The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  HH: Jesus, that was some speech. You’re a long-winded guy.

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  HH: You didn’t mention your Mafia pals.

  WJL: Sir?

  HH: I talked to Mr. Hoover. He said you’ve got those guys in your pocket. What’s that guy’s name in New Orleans?

  WJL: Carlos Marcello?

  HH: Marcello, right. Mr. Hoover said he eats out of your hand. He said, “When the time’s right, Littell will jew those dagos down and get you your hotels at rock-bottom prices.”

  WJL: I’ll certainly try.

  HH: You’ll do better than that.

  WJL: I’ll try, Sir.

  HH: We’ve got to devise a germ policy.

  WJL: Sir?

  HH: At my hotels. No germs, no Negroes. Negroes are well-known germ conduits. They’ll infect my slot machines.

  WJL: I’ll look into it, Sir.

  HH: My solution is mass sedation. I’ve been reading chemistry books. Certain narcotic substances possess germ-killing characteristics. We could sedate the Negroes, lower their white-blood count and keep them out of my hotels.

  WJL: Mass sedation would require certain sanctions that we might not get.

  HH: You’re not convinced. I can tell by your voice.

  WJL: I’ll give it some thought.

  HH: Think about this. Lee Oswald was a germ conduit and a deadly-disease transmitter. He didn’t need a rifle. He could have breathed on Kennedy and killed him.

  WJL: It’s an interesting theory, Sir.

  HH: Only Mormons and FBI men have clean blood.

  WJL: You’ve got quite a few Mormons in Nevada. There’s a man named Wayne Tedrow Senior that I may approach on your behalf.

  HH: I’ve got some good Mormons here. They set me up with Fred Otash.

  WJL: I’ve heard of him.

  HH: He’s the “Private Eye to the Stars.” He’s been running a string of Howard Hughes look-alikes all over L.A., like Pete Bondurant used to. Those subpoena servers follow them around like robots.

  WJL: Again, Sir. Dodging subpoenas only prolongs the whole process.

  HH: Ward, you’re a goddamn killjoy.

  (WJL laughs.)

  HH: Freddy’s Lebanese. Those people have high white-cell counts. I like him, but he’s no Pete.

  WJL: Pete’s working with me in Las Vegas.

  HH: Good. Frenchmen have low white-cell counts. I read it in the National Geographic.

  WJL: He’ll be pleased to hear it.

  HH: Good. Tell him I said hello, and tell him to procure me some medicine. He’ll know what I mean. Tell him my Mormons have been bringing me inferior goods.

  WJL: I’ll tell him.

  HH: Let me make one thing clear before I hang up.

  WJL: Sir?

  HH: I want to buy Las Vegas.

  WJL: You’ve made yourself clear.

  HH: The desert air kills germs.

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  20

  (Las Vegas, 12/23/63)

  The Party—a Vegas perennial—Wayne Senior’s Christmas bash.

  A fag redid the ranch house. He added ice sculptures and snow-flocked walls. He hired elves and nymphs.

  The elves were wetbacks. They slung hors d’oeuvres. They wore mock-rag coats. The nymphs whored at the Dunes. They served cleavage and drinks.

  The fag brought a bandstand. The fag added a dance floor. The fag hired a bumfuck quartet.

  Barb & the Bail Bondsmen—a singer and three swish ex-cons.

  Wayne circulated. The combo bugged him. He popped the trumpet for flim-flam. He popped the sax for stat rape.

  The singer compensated—red hair and wild legs.

  Lynette circulated. The crowd meshed. Cops and Vegas trash. Mormons and Nellis brass.

  Wayne Senior circulated. Janice danced solo. A crowd watched her. Janice shimmied. Janice swayed. Janice dipped loooow.

  Wayne Senior walked up. Wayne Senior twirled his walking stick. A Nellis one-star grabbed it.

  He cued the combo. Barb tapped a beat. The combo vamped. Barb palmed maracas.

  The one-star knelt. The one-star dropped the stick looooow.

  Barb ad-libbed. “Vegas limbo mighty good, lady go down like she should.”

  Janice spread her legs. Janice rolled her hips. Janice popped looooow. The crowd clapped. The crowd stomped. Barb milked the beat.

  Janice went looooow. Janice popped sequins and spangles. Janice popped seams. Her high heels snapped. She kicked off her shoes. She went under and up.

  The crowd clapped. Janice bowed looooow. She ripped her dress. Her red panties showed.

