by James Ellroy
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves. He has to purchase the properties first.”
“Oh, he will. Because he wants to buy, and your other clients want to sell. I could mention the term ‘conflict of interest,’ but I won’t.”
Littell smiled. Littell raised the tumbler—touché.
“Mr. Hoover briefed you well.”
“Yes. In both our best interests.”
“And his own.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “I discussed you with Lyle Holly as well.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I’ve known his brother for years.”
“I know Dwight. We worked the St. Louis Office together.”
Wayne Senior nodded. “He told me. He said you were always ideologically suspect, and your current employment as a Mafia lawyer confirms it.”
Littell raised the tumbler. “Touché, but I wouldn’t call my employers ideological on any level.”
Wayne Senior raised the tumbler. “Touché back at you.”
Littell coughed. “Let’s see if I can put this together. Dwight’s with the Narcotics Bureau here. He used to work mail-fraud assignments for Mr. Hoover. The two of you worked together then.”
“That’s correct. We go back thirty-some years. His daddy was a daddy to me.”
“The Grand Dragon? And a nice Mormon boy like you?”
Wayne Senior grabbed a cocktail glass. Wayne Senior built a Rob Roy.
“The Indiana Klan was never as rowdy as those boys down south. That’s too rowdy, even for boys like Dwight and me. That’s why we worked those mail-fraud assignments.”
Littell said, “That’s not true. Dwight did it because Mr. Hoover told him to. You did it to play G-man.”
Wayne Senior stirred his drink. Littell smelled bitters and Noilly Prat. He salivated. He moved his chair back. Wayne Senior winked.
Shadows creased the bar. A woman crossed the rear deck. Proud features/black hair/gray streak.
Wayne Senior said, “I want to show you a film.”
Littell stood up. Littell stretched. Wayne Senior grabbed his drink. They walked down a side hall. The scotch and bitters swirled. Littell wiped his lips.
They stopped at a storage room. Wayne Senior hit the lights. Littell saw a projector and wall screen.
Wayne Senior spooled film. Wayne Senior set the slide. Wayne Senior fed film in. Littell killed the lights. Wayne Senior hit the on switch. Words and numbers hit the screen.
Surveillance code—white-on-black. A date—8/28/63. A location—Washington, D.C.
The words dissolved. Raw footage hit. Speckled black & white film. A bedroom/Martin Luther King/a white woman.
Littell watched.
His legs dipped. He weaved hard. He grabbed at a chair. The skin tones contrasted—black-on-white—stretch marks and plaid sheets.
Littell watched the film. Wayne Senior smiled. Wayne Senior watched him.
All gifts. Mr. Hoover. A gift that he would regret.
31
(Las Vegas,1/15/64)
The cops kicked him loose.
They called around. They got his rep. They got très hip. He’s mobbed up/he knows the Boys/the Boys dig on him.
Pete walked. Pete paged Barb at work. Pete said I’ll be home soon.
He did forty-one hours. He ate jute balls and rice. His head hurt. His wrists hurt. He smelled like Chihuahua shit.
He cabbed to his car. He cabbed Monarch—the Browntown Express. The driver lisped. The driver wore rouge. The driver said he sold guns.
The driver dropped Pete at the carport. Pete’s car was trashed/totaled/torched.
No windshield. No hubcaps. No tires. No wheels. The Cadillac Hotel—one wino booked in.
He snored. Bugs bombed him. He cradled Sterno and T-Bird. The car got a paint job—kustom nigger script:
Allah Rules/Death to Ofays/We Love Malcolm X.
Pete laughed. Pete fucking roared. He kicked the grille. He kicked the door panels. He tossed the wino his keys.
A rain hit—light and cold. Pete heard a ruckus close in. He placed it—way close—the shacks off “J” Street.
He walked over. He caught the grief.
Six prowl cars—LVPD and Sheriff’s. Two Fed sleds snout-to-snout. Big voodoo upside a jig shack.
Arc lights/crime-scene rope/one ambulance. A cop-jig confluence—large.
Cops inside the crime-scene rope. Jigs outside. Jigs armed with Tokay and fried chicken.
Pete pushed up close. A cop rigged two gurneys. A cop pushed them in the shack. A cop jumped the rope. A cop briefed him. Pete eavesdropped in tight.
