cinder-block siding. Beaucoup churches/one mosque. ALLAH IS LORD! signs. Allah signs revised to JESUS!

  Lots of street activity. Jigs cooking bar-b-que in fifty-gallon drums.

  The Wild Goose Bar/the Colony Club/the Sugar Hill Lounge. Streets named for Presidents and letters. Shit cars ubiquitous—ad hoc housing:

  Two-tenant Chevys. Bachelor Lincolns. Bring-the-whole-family Fords.

  Pete cruised slooooow. Uppity coons flipped him off. They scowled. They chucked beer cans. They dinged his fender skirts.

  He stopped at a rib drum. A halfbreed served short ends. A chow line pressed in. They scoped Pete. They snickered. They sneered.

  Pete smiled. Pete bowed. Pete bought them lunch.

  He tipped the breed fifty. He passed out short dogs and fives. He passed out his phone-number slips.

  A silence ensued. Said silence built. Said silence lapsed slooooow.

  Say what, big
man? Say what, daddy-o?

  Pete talked:

  Who sells shit? Who’s seen Wendell Durfee? Who’s hot to buck the No-Horse Law? Shouts overlapped—little gems—some nuggets in rebop & jive.

  These busboys sell red devils. They works at the Dunes. Dig on fucking Monarch Cab. Them guys push whites and RDs. Monarch got soul. Monarch work West LV. Monarch go where other cabs won’t.

  Dig on Curtis and Leroy—they gots plans—they wants to push horse. They baaaaaaaaad. They say fuck the rules. They say fuck them wop motherfuckers.

  Shouts overlapped—more rebop/more jive. Pete yelled. Pete displayed charisma. Pete restored calm.

  He told the breed to call the Wild Goose. He told the spooks to call HIM.

  IF you see Wendell Durfee. IF Curtis and Leroy move horse.

  He pledged a fat reward. He got an ovation: YOU THE FUCKIN’ MAN!

  He drove to the Wild Goose. Some spooks jogged along. They capered and waved their short dogs.

  The Goose was packed. Pete replayed his act. The coons loved it. Pete cut through jive & rebop.

  He got no dish on Curtis and Leroy. He got rumors on Wendell D. Wicked Wendell—worse than his rep—a rape-o/a shitbird/a heel. A homing pigeon—Vegas born-and-bred—a Vegas moth to the flame.

  Shouts overlapped. Spooks ad-libbed. A spook defamed Wayne Tedrow Senior.

  Slumlord Senior stiffed him. Slumlord Senior fucked him. Slumlord Senior raised his rent. The noise got bad. Pete got a headache. Pete dosed it with pork rinds and scotch.

  The Senior talk tweaked him—a gem within jive. Junior worked the intel squad. Junior had the gaming board files.

  The spook gained steam. The spook digressed off Senior. The spook sparked other spooks. They aired the Spook Agenda wiiiiide.

  Jim Crow. Civil rights. Real-estate sanctions. Praise for Martin Luther King.

  The vibe went bad. The spooks vibed lynch mob. Pete caught bum looks:

  WE THE MAN! YOU the ofay exploiter!

  Pete walked out. Pete moved fast. Pete caught some elbows.

  He hit the sidewalk. A kid buffed his car. He tipped him. He pulled out. A Chevy pulled out on cue.

  Pete caught the move. Pete checked his rearview. Pete made the driver:

  Young/white/cop haircut. Some kind of kid fuzz.

  Pete zigzagged. Pete blew a stop sign. The Chevy stuck tail-close. They hit LV proper. Pete stopped at a light. Pete set the emergency brake.

  The Chevy idled. Pete walked back. Pete twirled his belt sap. The kid cop played cool. The kid cop twirled a play chip.

  Pete reached in. Pete grabbed it. The kid cop guuuulped.

  A red chip—$20—scrip for the Land o’ Gold. Shit—Wayne Senior’s joint.

  Pete laughed. Pete said, “Tell Sergeant Tedrow to call me.”

  16

  (Washington, D.C., 12/9/63)

  ID work—old forms and smeared ink.

  Littell worked. His kitchen table creaked. He knew paper and smudge art. The FBI taught him.

  He smudged a birth-certificate form. He baked it on a hot plate. He sliced pen tubes and rolled smears.

  The old Arden Smith/Coates—now the new Jane Fentress.

  The apartment was hot. It helped dry forms. Littell rolled ink on a seal-stamp. He stole it from Dallas PD.

  Arden was southern. Arden talked southern. Alabama had a lax driver’s-license policy. Applicants sent fees in. Birth certificates ditto. Written test forms went out.

  They completed them. They mailed them in. They sent in a snapshot. They got their DL return mail.

  Littell flew to Alabama—eight days back. Littell researched births and deaths. Jane Fentress was born in Birmingham. Her DOB was 9/4/26. Her DOD was 8/1/29.

  He drove to Bessemer. He rented an apartment. He put “Jane Fentress” on the mailbox. Bessemer to Birmingham—twenty-two miles.

  Littell switched pens. Littell spread fresh paper. Littell inked vertical lines.

  Arden was a bookkeeper. Arden claimed credentials. Arden went to school in DeKalb, Mississippi. Let’s upgrade her—Tulane, ’49—let’s give her an accounting degree.

  He was due in New Orleans. He could visit Tulane. He could skim old catalogs. He could learn the academic terrain. He could forge a transcript. He could solicit Mr. Hoover. Local agents knew Tulane. A man could plant the goods.

  Littell lined six sheets—standard college forms. He worked fast. He blotted. He smudged. He smeared.