  Wayne Senior passed her a Salem. The lights went low. The combo vamped “Moonglow.” A baby spot blinked. It focused on Janice. It swooped and caught Wayne Senior low.

  They linked up. Janice held her cigarette. Smoke blew through the light.

  Circle dance.

  Wayne Senior smiled. Wayne Senior loved it. Janice mugged and mocked this corny shit.

  They swayed. Janice dropped sequins. The spotlight jumped. Wayne saw Lynette. Lynette saw Wayne. Lynette saw Wayne ogle Janice.

  He dodged her eyes. He walked outside. He paced the front deck. He smelled marijuana—pot alert below.

  Janice toked up for parties. Janice shared with the help. You had zorched valets. You had a hundred cars—now check the runway:

  One airplane valet-parked—one guest’s Piper Deuce.

  Wayne paced. Wayne walked the deck. Wayne fretted Dallas up.

  Jack Ruby observed Hanukkah. The paper ran x-clusive pix. Two pages in: HOPE FADES FOR MISSING POLICEMAN.

  Wayne watched the party. A glass door killed the noise. Check the wino elves—they’re digging on Barb.

  Wayne watched her.

  Barb moves her lips. Barb bumps her hips. Barb hits the mike stand. Barb scans the room. Barb sees a face and melts.

  Wayne hugged the glass. Wayne got an angle. Wayne tracked her eyes.

  To Mr. Meltman—Pete Bondurant.

  Barb melts. Fucking snowdrifts in August. Big Pete reciprocates.

  Wayne cracked the door. Wayne caught the vocal: “I Only Have Eyes for You.”

  Wayne shut the door. His stomach dropped. He leaned on the glass. He caught a chill and saved his dinner.

  Barb blew a kiss. Pete blew one back. Pete stretched and bumped his head on the ceiling.

  Pete grinned. Pete went ooops! A man joined him—sunburned and thin—some shitkicker runt.

  Wayne grabbed a chair. Wayne kicked up his feet. Wayne rocked off the rail. A match flared below him. Reefer smoke plumed its way up.

  It smelled good. It sent him back. He toked once himself. Jump School at Fort Bragg. Let’s jump stoned and watch clouds change colors.

  The door slid open. Noise spilled out. Wayne smelled Janice—cigarettes and Chanel No. 5.

  She walked up. She leaned on him. She pressed his shoulders and back.

  Wayne said, “Come on, work.”

  Janice worked him. Janice dug in. Janice unknotted kinks.

  “Something smells sweet down there.”

  “It smells like a felony roust, if I was inclined.”

  “Be nice, now. It’s Christmas.”

  “You mean, ‘It’s Vegas, and the law’s for sale.’ ”

  Janice dug in. “I wouldn’t be that blunt with a policeman.”

  Wayne leaned back. “Who’s the one-star?”

  “That’s Brigadier General Clark D. Kinman. He has a powerful crush on yours truly.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You notice everything. And I noticed you ogle that singer.”

  “Did you notice her husband? The big guy?”

  Janice worked his spine. “I noticed the airplane he came in, and the ankle holster he’s wearing.”

  Wayne twitched. Janice tickled his neck.

  “Did I touch a nerve there?”

  Wayne coughed. “Who’s the skinny guy?”

  Janice laughed. “That’s Mr. Chuck Rogers. He described himself as a
pilot, a petroleum geologist, and a professional anti-Communist.”

  “You should introduce him to my father.”

  “I think they’re fast friends already. They were discussing the Cuban cause or some such nonsense.”

  Wayne rolled his neck. “Who hired that combo?”

  “Your father. Buddy Fritsch recommended them.”

  Wayne turned around. Wayne saw Lynette. Lynette saw him. She tapped the door glass. She flashed her watch. Wayne flashed ten fingers.

  Janice said, “Spoilsport.” Janice made claws. Janice goofed on draggy Lynette.

  Wayne turned on the rail light. Janice walked downstairs. Sequins dropped behind her. The light made them glint.

  The valets giggled. Hola, señora. Gracias por la reefer.

  Wayne fucked with the light.

  He swiveled it. He dipped it. He strafed the airplane. He caught a window. He saw shotguns and vests.

  The hatch popped open. Pete B. jumped out. Wayne flashed him. Pete waved and winked.

  Wayne fretted it. Wayne walked inside and rejoined the party. Midnite hit. Drunks waved mistletoe.

  The eggnog was out. Ditto the prewar cognac. Ditto the pre-Castro cigars.

