The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

Chuck aimed low. Chuck blew his feet off. The man screamed. Pete shut his eyes.

  The wind died. The day sparkled. The cleanup dragged.

  They stole the jeeps. They drove the stiffs to the plane. They found a cave and drove the jeeps in. They fucked with some bats. They hit their horns. They evicted them. The bats bumped their windshields. They ran their wipers. They bumped the cocksuckers back.

  They dumped kerosene. They torched the jeeps. The fire burned and died. The cave contained the fumes.

  They walked to the plane. They wrapped the stiffs in straitjackets. They gunnysacked them. They pried their jaws out. They poured honey in. It lured hungry crabs.

  Pete snapped four Polaroids—one per victim—Carlos wanted proof.

  They flew low. They hit North Texas. They saw small lakes forever. They dumped three stiffs. Two splashed and sunk. One cracked hard ice.

  Chuck skimmed tracts. Chuck flew low. Chuck steered with his knees.

  He had a master’s degree. He read comic books. He blew JFK’s brains out. He lived with his parents. He stuck to his room. He built model planes and sniffed glue.

  Chuck skimmed tracts. His lips moved. Pete caught the gist: The KKK klarifies a kontroversy. White men have the biggest dicks!

  Pete laughed. Chuck dipped over Lake Lugert. Pete tossed Jack Z. in the drink.

  22

  (Las Vegas, 1/4/64)

  The Summit. The penthouse at the Dunes—one big table.

  Decanters. Siphons. Candy and fruit. No cigars—Moe Dalitz was allergic.

  Littell swept for bugs first. The Boys watched TV. Morning cartoons—Yogi Bear and Webster Webfoot.

  The Boys took sides. Sam and Moe liked Yogi. Johnny R. liked the duck. Carlos liked Yogi’s dumb pal.

  Santo T. snoozed—fuck this kiddie shit.

  No bugs—let’s proceed.

  Littell chaired the meet. The Boys dressed down—golf shirts and Bermuda shorts.

  Carlos sipped brandy. “Here’s the opening pitch. Hughes is non compos mental, and he thinks he’s got Ward in his pocket. We sell him the hotels and make him keep our inside people. They step up the skim. He don’t suspect anything, ’cause we show him some low profit figures before he buys.”

  Littell shook his head. “His negotiators will audit every tax return filed for every hotel, going back ten years. If you refuse to submit them, they’ll try to subpoena them or bribe the right people for copies. And you can’t submit doctored returns with low figures, because it will bring down your initial asking prices.”

  Sam said, “So?”

  Littell sipped club soda. “We need the highest possible set purchase prices, with the buyout money dispersed over eighteen months. Our long-term goal is to establish the appearance of legitimately invested money, diverted into legitimate businesses and laundered within them. My plan is—”

  Carlos cut in. “The plan—get to it, and lay it out in words we can understand.”

  Littell smiled. “We have the buyout and skim money. We purchase legitimate businesses with it. The businesses belong to recipients of pension-fund loans. They are the most specifically profitable and cosmetically noncriminal businesses that originated with loans from the ‘real’ books. Thus, the origin of the money is obscured. Thus, the recipients are prone to extortion and will not protest the forced buyouts. The recipients will continue to run their businesses. Our people will oversee the operations and divert the profits. We funnel the money into foreign hotel-casinos. By ‘foreign’ I mean Latin-American. By Latin-American I mean countries under military or strongly rightist rule. The casino profits will leave said countries untaxed. They will go into Swiss bank accounts and accrue interest. The ultimate cash withdrawals will be absolutely untraceable.”

  Carlos smiled. Santo clapped. Johnny said, “It’s like Cuba.”

  Moe said, “It’s ten Cubas.”

  Sam said, “Why stop there?”

  Littell grabbed an apple. “For now, it’s all long-range and theoretical. We’re waiting for Mr. Hughes to dump his TWA stock and secure his seed money.”

  Santo said, “We’re talking about years.”

  Sam said, “We’re talking about patience.”

  Johnny said, “It’s a virtue. I read that somewhere.”

  Moe said, “We watch the climate south of the border. We find ourselves a dozen Batistas.”

  Sam said, “Show me a spic you can’t bribe.”

  Santo said, “All they want is a white uniform with gold epaulets.”

  Sam said, “They’re like niggers that way.”

  Johnny said, “They don’t tolerate Commies. You got to give them that.”

