by James Ellroy
Wayne prowled.
He walked. He perched. He tailed Negroes. He announced his intent and deterred. They ran from him. They ignored him. They played it cooooool.
The shift dragged. He dragged. He sat by the teller’s cage. He cranked his stool up.
A Negro walks in. He’s got a brown bag. He’s got a jug. He hits the slots. He drops some dimes. He hits some baaaaad luck.
Forty pulls and no payoffs—righteous baaaad luck.
The guy whips his dick out. The guy urinates. The guy sprays the dime slots. The guy sprays a dykey-ass nun.
Wayne walked over.
The guy laughs. The guy breaks his jug. Glass flies. Wine shvitzes. The nun Hail Marys.
The guy laughs. I gots me a cutter. It gots a paper-bag grip.
He lunged.
Wayne stepped back. Wayne trapped his arm. Wayne snapped his wrist. The guy puked. The guy dropped the cutter.
Wayne kicked him prone. Wayne kicked his teeth in. Wayne knee-dropped him.
46
(Las Vegas, 7/6/64)
Eldon Peavy vibed butch. Eldon Peavy vibed mean queen.
3:10 a.m.
The hut was dead. Peavy worked solo. Pete walked right in. Peavy hinked. Peavy reached. Peavy was très slow.
Pete blocked the desk. Pete yanked the drawer out. Pete grabbed the gun.
Peavy regrouped. Peavy showed savoir faire. He dipped his chair. He raised his feet. He stroked Pete’s thighs.
“Tall, dark, and vicious. My type to a T.”
Pete popped the clip. Pete popped the shells. They bipped and flew.
Peavy smirked. “Want to audition? Kept man or geisha boy, you call it.”
Pete said, “Not tonight.”
Peavy laughed. “Hey, he speaks.”
The desk phone rang. Peavy ignored it. He wiggled his feet. He toe-crawled. He nuzzled Pete’s thighs.
Pete lit a cigarette. “ ‘The film racket is implemented by Tijuana policemen, who employ and frequently coerce underaged girls.’ ”
Peavy wiggled his toes. “Shit, you had my hopes up. You know that song? ‘Someday he’ll come along, the man I love.’ ”
Pete turned out his pockets. Pete pulled out two hundred G’s—new K-notes all.
He dropped said money. He grabbed Peavy’s feet. He dropped them desk-adjacent.
“We need your Gaming and Liquor Board votes, and you get to keep a 5% interest.”
Peavy pulled a comb. Peavy puffed his spitcurl.
“I know shakedowns and legal forceouts intimately, so go to the next step and say you’ll blow up my cabs.”
Pete shook his head. “If I go to the next step, you lose the 5%.”
Peavy flipped Pete off. Pete yukked. Pete showed him three pix.
Rose Paolucci: in church. Rose Paolucci: blowing a bull mastiff. Rose Paolucci with her uncle—John Rosselli.
Peavy smirked—tee-hee-hee—Peavy focused in.
He went pale. He popped sweat. He tossed his dinner. He doused the switchboard. He soaked the phone. He grabbed the money wet.
Pete snagged the Rolodex. Pete grabbed Milt Chargin’s card.
They met at Sills’ Tip-Top. They talked shit. They noshed pancakes.
Milt was hip. I’m a comic. I gig local. Call me Mort Sahl unchained.
Milt knew Fred Otash. Milt knew Pete’s rep. Milt dug the scandal-rag days. Milt knew Moe D. Milt knew Freddy Turentine. Freddy bugged fag pads for Whisper.
Pete leveled. Pete said I bought Monarch. Pete said I need your help now.
Milt was glad. Monarch was a fruit bowl. Monarch was a fruit cocktail. You need some fruits. The fruit biz rocks. You don’t need a froufrou aesthetic.
Pete quizzed Milt. Milt leveled.
He eschewed the fruit scene. He eschewed the smut scene. He eschewed the froufrou aesthetic. He said he’d stay on. He made some suggestions.
Peavy owns the Cavern. That homo hut hops. Let’s junket the fruits to and fro. Let’s be careful. Let’s be cool. Let’s live with some froufrou aesthetics.
They talked shit. They discussed Peavy’s gigs. Some to eschew/some to enhance/some to revise.
Pete quizzed Milt. Pete said strut your stuff—play Mr. Vegas insider.
“I’m on the Strip, and I want to get laid for a hundred. Where do I go?”
“Try Louis at the Flamingo. He runs a fuck pad on the premises. You get an around-the-world for a C-note.”
“Suppose I want dark stuff?”
“You call Al at the chambermaids’ union. It’s good trim, if you don’t mind shtupping in a mop closet.”
“Who do I avoid?”
“Larry, at the Castaways. He runs drag queens in the guise of real women. The rule of thumb is, ‘Don’t trust what won’t disrobe.’ ”
“Suppose I want a three-way with two lezzies?”