  The elves were sloshed. The nymphs were bombed. The Mormons were blotto. The ice sculptures leaked. The manger scene dripped. Baby Jesus was slush. Said Savior played ashtray. His cradle held butts.

  Wayne circulated. The Bondsmen packed up. Barb lugged mike stands and drums. Wayne watched her. Lynette watched him.

  Wayne Senior held court. Four Mormon elders and chairs tucked in tight. Chuck Rogers sat in. Chuck balanced two bottles. Chuck sucked gin and blueberry schnapps.

  Wayne Senior dropped names—Mr. Hoover said this/Dick Nixon said that. The elders laughed. Chuck shared his jugs. Wayne Senior passed him a key.

  Chuck palmed it. Chuck stood up. The elders laughed. The elders shared frat-boy looks.

  They stood up. They walked down the side hall. Chuck bird-dogged them. They rendezvoused. They all braced the gun-room door.

  Chuck unlocked it. The elders piled in. The elders chortled and yukked. Chuck stepped in. The elders snatched his booze. Chuck shut the door fast.

  Wayne watched. Wayne grabbed a stray drink. Wayne guzzled it. Vodka and fruit pulp—lipstick on the glass.

  The pulp killed the burn. The lipstick tasted sweet. The rush hit him low.

  He walked to the gun room. He heard yuks inside. He jerked the door. He popped it.

  Movie time.

  Chuck ran the projector. Film hit a pull screen. Tight on: Martin Luther King.

  He’s fat. He’s nude. He’s ecstatic. He’s fucking a white woman hard.

  They fucked. They fucked sans sound. They fucked missionary-style. Static hiss and film flecks. Sprocket holes and numbers—FBI code.

  Covert work/surveillance film/some lens distortion.

  King wore socks. The woman wore nylons. The elders yukked. The projector clicked. Film cut through a slide.

  The mattress sagged—plump Reverend King—the woman more so. An ashtray bounced on the bed—butts scattered and flew.

  Chuck grabbed a flashlight. Chuck centered the beam. Chuck palmed a 4-by-6 tract.

  King thrashed—the camera panned—Trojan rubbers on a nightstand.

  Chuck yelled—pipe down now—Chuck read from the tract. “Big Bertha said, ‘Maul me, Marty! We shall overcoooooome!’ ”

  Wayne ran up. Chuck saw him. Chuck gawked—what the—

  Wayne kicked the projector. The spools flew and rolled. The film hit three walls and went dead. The elders backed up. The elders tripped and banged heads. The elders knocked the screen down.

  Wayne grabbed the tract. Chuck backed off. Wayne shoved him and ran out. He cut down the side hall. He grazed the bandstand. He side-swiped some nymphs and elves.

  He made the front deck. He grabbed the rail light. He honed it and flashed on the tract.

  There—Wayne Senior’s print style. The paper stock/the margins/the type.

  Text and cartoons. Martin Luther Coon and the plump woman. Fat Jews with fangs.

  Martin Luther Coon—priapic.

  His dick’s a branding iron. It’s red hot. The head’s a hammer-and-scythe.

  Wayne spat on the picture. Wayne ripped it crossways. Wayne shredded it up.

  21

  (New Mexico, 12/24/63)

  Gusts kicked in. The plane dipped resultant.

  The sky was black. The air was wet. Ice hit the props. Altus, Oklahoma—due east.

  Chuck flew low. Chuck flew radar-proof. Chuck flew minus landing log. No airstrip. No runway. We’re heading for Jack’s rural lodge.

  The cockpit was cramped. The cockpit was cold. Pete goosed the heat. He called ahead. He played tourist. He heard that Jack Z. had three guests.

  Quail hunters. Praise Jesus—all men.

  Chuck knew the lodge. Chuck spent time there. Chuck knew the floor plan. Jack slept in the office. Jack parked his guests close. There’d be three rooms with through doors.

  Pete checked the cargo hold:

  Flashlights/shotguns/magnums. Kerosene/gunnysacks. Friction tape/rubber gloves/rope. A Polaroid camera/four straitjackets/four honey jars.

  It was overkill. Carlos loved wet work. Carlos thought plans up. Carlos popped his rocks secondhand.

  Chuck read a hate tract. The dashboard threw light. Pete saw cartoons and FBI text. Hate and smut—a coon named Bayard Rustin—a queer cluster-fuck.

  Pete laughed. Chuck said, “Why’d we go to that party? I’m not complaining, now. I met a few kindred souls.”

  The plane dipped. Pete bumped his head.

  “I was letting someone know that I won’t go away.”

  “You want to tell me who and why?”