A kid called it in. Said kid lives next door. Said kid heard a commotion. A honky do it. Honky got a shotgun. Honky get in his car and ex-cape. Said kid enters the shack then. Said kid sees two stiffs—Curtis and Otis Swasey.
The jigs pressed up. The jigs stretched the crime-scene rope. The jigs Wah-Watusi’d. A cop placed sawhorses. A cop stretched the rope. A cop eased the jigs back.
Jigs eyeballed Pete. Jigs jostled him. White Man—bad juju. White Man—go home. White Man—he kill our kin.
Odds on: Wayne Junior. Odds on: Wendell Durfee—dead and dumped somewhere.
The jigs huddled. The jigs mumbled. The jigs pygmy-ized. A jig lobbed a bottle. A jig lobbed a drumstick. A jig lobbed french fries.
Four cops pulled batons. Two cops rolled out the gurneys.
There Curtis—he blue—honky beat his face. There Otis—he crisp—honky torch his face baaaaaad juju.
Pete backed off. Pete caught some elbows. Pete caught some lobbed chicken wings. Pete caught some yam pies.
He walked across “J.” He mingled by a cop clique. He leaned on a prowl car. A cop sat in front. Said cop worked a hand mike. Said cop talked loud.
We got another one—shotgun DOA—a coon named Leroy Williams.
Wooooooo! Blew his burrhead cleeean off! The dump guys found him inside this Buick. We got the shotgun.
Call Leroy Stiff #3. Wendell—where you at?
Pete mingled. The cops ignored him. Cops blocked traffic. Cops stood point. Cops cordoned off “J.”
The rain fucking tripled. The clouds let fly. Pete grabbed a stray chicken box. Pete dumped out gizzards. Pete put it on and kept his head dry.
The jigs dispersed. The jigs booked willy-nilly. The jigs ran hellbent.
A Fed car pulled up. A big guy got out. Said guy vibed El Jefe—gray suit and gray Fed hat.
Jefe flashed a badge. Jefe got service. The point guard saluted. A baby Fed bowed. Jefe bootjacked his umbrella.
Pete circled the rope. Pete got in close. Said fuzz ignored him. Fuck you—you’re a geek—you’ve got a chicken-box hat.
Pete stood around. His hat leaked. Chicken grease oiled his hair. The baby Fed brown-nosed the boss Fed—yessir, Mr. Holly.
Mr. Holly was pissed. It’s my case. The vics pushed narcotics. It’s my crime scene—let’s toss the shack.
Mr. Holly stayed dry. The sub-fuzz stayed wet. A sergeant walked up. Said sergeant wore squishy blues.
He talked loud. He pissed off Mr. Holly. He said it’s our case. We’re sealing her up. We’ll bring in Homicide.
Mr. Holly fumed. Mr. Holly fugued out. He kicked a sawhorse. He yelped. He fucked his foot up.
A prowl car pulled up. A cop got out. He gestured wild. He talked wild. Pete heard “car at the dump.” Pete heard “Tedrow.”
Mr. Holly yelled. The sergeant yelled. A cop raised a bullhorn. Lock her up—let’s roll code 3—the Tonopah Dump.
The fuzz dispersed.
They grabbed their cars. They peeled up “J.” They fishtailed in mud. They plowed through gravel yards.
One cop stayed behind. Said cop locked the shack.
He stood by the front door. He stood in the monsoon. He smoked cigarettes. The rain doused them. He got two puffs per. He gave up. He ran to his car. He rolled the windows up.
Pete ran. The rain covered him. He kicked up mud. He ran back to the alley. He circled t
he shack.
No cars. No back-door guard—good. Said door was locked. The windows were tinfoil-patched.
Pete reached up. Pete tore at a foil patch. Pete de-patched a window.
He climbed up. He vaulted in. He saw chalk lines and bloodstains. He saw a burned-up TV-set.
Floor debris—chalk-circled: Bindle scraps/tube glass/fried nigger hair.
Pete tossed the shack. Pete worked rápidamente. He grid-scoped. He saw one dresser/one toilet/no shelves.
Two mattresses. Bare walls and floors. No stash-holes inset. A window air-cooler—Frost King brand—matted screens and rusty ducts.
No cord. No plug. No intake valve. Call it dope camouflage.
Pete popped the top. Pete reached in. Pete praised Allah Himself.
