The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

Carlos flicked ash. “Narcotics is a tough sell. Nobody wants to put Vegas in the shitter.”

  “Vegas is the shitter.”

  “No, Mr. I-Was-Almost-a-Priest, it’s your fucking salvation. It’s your debt to pay off, and without that debt you’d be in the shitter with your friend Kemper Boyd.”

  Littell coughed. The smoke was bad. The wall unit swirled it.

  Carlos said, “So?”

  “So, I have a plan for the Pension Fund books. It’s long-range, and it derives from your plans for Mr. Hughes.”

  “You mean our plans.”

  Littell coughed. “Yes, ours.”

  Carlos shrugged—I’m bored for now—Carlos held up a file.

  “Jimmy said you need a guy next to Bobby.”

  Littell grabbed the file. Littell skimmed the top page—one Shreveport PD rap sheet/one note.

  8/12/54: Doug Eversall drives home. Doug Eversall hits three kids. He’s drunk. The kids die. Doug’s DA pal buries it.

  For his pal: Carlos Marcello.

  Doug Eversall is a lawyer. Doug Eversall works at Justice. Bobby likes Doug. Bobby hates drunks and loves kids. Bobby doesn’t know Doug’s a kid-killer.

  Carlos said, “You’ll like Doug. He’s on the wagon, like you.”

  Littell grabbed his briefcase and stood up. Carlos said, “Not yet.”

  The smoke was bad. It punched up the booze fumes. Littell almost drooled.

  “We got some loose ends, Ward. Ruby bothers me, and I think we should send him a message.”

  Littell coughed. Here it com—

  “Guy said you know the story. You know, all that grief at Jack Zangetty’s motel.”

  Chills now—steam off dry ice.

  “I know the story, yes. I know what Guy wants you to do, and I’m against it. It’s unnecessary, it’s too conspicuous, it’s too close to Ruby’s arrest.”

  Carlos shook his head. “They go. Tell Pete to take care of it.”

  Dizzy—weightless now.

  “This is all on Banister. He let them go to the safe house. He screwed up on Tippit and Oswald. He’s the drunk who’ll be bragging to every right-wing shithead on God’s green earth.”

  Carlos shook his head. Carlos waved four fingers.

  “Zangetty, Hank Killiam, that Arden cunt, and Betty McDonald. Tell Pete I don’t expect a big delay.”

  17

  (Las Vegas, 12/13/63)

  The Dallas paper ran it—page 6 news—NO LEADS ON MISSING POLICEMAN.

  Wayne sat in Sills’ Tip-Top. Wayne hogged a window booth. He held his gun—locked & cocked—the paper covered it.

  The paper loved Maynard Moore. Moore got more ink than Jack Ruby. FAN MAIL FOR ASSASSIN’S SLAYER. CHIEF LAUDS MISSING OFFICER. NEGRO SOUGHT IN BAFFLING DISAPPEARANCE.

  Wayne counted down. He had eighteen days in now. The Warren probe/the “Lone Gunman”/no news as good news.

  He still worried Dallas. He still skipped meals. He still pissed every six seconds.

  Pete walked in. Pete showed up punctual. He saw Wayne. He sat down. He smiled.

  He checked Wayne’s lap. He peeked and goofed. He saw the paper.

  He said, “Aww, come on.”

  Wayne reholstered. Wayne fumbled his gun. Wayne banged the table. A waitress saw it. Wayne blushed red. Pete cracked his knuckles.

  “I watched you clean up. You did a good job, but I wish you’d thought the nigger through.”

  Wayne felt piss pressure. Wayne clenched up downstairs.

  “You’re comped at the Stardust. That means the Chicago guys brought you in.”

  “Keep going.”

  “You think I owe you for that weekend.”

  Pete cracked his thumbs. “I want to see your gaming board files.”

  Wayne said, “No.”

  Pete grabbed a fork. Pete twirled it. Pete squeezed it and bent it in two. The waitress saw it. The waitress freaked.

  She went oooh. She dropped a tray. She made a mess.

  “I could go around you. Buddy Fritsch is supposed to be nice.”

  Wayne looked out the window. Wayne saw a two-car crash.

  Pete said, “Fucking tailgaters. I always wrote up guys like—”

  “I’ve got the files stashed, and there’s no carbons. It’s an old fail-safe policy. If you go to Buddy, I’ll have my father intercede. Buddy’s afraid of him.”

  Pete cracked his knuckles. “That’s all I get for Dallas?”

  “Nothing happened in Dallas. Don’t you watch the news?”

  Pete walked out. Wayne felt piss pressure. Wayne ran to the can.