  Carlos grabbed some grapes. “I’ve got the books stashed. You have to figure that Jimmy’ll fall for that jury-tampering thing.”

  Littell nodded. “That and his other indictments.”

  Sam winked. “You stole the books, Ward. Now tell us you didn’t copy them over.”

  Johnny laughed. Moe laughed. Santo roared.

  Littell smiled. “We should think about the inside people. Mr. Hughes will want to hire Mormons.”

  Sam cracked his knuckles. “I don’t like Mormons. They hate Italians.”

  Carlos sipped X.O. “Do you blame them?”

  Santo said, “Nevada’s a Mormon state. It’s like New York for the Italians.”

  Moe said, “You mean the Jews.”

  Johnny laughed. “It’s a serious issue. Hughes will want to pick his own people.”

  Sam coughed. “We can’t back down on that. We’ve got to keep our people inside.”

  Littell pared his apple. “We should find our own Mormons. I’ll be talking to a man soon. He runs the Kitchen Union.”

  Moe said, “Wayne Tedrow Senior.”

  Sam said, “He hates Italians.”

  Moe said, “He’s not wild about Jews.”

  Santo peeled a cigar. “To me this is bullshit. I want made guys inside.”

  Johnny said, “I agree.”

  Moe grabbed the cigar. “Are you trying to kill me?”

  Carlos peeled a Mars Bar. “Let’s table this for now, all right? We’re talking about years down the road.”

  Littell said, “I agree. Mr. Hughes won’t have his money for some time.”

  Sam peeled a banana. “It’s your show, Ward. I know you got more to say.”

  Littell said, “Four things, actually. Two major, two minor.”

  Moe rolled his eyes. “So, tell us. Jesus, you have to coax this guy.”

  Littell smiled. “One, Jimmy knows what Jimmy knows, and Jimmy’s volatile. I’m going to do my best to keep him out of jail until we’ve started to implement our plans for the books.”

  Carlos smiled. “If Jimmy knew you stole the books, he’d implement you.”

  Littell rubbed his eyes. “I returned them. Let’s leave it at that.”

  Sam said, “We forgive you.”

  Johnny said, “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

  Littell coughed. “Bobby Kennedy will probably resign. The new AG might have plans for Vegas, and Mr. Hoover might not be able to curtail them. I’ll try to do some favors for him, learn what I can and pass it along.”

  Sam said, “That cocksucker Bobby.”

  Moe said, “The bad fucking seed.”

  Santo said, “That cocksucker used us. He put his faggot brother in the White House at our expense. He fucked us like the pharaohs fucked Jesus.”

  Johnny said, “The Romans, Santo. The pharaohs fucked Joan of Arc.”

  Santo said, “Fuck Bobby and Joan. They’re both faggots.”

  Moe rolled his eyes. Fuck this goyishe shit.

  Littell said, “Mr. Hughes hates Negroes. He wants to keep them out of his hotels, at whatever the cost. I’ve explained the gentlemen’s agreement we’ve got here, but he wants more.”

  Santo shrugged. “Everyone hates the shines.”

  Sam shrugged. “Especially the civil-rights types.”

  Moe shrugged. “Shvartzes are shvartzes. I don’
t want Martin Luther King on our doorstep any more than Hughes does, but they’ll get their goddamn civil rights sooner or later.”

  Johnny said, “It’s the Reds. They agitate them and get them worked up. You can’t reason with an agitated person.”

  Santo peeled a cigar. “They know they’re not wanted. We keep the low-end spooks out and let a few uptown ones in. If King Farouk of the Congo wants to drop a hundred G’s at the Sands, I say let him.”

  Johnny grabbed a peach. “King Farouk’s a Mexican.”

  Santo said, “Good. If he blows all his money, we’ll get him a job in the kitchen.”

  Sam said, “I play golf with Billy Eckstine. He’s a wonderful guy.”

  Johnny said, “He’s got white blood.”

  Moe said, “I play golf with Sammy Davis on a regular basis.”

  Carlos yawned. Carlos coughed. Carlos cued Littell.

  Littell coughed. “Mr. Hughes thinks the local Negroes should be ‘sedated.’ It’s a preposterous idea, but we may be able to turn it to our advantage.”

  Moe rolled his eyes. “You’re the best, Ward. Nobody disputes that. But you tend to beat around the bush.”