White horse—all plastic-wrapped—three bonaroo bricks.
32
(Las Vegas, 1/17/64)
Five cops grilled him.
Wayne sat. They stood. They filled the sweat room.
Buddy Fritsch and Bob Gilstrap. A Sheriff’s man. A Fed named Dwight Holly. A Dallas cop named Arthur V. Brown.
The heat went off. Their breath steamed. It fogged the mirror-wall. He sat. They stood. His lawyer stood under a speaker. His lawyer stood outside.
They popped him at home—2:00 a.m.—he was still there with Lynette. Fritsch called Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior came to the jail.
Wayne blew him off. Wayne blew off his lawyer. Dwight Holly knew Wayne Senior. Dwight Holly stressed the friendship thus:
You’re not your dad. You killed three men. You fucked my investigation up.
They’d braced him twice. He told the truth. He wised up and called Pete.
Pete knew the scoop. Pete knew a lawyer. His name: Ward Littell.
Wayne met with Littell. Littell quizzed him: Did they tape you? Did they transcribe?
Wayne said no. Littell advised him. Littell said he’d watch the next go. Littell said he’d veto tape and transcription.
The veto worked. The room was cherry—no tape rig/no steno.
Wayne coughed. His breath fogged out.
Fritsch said, “You got a cold? You were sure out in the rain that night.”
Holly said, “He was out killing three unarmed men.”
Fritsch said, “Come on. He admitted it.”
The Sheriff’s man coughed. “I’ve got a fucking cold. He wasn’t the only one out in the rain.”
Gilstrap smiled. “We’ve cleared up one part of your story. We know you didn’t kill Lynette.”
Wayne coughed. “Tell me how you know.”
“Son, you don’t want to know.”
Holly said, “Tell him. I want to see how he reacts.”
Fritsch said, “The coroner found abrasions and semen. The guy was a secretor. AB-negative blood, which is real rare. We checked Durfee’s jail records. That’s his blood type.”
Holly smiled. “Look, he didn’t even blink.”
Brown said, “He’s a cold one.”
The Sheriff’s man said, “He wasn’t even crying when we found him. He was just staring at the body.”
Gilstrap said, “Come on. He was in shock.”
Fritsch said, “We’re satisfied that Durfee killed her.”
The Sheriff’s man lit a cigar. “And we’re satisfied that Curtis and Otis clued you in to his plan.”
Holly straddled a chair. “Someone hipped you to Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers.”
Wayne coughed. “I told you. I have an informant.”
“Whose name you refuse to reveal.”
“Yes.”
“And your intent was to find and apprehend Wendell Durfee.”
“Yes.”
Brown said, “You wanted to apprehend him, to make up for not doing it in Big D.”
“Yes.”
“Then, son, here’s what bothers me. How did Durfee know that you were the officer sent down to Dallas to extradite him?”
Wayne coughed. “I told you before. I rousted him a few times when I worked Patrol. He knew my face and my name, and he saw me when we exchanged shots in Dallas.”
Fritsch said, “I’ll buy that.”
Gilstrap said, “I will, too.”
Brown said, “I won’t. I think something happened between you and Durfee. Maybe in Dallas, maybe up here before they sent you down. I don’t see him coming all the way up here, presumably to kill you and get his incidental jollies on your wife, unless he had a personal motive.”
Tex was good. Tex was better than the Sheriff’s man. Pete chased the dice men. The cops chased him. They popped Pete. They filed paper. The Sheriff’s man knew shit-all about it.
Brown said, “Your business up here is your business. I wouldn’t care about any of this, except for the proximity of a missing Dallas officer named Maynard D. Moore, who you reportedly did not get along with.”
Wayne shrugged. “Moore was dirty. If you knew him, you know that’s true. I didn’t like him, but I only had to work with him for a few days.”
“You said ‘knew.’ You think he’s dead, then?”
“That’s right. Durfee or one of his asshole Klan buddies killed him.”
Gilstrap said, “We’ve got two APBs out on Durfee. He won’t get far.”
Brown hovered. “You’re saying Officer Moore was in the Ku Klux Klan?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t like the sound of that accusation. You’re defaming the memory of a brother officer.”
The Sheriff’s man laughed. “This is hilarious. He kills three Negroes and gets on his high horse about the KKK.”