  18

  (Las Vegas, 12/13/63)

  One more headache/one more headache drink/one more lounge.

  The Moon Room at the Stardust—low lights and moon maids in tights.

  Pete sipped scotch. A moon maid fed him peanuts. Ward left him a message. A desk clerk relayed it. Wait for a Bible code—I’ll Western Union it in.

  Wayne Junior said no. Nos hurt. Nos fucked with him.

  A moon maid dipped by—a faux redhead—dark roots and dark tan. Fuck faux redheads. Real redheads burned.

  He got Barb a gig—three days ago—Sam G. pulled strings. Dig it: Barb & the Bail Bondsmen.

  Permanent work—4 shows/6 nites—the Sultan’s Lounge at the Sahara. Barb was rehearsing. She said the Twist was out. She said the go-go beat was in.

  Nigger music. The Swim/the Fish/the Watusi. White stiffs take note.

  He shitcanned Barb’s ex. He shitcanned his combo. Dick Contino came through. Dick scored Barb a trio—sax/trumpet/drums—three long-term lounge denizens.

  Fags. Beefcake types. USDA-certified swish.

  Pete cowed them. Pete warned them. Sam G. spread the word: Barb B. was verboten. Approach once and suffer. Approach twice and die.

  Barb dug Vegas. Hotel suites and nightlife. No Presidential motorcades.

  West LV looked good. West LV looked contained and vice-ready.

  Vice zones worked. He hit Pearl in ’42. The SPs shut down some roads and cordoned the clap. White horse would work. The niggers craved it. They’d geez up. They’d stay home. They’d soil their own rug.

  A moon maid slid by—a faux blonde—dark roots and Miss Clairol. She fed him some peanuts. She dropped off Ward’s note.

  Pete killed his drink. Pete went up to the suite. Pete got out the Gideon book. The code spanned the whole text—chapter and verse—Exodus to First John.

  He worked off a scratch pad—numbers to letters—letters to words.

  There:

  “CM’s orders. Elim. 4 from motel/safe house. Call tomorrow night, 10:30 EST. Pay phone in Silver Spring, Md.: BL4-9883.”

  19

  (Silver Spring, 12/14/63)

  Perfect:

  The off ramp / the road / the train station / the tracks / the platform / the phone.

  A freeway adjacent. Off-ramp access. Parking-lot view. Late commuters passing through—milk runs from D.C.

  Littell sat in his car. Littell watched the ramp—hold for a powder-blue Ford. Carlos described Eversall. He’s a tall guy. He’s got one high shoe.

  9:26 p.m.

  The express blew by. Cars parked and split. The local should stop at 10:00.

  Littell studied his script. It stressed Eversall’s time in New Orleans. It stressed Lee Oswald’s time there. It stressed the ’63 racket hearings. It stressed Bobby’s star role.

  Mob panic ensues. Two months pass. JFK dies. Eversall links the dots. Eversall sees collusion.

  Littell checked his watch—9:30 sharp—hold for the man with the high shoe.

  A blue Ford pulled in. Littell flashed his lights. Littell strafed the windshield and grille. The Ford braked and stopped. A tall man got out. Said man swayed on a high shoe.

  Littell hit his brights. Eversall blinked and tripped. He caught himself. His bad leg buckled. His briefcase balanced him.

  Littell killed his brights. Littell popped the passenger door. Eversall limped up—briefcase as ballast—Eversall fell on th
e seat.

  Littell shut the door. Littell hit the roof light. It haloed Eversall.

  Littell frisked him.

  He grabbed his crotch. He pulled his shirt up. He pulled down his socks. He opened his briefcase. He went through his files. He dropped the script in.

  Eversall smelled—sweat and bay rum. His breath reeked of peanuts and gin.

  Littell said, “Did Carlos explain?”

  Eversall shook his head. His neck muscles bobbed.

  “Answer me. I want to hear your voice.”

  Eversall squirmed. His high shoe hit the dash.

  “I never talk to Carlos. I get calls from this Cajun-type guy.”

  He said it slow. He blinked in time. He blinked and ducked from the light. Littell grabbed his tie. Littell jerked it. Littell pulled him back in the light.

  “You’re going to wear a wire and talk to Bobby. I want to know what he thinks about the assassination.”

  Eversall blinked. Eversall st-st-stuttered.

  Littell jerked his tie. “I read a piece in the Post. Bobby’s throwing a Christmas party, and he’s inviting some people from Justice.”

  Eversall blinked. Eversall st-st-stuttered. He tried to talk. He popped p’s and l’s. He tried to say “Please.”