  Arden was safe. He stashed her in Balboa—due south of L.A.

  A hotel hideaway—paid for by Hughes Tool. Tool Co. ignored his expenses—per Mr. Hughes’ edict.

  He swapped notes with Mr. Hughes. They spoke on the phone. They never officially met. He snuck into Drac’s lair—one time only—the assassination a.m.

  There’s Drac:

  He’s sucking IV blood. He’s shooting dope in his dick. He’s tall. He’s thin. His nails curl back.

  Mormons guarded him. Mormons cleaned his spikes. Mormons fed him blood. Mormons swabbed his injection tracks.

  Drac stayed in his room. Drac owned his room. The hotel endured him—call it squatter’s rights—Beverly Hills–style.

  Littell spread photos out. Arden—three ways. One passport-DL shot/two keepsakes.

  They made love in Balboa. A window blew open. Some kids heard them. The kids laughed. Their dog carried on.

  Arden had sharp hips. He was bone-thin. They bumped and scraped and blundered into a fit.

  Arden touched up her gray hair. Arden’s pulse ran quick. She’d had scarlet fever as a kid. She’d had one abortion.

  She was running. He caught her. Her run predated the hit.

  Littell studied the photos. Littell studied her.

  She had one brown eye. She had one hazel eye. Her left breast was smaller than her right. He bought her a cashmere sweater. It stretched snug on one side.

  Jimmy Hoffa said, “I’m going down? After the fucking coup we just pulled?”

  Littell went ssshhh. Hoffa shut up. Littell tossed the room. He checked the lamps. He checked the rugs. He checked under the desk.

  “Ward, you worry too much. I got a fucking guard outside my office twenty-four hours a day.”

  Littell checked the window. Window mounts worked. Suction cups could be rigged to glass.

  “Ward, Jesus fucking—”

  No mounts/no glass plates/no cups.

  Hoffa stretched out. Hoffa yawned. Hoffa dipped his chair and dropped his feet on his desk.

  Littell sat on the edge. “You’ll probably be convicted. The appeal process will buy you at least—”

  “That cunt-lapping homo Bobby F-for-Faggot—”

  “—but jury tampering is not an offense that falls under Federal sentencing guidelines, which means a discretionary decree, which—”

  “—means Bobby F-for-Fuckface Kennedy wins and James R-for-Ridiculous Hoffa goes to the fucking shithouse for five or six fucking years.”

  Littell smiled. “That’s my summary, yes.”

  Hoffa picked his nose. “There’s more. ‘That’s my summary’ is no kind of summary that’s worth a fucking shit.”

  Littell crossed his legs. “You’ll stay out on appeals for two or three years. I’m developing a long-range strategy to legitimize Pension Fund money and divert and launder it through foreign sources, which should kick into high gear around the time you get out. I’m meeting the Boys in Vegas next month to discuss it. I can’t emphasize how important this may prove to be.”

  Hoffa picked his teeth. “And in the fucking meantime?”

  “In the meantime, we have to worry about those other grand juries that Bobby’s impaneled.”

  Hoffa blew his nose. “That cunt-lapping cocksucker. After what we did to fuck—”

  “We need to know what Bobby thinks about the hit. Mr. Hoover wants to know, too.”

  Hoffa cleaned his ears. Hoffa shined on Littell. He gouged. He went in deep. He jabbed a pen. He prospected for wax.

  He said, “Carlos has a la
wyer at Justice.”

  New Orleans was hot. The air hung wet and ripe.

  Carlos owned a motel—twelve rooms and one office. Carlos made people wait.

  Littell waited. The office smelled—chicory and bug spray. Carlos left a bottle out—Hennessy X.O—Carlos doubted his will to abstain.

  He got off the plane. He drove to Tulane. He went through catalogs. He compiled a list of GI Bill classes.

  He called Mr. Hoover. He asked his favor. Mr. Hoover agreed. Yes, I’ll do it—I’ll plant your paper.

  The air cooler died. Littell dumped his jacket. Littell undid his tie. Carlos walked in. Carlos slapped the wall unit. Cold air blew high.

  “Come va, Ward?”

  Littell kissed his ring. “Bene, padrone.”

  Carlos sat on the desk. “You love that shit, and you’re not even Italian.”

  “Stavo perdiventare un prete, Signor Marcello. Aurei potuto il tuo confessore. ”

  Carlos cracked the bottle. “Say the last part in English. Your Italian’s better than mine.”

  Littell smiled. “I could have been your confessor.”

  Carlos poured two fingers. “You’d be out of a job. I never do anything to piss God off.”

  Littell smiled. Carlos offered the bottle. Littell shook his head.

  Carlos lit a cigar. “So?”

  Littell coughed. “We’re fine. The commission’s a whitewash, and I wrote the narrative brief that they’ll work off. It played the way I expected.”

  “Despite some fuck-ups.”

  “Guy Banister’s. Not Pete’s or mine.”

  Carlos shrugged. “Guy’s a capable guy, on the whole.”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Of course you wouldn’t. You wanted your crew to go in.”

  Littell coughed. “I don’t want to argue the point.”

  “The fuck you don’t. You’re a lawyer.”

  The wall unit died. Carlos slapped it. Cold air blew wide.

  Littell said, “The meeting is set for the fourth.”

  Carlos laughed. “Moe Dalitz is calling it ‘the Summit.’ ”

  “That’s appropriate. Especially if we still have your vote for Pete’s business.”

  “Pete’s potential business? Yeah, sure.”

  “You don’t sound too optimistic.”