  Littell crossed his legs. “Carlos has tentatively agreed that we should waive our no-narcotics rule and let Pete Bondurant sell to the Negroes here. You all know the precedent. Pete trafficked for Santo’s organization in Miami from ’60 to ’62.”

  Santo shook his head. “We were funding the exiles then. That was strictly an anti-Castro thing.”

  Johnny shook his head. “On a one-time-only basis.”

  Carlos said, “I like the idea. It’s a moneymaker, and Pete’s a hell of a resource.”

  Littell said, “Let’s keep him busy. We can establish a new cash source and mollify Mr. Hughes at the same time. He doesn’t need to know the details. I’ll call it a ‘Sedation Project.’ He’ll like the way it sounds and be satisfied. He’s like a child in some ways.”

  Carlos said, “It’s a moneymaker. I foresee some big profits.”

  Sam shook his head. “I foresee ten thousand junkies turning Vegas into a shithole.”

  Moe shook his head. “I live here. I do not want to see a big fucking influx of junkie burglars, junkie heist guys, and junkie rape-os.”

  Santo shook his head. “Vegas is the Queen City of the West. You don’t soil a place like that on purpose.”

  Johnny shook his head. “You’ve got a bunch of hopped-up niggers looking for their next fix. You’re watching The Lawrence Welk Show and some big spook kicks the door in and steals your TV set.”

  Sam shook his head. “And rapes your wife while he’s at it.”

  Santo shook his head. “You’ll send tourism into the shitter.”

  Moe snatched Santo’s cigar. “Carlos, you’re outruled on this. You don’t shit on your own carpet.”

  Carlos shrugged. Carlos turned his palms up.

  Moe smiled. “You’re batting five hundred, Ward. That’s a hell of an average in this room. And your long-range plan is a home run.”

  Sam smiled. “Out of the ballpark.”

  Santo smiled. “Out of the fucking galaxy.”

  Johnny smiled. “It’s Cuba all over again. With no bearded Commie faggot to fuck things up.”

  Littell smiled. Littell twitched. Littell almost bit his tongue.

  “I want to make sure we get a unanimous license vote from the Gaming Control Board and Liquor Board. Pete tried to get a look at the LVPD intel file and got nowhere.”

  Santo snatched his cigar back. “We’ve never been able to buy off the boards. They grant their fucking licenses by whim.”

  Moe said, “It’s the pioneer thing. You know, prejudice. We own this town, but they lump us in with the shvartzes.”

  Johnny said, “The files are the place to start. We’ve got to find the weak links and exploit them.”

  Sam said, “The cops guard that information. Pete B. couldn’t shake it loose, so what does that tell you?”

  Littell stretched. “Sam, will you have one of your people make an approach? Butch Montrose, maybe?”

  Sam smiled. “For you, Ward, the moon.”

  Littell smiled. “I want to plant support in the state legislature. Mr. Hughes is prepared to make a series of charitable contributions and publicize them throughout Nevada, so do any of you have fav—”

  Johnny cut in. “Saint Vincent de Paul.”

  Sam said, “The K of C.”

  Santo said, “Saint Francis Hospital. They cut my brother’s prostrate out there.”

  Moe said, “The United Jewish Appeal—and fuck all you dagos.”

  Dracula supplied lodging—a suite at the DI. Four rooms/golf-course access/open-end lease.

  His third place.

  He had a place in D.C. He had a place in L.A.—two high-rise apartments. Three homes now. All ready-furnished. All depersonalized.

  Littell moved in. Littell dodged golf balls. Littell tore the phones up. Littell bugswept them.

  The phones were safe. He rebuilt them. He relaxed and unpacked.

  Arden was in L.A. She moved toward him piecemeal. Dallas to Balboa/Balboa to L.A. Vegas scared her. The Boys partied there. She knew the Boys. She wouldn’t say how.

  She was his “Jane” now. She loved her new name. She loved her revised history.

  He finished her transcript. She learned the details. An agent planted the goods. She told him Jane stories—straight off the cuff—she dropped details and recalled them days later.

  He memorized them. He caught her subtext:

  You made me. Live with your work. Don’t challenge my tales. You’ll know me. I’ll say who I was.

  Pete knew about Arden. Pete learned in Dallas. He trusted Pete. Pete trusted him. The Boys owned them both.

  Carlos told Pete to kill Arden. Pete said, “Okay.” Pete won’t kill women. That’s pure un-okay.