  “I’ve prepared a script. You tell Bobby that you don’t like the proximity to the hearings, and you offer to help. If Bobby gets angry, you be that much more persistent.”

  Eversall blinked. Eversall st-st-stuttered. He tried to talk. He popped p’s and l’s. He bounced b’s for “Bobby.”

  Littell smelled his piss. Littell saw the stain. Littell rolled the windows down.

  He had spare time. The pay phone was close. He cracked all the windows and aired the car out.

  Trains rolled in. Women fetched their husbands. A hailstorm hit. It chipped his windshield. He tuned in the radio news.

  Mr. Hoover addressed the Boy Scouts. Jack Ruby sulked in his cell. Trouble in Saigon. Bobby Kennedy bereft.

  Bobby loved hard. Bobby mourned hard. He used to.

  Late ’58:

  He worked the Chicago Office. Bobby worked the McClellan Committee. Kemper Boyd worked for Bobby. Kemper Boyd worked against him. Mr. Hoover deployed Kemper wide.

  Mr. Hoover hated Bobby. Bobby chased the Mob. Mr. Hoover said the Mob did not exist. Bobby humbled Mr. Hoover. Bobby disproved his lie.

  Mr. Hoover liked Kemper Boyd. Boyd liked his friend Ward. Boyd got Ward a choice Bureau job:

  The Top Hoodlum Program—Mr. Hoover’s late retraction—Mr. Hoover’s late nod to the Mob. Call it a half-measure. Call it a publicity shuck.

  He worked the THP. He fucked up. Mr. Hoover kicked him back to the Red Squad. Boyd stepped up then. Boyd stepped up for Bobby. Boyd offered friend Ward a real job.

  Covert work—unpaid.

  He took the job. He culled anti-Mob data. He leaked it to Boyd. Boyd leaked it to Bobby.

  He never met Bobby. Bobby called him the Phantom. Bobby logged a persistent rumor. Bobby passed it on to Kemper Boyd.

  The Teamsters kept a private set of pension-fund books. The “real” books hid one billion dollars.

  He chased the “real” books. He traced them to a man named Jules Schiffrin. He stole the “real” books—late in ’60.

  Schiffrin discovered the theft. Schiffrin had a heart attack. Schiffrin died that night. Littell hid the books. Said books were coded. Littell decoded one entry fast.

  The code rebuked a royal clan. The code proved that Joe Kennedy was mobbed-up tight.

  Joe fed the fund. Joe gorged it. Joe invested 49 million dollars. It was laundered. It was lent. It suborned politicians. It financed labor rackets.

  The base sum stayed in the fund. The money notched compound interest. The money greeeeeeew.

  Joe let it ride. The Teamsters held his assets. Littell did not tell Bobby. Littell did not assault his dad.

  He kept the books. He ignored his Red Squad work. He befriended a name leftist. Mr. Hoover found out. Mr. Hoover fired him.

  Jack Kennedy was elected. Jack made Bobby his AG. Bobby got Boyd work at Justice.

  Boyd interceded. Boyd braced Bobby—employ the Phantom, please.

  Mr. Hoover interceded. Mr. Hoover braced Bobby—don’t employ Ward J. Littell. He’s a drunk. He’s a sob sister. He’s a Communist.

  Bobby kowtowed. Bobby cut the Phantom off. The Phantom kept the “real” books. The Phantom quit booze. The Phantom lawyered freelance. The Phantom cracked the fund-book code.

  He tracked a billion dollars. He tracked intakes and transfers. He studied and extrapolated and knew:

  The funds could be diverted. The funds could be deployed legally.

  He hoarded the knowledge. He hid the books. He inked up a duplicate set. He hated Bobby now. He hated Jack K. by extension.

  Boyd was fixed on Cuba. Carlos M. ditto. Carlos financed exile groups. The Boys wanted to oust Fidel Castro. The Boys wanted to reclaim their Cuban hotels.

  Boyd worked for Bobby. Boyd worked for the CIA. Bobby hated Carlos. Bobby deported Carlos. The Phantom knew deportation law.

  Boyd set him up with Carlos. The Phantom became a Mob lawyer. It felt morally and hatefully correct.

  Carlos set him up with Jimmy Hoffa. Mr. Hoover reappeared.

  Mr. Hoover made nice. Mr. Hoover praised his comeback. Mr. Hoover set him up with Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hoover shared his Bobby-Jack hate.

  He worked for Carlos and Jimmy. He planned the Hughes-Vegas deal. Bobby attacked the Mob. Jack dropped the Cuban cause. Jack curtailed the hothead exiles.