  Pete shook his head. The plane jumped. Pete’s knees hit the dash.

  Chuck said, “Mr. Tedrow’s some kind of American. That’s more than I can say for his son.”

  “Junior’s a piece of work. Don’t underestimate him.”

  Chuck popped Dramamine. “Mr. Tedrow knows all the right people. Guy B. said he put some cash into a certain operation.”

  Pete rubbed his neck. “There was no operation. Don’t you read the fucking New York Times?”

  Chuck laughed. “You mean I was dreaming then?”

  “Treat it that way. You’ll live longer.”

  “Then I must’ve dreamed up all those people that Carlos wants to clip.”

  Pete rubbed his eyes. Fuck—Headache #3,000.

  “Then I’ll be dreaming when we take out Jack Z., and I’ll really be dreaming when we find old Hank and those cunts Arden and Bet—”

  Pete grabbed his neck. “Nothing happened in Dallas, and nothing’s happening now.”

  3:42 a.m.

  They touched down. The ground was glass. Chuck cut the flaps and braked. They spun. They brodied on ice. They did figure eights and stalled in tall grass.

  They put their vests on. They grabbed flashlights/shotguns/magnums. They screwed on silencers.

  They hiked southeast. Pete paced it out: .32 miles. Low hills. Caves set in sheet rock. Cloud cover and a high moon.

  There—the lodge—down on paved land.

  Twelve rooms. A horseshoe court. Dirt-road access. No lights. No sounds. Two jeeps upside the office.

  They walked up. Chuck stood point. Pete flashed the door. He saw a spring lock. He saw a loose knob. He saw a workable gap.

  He pulled his knife. He wedged it in. He snapped the bolt. He walked in. The door creaked. He kept his beam low.

  Three steps to the counter—hold for a ledger on a chain.

  He walked up blind. Chuck’s floor plan worked. He bumped the counter. Eyes left—a side door wide open. Room #1—dark.

  His eyes adjusted. He squinted. He caught gray tones in black. He looked through room 1. He squinted. He saw the room #2 door ajar.

  Ears left—snores in room 1. Ears front—snores behind the counter.

  Pete smelled paper. Pete touched
the countertop. Pete brushed the ledger. He flashed the top page. He saw three guests logged in—housed in rooms 1/2/3.

  Pete leaned on the counter. Pete pulled his piece. Pete flashed his light and aimed at the snores. There’s Jack Zangetty—face-up on a cot—eyes shut and mouth wide for flies.

  Pete aimed off the beam. Pete squeezed a shot. Jack’s head snapped. Jack’s teeth exploded.

  The silencer worked—sounds like a cough and a sneeze. One more now—safekeeping.

  Pete aimed off the beam. Pete squeezed a shot. Pete nailed Jack’s wig. Blood and synthetic hair/a cough and a sneeze.

  Impact—the wig flew. Impact—Jack rolled off the cot.

  Jack hit a bottle. The bottle fell. The bottle bumped and rolled.

  Loud bumps. Loud noise. Loud rolls.

  Pete killed his light. Pete ducked low. Knee cartilage crunched. Eyes left/ears left/catch the doorway.

  There now—a man laughs/a bed squeaks.

  “Jack, is that a fresh jug you got?”

  Light hues in the doorway—the geek’s got white pajamas.

  Pete flashed his light. Pete tracked up a white swath. Pete hit the man’s eyes. He aimed off the beam. He squeezed a shot. He caught the 10-ring.

  Blood and white blotting/a cough and a sneeze.

  The man flew. The man hit the door. The man ripped the door loose. Eyes left—there’s light—the #2 doorway. Ears left—there’s boot thunks and zipper snags.

  Pete proned out. Pete aimed. Now—watch the door.

  A man opened it. Said man paused. Said man walked through room 1. Said man crouched and aimed a 30.06.

  Pete aimed his piece. The man got close. A shotgun went off. Glass shattered—from the outside—pellets trashed a side window.

  Chuck popping rounds. Chuck’s special load—poison buckshot.

  The man froze. Glass spritzed him. He covered his eyes. He ran blind. He bumped chairs. He coughed glass.

  Pete fired. Pete missed. Chuck vaulted the window. He ran up fast. He nudged the man—BOO!—he shot the man in the back.

  The man flew. Pete caught shell wads and BBs. Chuck ran south. Chuck blew out door #3.

  Pete ran back. Chuck hit the lights. Light hit a man under the bed. He sobbed. His legs stuck out. He wore paisley PJs.