  Pete killed Jack Zangetty. Pete flew to New Orleans. Pete briefed Carlos on it. Carlos loved the Polaroids. Carlos said, “Three more.”

  Pete drove to Dallas. Pete checked around. Pete called Carlos. Pete reported back:

  Jack Ruby’s nuts. He scratches. He moans. He talks to spirit husks. Hank Killiam split Dallas. Hank booked to Florida. Betty Mac split to parts unknown.

  Arden? She vanished—that’s all I’ve got. Carlos said, “Okay—for now.”

  The Summit succeeded. His plan wowed the Boys. They vetoed the dope plan. Pete logged a No. Pete braced Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior said No. Pete logged two Nos straight.

  Doug Eversall called him—on Christmas Eve. Doug said, “I couldn’t tape Bobby.”

  He said, “Keep your tape rig—and brace him again.”

  Merry Christmas. Don’t fall off your high shoe. Don’t drop your microphone.

  He called Mr. Hoover. He said he had a Bobby source. He said he hotwired him.

  He didn’t say:

  I need to hear Bobby’s voice.

  23

  (Las Vegas, 1/6/64)

  The heat ducts blew. The squadroom froze. Fucking igloo time.

  Guys split en masse. Wayne worked solo. Wayne cleaned up his desk.

  He sifted desk junk. He stacked the Dallas dailies first. He had some Ruby shit. He had bopkes on Moore and Durfee.

  Sonny Liston sent a postcard. It rehashed their “good times.” Sonny foresaw a Clay fight KO.

  He cleaned up one file—the West LV whore jobs/reports and snapshots. Colored whores/bad bruises/smeared lipstick and contusions.

  He held the file. He read it. He looked for leads. Nothing popped out. The assigned cop hated Negroes. The assigned cop hated whores. The assigned cop drew dicks in their mouths.

  Wayne stacked papers. Wayne cleared his desk. Wayne locked the file up. Wayne typed reports.

  The squadroom froze. The ducts blew—brrr-fucking-brrr.

  Wayne yawned. Wayne craved sleep. Lynette bugged him incessant. Lynette had one refrain: “What happened in Dallas?”

  He dodged her. He split home early. He wo
rked late. He logged lounge time. He nursed beers. He caught Barb B. He nursed this big crush.

  He sat near the stage. Pete sat close by. They never talked. They both eyed the redhead.

  Call it leverage. Call it a buffer zone—let’s stay in touch.

  Lynette rode him. Lynette said don’t hide from me. Lynette said don’t hide with Wayne Senior.

  He hid there pre-Dallas. He crushed on Janice pre-Barb. Dallas changed things. He reworked his crush time now.

  He watched Barb. He played chicken with Pete concurrent. Janice played supporting crush.

  He dodged Wayne Senior now. Christmas tore it. The film and the hate tracts—Wayne Senior’s print style.

  The oldies were one thing. “Veto Tito!”/“Castrate Castro!”/“Ban the U.N.!” It was fear shit. It was Red Tides. It was no hate overt.

  He saw Little Rock. Wayne Senior didn’t. The Klan torched a car. The gas cap blew. It put a colored boy’s eye out. Some punks raped a colored girl. They wore rubbers. They shoved them in her mouth.

  Wayne yawned. Wayne pulled carbons. The fine print blurred.

  Buddy Fritsch walked up. “You bored with your work?”

  Wayne stretched. “Do you care if blackjack dealers have misdemeanor convictions?”

  “No, but the Nevada Gaming Commission does.”

  Wayne yawned. “If you’ve got something more interesting, I’ll bite.”

  Fritsch straddled a chair. “I want some fresh leads on the Control Board and Liquor Board men. Everyone but the Sheriff and DA. Submit a report to me before you update your file.”

  Wayne said, “Why now? I update my files in the summer.”

  Fritsch pulled a match. His hand jumped. He missed the book. He broke the matchhead.

  “Because I told you to. That’s all the justifying you get.”

  “What kind of leads?”

  “Anything derogatory. Come on, you’ve been there. You hold surveillance and see who gets naughty.”

  Wayne rocked his chair. “I’ll finish my work and get on it.”

  “You’ll get on it now.”

  “Why ‘now’?”

  Fritsch pulled a match. His hand jumped. He missed the book wide.

  “Because you blew your extradition job. Because a cop went off without you and got himself killed. Because you fucked up relations between us and Dallas PD, and because I am determined to get some value out of you before you make more rank and move out of my unit.”