Brown coughed. “DPD has been anti-Klan from the get-go.”
“Bullshit. You all get your sheets cleaned at the same laundry.”
“Boy, you are wearing me thin.”
“Don’t call me ‘boy,’ you redneck faggot.”
Brown kicked a chair. Fritsch picked it up.
Gilstrap said, “Come on. This line of talk is getting us nowhere.”
Holly rocked his chair. “Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers were moving heroin.”
Wayne said, “I know that.”
“How?”
“I saw Curtis rolling bindles.”
“I’ve had them under spot surveillance. They were pushing in Henderson and Boulder City, and they were making plans to push in West Vegas.”
Wayne coughed. “They wouldn’t have lasted two days. The Outfit would have clipped them.”
Fritsch rolled his eyes. “He goes from the Klan to the Mob.”
Gilstrap rolled his eyes. “You’ve got the Mob in Vegas like you’ve got the Klan in Dallas.”
Wayne rolled his eyes. “Hey, Buddy, who bought you your speedboat? Hey, Bob, who got you that second mortgage?”
Fritsch kicked the wall. Gilstrap kicked a chair. Brown picked it up.
Holly said, “You’re not making any friends here.”
Wayne said, “I’m not trying to.”
Fritsch said, “You’ve got the sympathy vote.”
Gilstrap said, “You’ve got the chain of events.”
The Sheriff’s man coughed. “You’re trying to apprehend a fugitive cop-killer. You learn that your wife may be jeopardized, so you rush home and find her dead. Your actions from that point on are entirely understandable.”
Brown hitched up his pants. “It’s your prior relationship with Durfee that I don’t understand.”
Holly said, “I concur.”
Fritsch said, “Look at it our way. We’re trying to give the DA a package. We don’t want to see an LVPD man go down for three murders.”
Gilstrap said, “Let’s talk turkey. It’s not like you killed three white men.”
Brown cracked his knuckles. “Did you kill Maynard Moore?”
“Fuck you.”
“Did Wendell Durfee take part in the killing? Is that what all this derives from?”
“Fuck you.”
“Did Wendell Durfee witness the killing?”
“Fuck you.�
��
Holly pulled his chair up. Holly bumped Wayne’s chair.
“Let’s discuss the condition of the shack.”
Wayne shrugged. “I only saw the bindles I shoved in Curtis Swasey’s mouth. I did not see any other narcotics or narcotics paraphernalia.”
Holly smiled. “You anticipated the intent of my question very nicely.”
Wayne coughed. “You’re a narcotics agent. You want to know if I stole the large quantity of heroin that you think the victims had. You don’t care about the murders or my wife.”
Holly shook his head. “That’s not entirely true. You know I’m friends with your father. I’m sure he cared for Lyn—”
“My father despised Lynette. He doesn’t care for anyone. He only respects hard-ons like you. I’m sure he’s full of warmth for your days in Indiana and your good times with Mr. Hoover.”
Holly leaned in. “Don’t turn me into an enemy. You’re getting there already.”
Wayne stood up. “Fuck you and fuck my father. If I wanted his help, I’d be out now.”
Holly stood up. “I think I’ve got what I need.”
Gilstrap shook his head. “You’re playing kamikaze, son. And you’re bombing your own goddamn friends.”
Fritsch shook his head. “You can cross me off that list. We do our best to keep Vegas clean, while you go out and kill three niggers, which is going to bring out every civil-rights chimpanzee in captivity.”
Wayne laughed. “Vegas? Clean?”
The cops walked out. Wayne took his pulse. It ran 180-plus.
33
(Las Vegas, 1/17/64)
The room was cold. A heat coil blew. It chilled down the jail.
Littell read his notes.
Wayne Junior was good. He diverted Sergeant Brown. He deflected his attack. Pete briefed Littell beforehand. Pete dropped a bomb: Wayne Junior knows about Dallas.
Pete liked Wayne Junior. Pete mourned Lynette. Pete took the blame. Pete stopped there. Pete implied a Dallas snafu.
Littell checked his notes. The smart call: Wayne Junior killed Maynard Moore. The details played schizzy. Wendell Durfee played in somehow.
Wayne Junior had the board files. Littell needed them. Littell might need Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior called him. Wayne Senior made nice. He said I want to help my son. He said I want him to ask.