  Pete and Boyd stole some dope. Things went blooey. The Boys got very mad.

  He braced Carlos. He said let’s kill Jack. He said let’s nullify Bobby. Carlos said yes. Carlos vouched the plan. Carlos brought Pete and Boyd in.

  Carlos fucked them. Carlos opted for Guy B. Carlos sent Guy to Dallas.

  A late bill came due. Late fees accrued. He had the “real” books. He had the data. He had them unsuspected and clean.

  He was wrong. Carlos knew he had them. Carlos saw him ascend. Carlos called in the bill due.

  Carlos said you’re going to sell Hughes Las Vegas—and we’re going to fuck him. You know the books. You cracked the code. You have money plans. That money. Plus the Hughes money. Equals our money—juiced by your long-range strategy.

  He returned the books. He kept the dupes. His theft was near-open goods. Carlos knew. Carlos told Sam G. Sam told Johnny Rosselli.

  Santo knew. Moe Dalitz knew. No one told Jimmy. Jimmy was crazy. Jimmy was shortsighted. Jimmy would kill him.

  Littell skimmed newscasts. Littell got crossband blips: LBJ/Kool Menthol/Dr. King and Bobby.

  He met Bobby—three days pre-Dallas—he mis-ID’d himself. He said I’m just a lawyer. He said I have a tape. Bobby gave him ten minutes of time.

  He played his tape. A hood indicted Joe Kennedy.

  For: Pension Fund fraud/collusion/long-term racketeering.

  Bobby called his father’s bank. The manager confirmed details. Bobby brushed tears back. Bobby raged and grieved. It felt all good then. It felt all hateful now.

  The news signed off. A deejay signed on. Mr. Tunes—comin’ at ya.

  The phone rang.

  Littell ran. Littell slid on hailstones. Littell grabbed the receiver.

  Pete said, “Junior won’t play. The fucking kid stalemated me.”

  “I’ll talk to Sam. We’ll make a different app—”

  “I’ll clip Zangetty and Killiam. That’s it. I won’t clip the women.”

  The booth was hot. The windows fogged. The storm produced steam.

  “I agree. We’ll have to finesse Carlos.”

  Pete laughed. “Don’t shit me. You know it’s more than that.”

  “What are you saying?”

  Pete said, “I know about Arden.”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/19/63. Verbatim telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at Mr. Hughes’ request. Copies to: Permanent File/Fiscal ’63 File/Securi
ty File.” Speaking: Howard R. Hughes, Ward J. Littell.

  HH: Is that you, Ward?

  WJL: It’s me.

  HH: I had a premonition last night. Do you want to hear about it?

  WJL: Certainly.

  HH: I know that tone. Mollify the boss so he’ll get back to business.

  (WJL laughs.)

  HH: Here’s my premonition. You’re going to tell me that it will take years to divest my TWA stock, so I should mind my p’s and q’s and put the whole thing out of mind.

  WJL: Your premonition was accurate.

  HH: That’s all you have to say? You’re letting me off that easy?

  WJL: I could describe the legal processes involved in divesting half a billion dollars’ worth of stock and tell you how much you’ve impeded the progress by dodging various subpoenas.

  HH: You’re feeling your oats today. I’m not up to sparring with you.

  WJL: I’m not sparring, Mr. Hughes. I’m observing.

  HH: And your latest estimate is?

  WJL: We’re two years away from a judgment. The appeals process will extend for at least nine to fourteen months. You should discuss the details with your other attorneys and move things along by pre-submitting your depositions.

  HH: You’re my favorite attorney.

  WJL: Thank you.

  HH: Only Mormons and FBI men have clean blood.

  WJL: I’m not much of an expert on blood, Sir.

  HH: I am. You know the law, and I know aerodynamics, blood and germs.

  WJL: We’re expert in our separate fields, Sir.

  HH: I know business strategy as well. I have the assets to purchase Las Vegas now, but I prefer to wait and make the purchase with my stock windfall.

  WJL: That’s a prudent strategy, Sir. But I should point out a few things.

  HH: Point, then. I’m listening.

  WJL: One, you are not going to purchase the city of Las Vegas or Clark County, Nevada. Two, you are going to attempt to purchase numerous hotel-casinos, the acquisition of which violates numerous state and federal antitrust statutes. Three, you cannot make those purchases now. You would need to deplete the cash flow necessary to operate Hughes Tool to do it, and you have yet to ingratiate yourself with the Nevada State Legislature and the right people in Clark County. Four, that is my job—and it will take time. Five, I want to wait and follow some other hotel-chain developments through the court process and collate the antitrust rulings and precedents.