“Go to the Rugburn Room. It’s a dyke den by day. Talk to Greta, the barkeep. She’ll set you up with two femmes for fifty. She’ll take pictures and give you the prints and negatives for an extra twenty. You know, souvenirs.”
“Sonny Tufts. What’s the story on him?”
“He bites showgirls on the thighs. The girls get rabies shots when they hear he’s in town.”
“John Ireland?”
“Whip-out man with an eighteen-inch schlong. He goes to nudist retreats and plies his trade. He creates lots of excitement.”
“Lenny Bruce?”
“Junkie and snitch for the L.A. County Sheriff’s.”
“Sammy Davis Jr.?”
“Switch-hitter. He digs tall blonds of both persuasions.”
“Natalie Wood?”
“Lez. Currently shacked with a WAC major named Biff.”
“Dick Contino?”
“Muff-diver and gamble-o-holic. In hock to the Chicago Cartel.”
“The best lounge show in Vegas?”
“Barb & the Bail Bondsmen. You think I don’t know which side I butter my bread on?”
“Name me one Mormon fat cat. You know, the ‘Mr. Big’ type.”
“How about Wayne Tedrow Senior? He’s a dreck merchant with oodles of gelt. His kid killed three shvoogs and walked on the beef.”
“Sonny Liston?”
“Drunk, hophead, whore chaser. Pal of the aforementioned shvoog-killer Wayne Tedrow Junior. Jesus, don’t get me going on Sonny.”
“Bob Mitchum?”
“Grasshopper.”
“Steve Cochran?”
“Rival to John Ireland’s crown.”
“Jayne Mansfield?”
“Shtupping the world.”
“Which local cab company handles the men in the State Legislature?”
“Rapid Cab. The State guys have an account.”
“What about the top guys at Nellis?”
“Ditto on Rapid. They’ve got some good fucking accounts.”
“Are they Outfit-connected?”
“No, they’re just schmucks who play by the rules.”
Pete smiled. Pete bowed. Pete displayed ten grand. Milt spilled his coffee. Milt burned his hands. Milt said, “Craaaaazy.”
Pete said, “That’s your signing bonus. You’re my new intelligence man.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/14/64. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Ward J. Littell.
JEH: Good morning, Mr. Littell.
WJL: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: Describe your southern excursion. I receive updates from my field agents, but I would appreciate a contrasting perspective.
WJL: Mr. Rustin was happy to receive my donation. He appeared to be pleased about the Civil Rights Bill and praised the Bureau’s presence in Mississippi.
JEH: Did you correct him and say “forced presence”?
WJL: I did, Sir. I stayed in character and credited President Johnson.
JEH: Lyndon Johnson needs wretched people to love him. He is quite undiscerning and promis
cuous in his need. He reminds me of King Jack and his lack of discernment with women.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I do not share Mr. Johnson’s need. I have a pet dog who fulfills my desire for unconsidered affection.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Mr. Johnson and the Dark Prince are determined to make martyrs of those missing youths. The ill-revered Reverend King must feel the same way.
WJL: I’m sure he does, Sir. I’m sure he sees the boys as Christian symbols.
JEH: I do not. I cast the State of Mississippi in the martyr’s role. Their sovereignty has been abrogated in the name of dubious “Rights,” and Lyndon Johnson has made me a reluctant accomplice.
WJL: I’m sure you’ll find ways to make up for it, Sir.
JEH: I will, indeed. You will help me, and you will perform your own acts of penance in an unfathomable and politically suspect manner.
WJL: You know me very well, Sir.
JEH: Yes, and I can decipher your inflections and determine when you wish to change the subject.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I’m listening, Mr. Littell. Ask any question or make any statement you wish.
WJL: Thank you, Sir. My first question pertains to Lyle and Dwight Holly.
JEH: Ask your questions. I find preambles boring and taxing.
WJL: Does Lyle share his SCLC intelligence with Dwight?
JEH: I do not know.
WJL: Is Dwight formally investigating Wayne Tedrow, Senior and/or Junior?
JEH: No, although I’m sure he’s keeping tabs on them in his uniquely persistent manner, an activity which I would be loath to discourage.
WJL: I may be co-opting several of Wayne Senior’s Mormons.
JEH: Into the Hughes organization?
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Now, or in due time?
WJL: Now.
JEH: Expand your answers, Mr. Littell. I have a lunch date for the Millennium.
WJL: The work I have in mind is potentially risky, especially if the Justice Department should go proactive in Las Vegas.
JEH: I do not dictate Justice Department policy. The FBI is but one cog in a much larger system, as Prince Bobby has pointed out to me on several repugnant occasions.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Tell me what you want, Mr. Littell.
WJL: I would like a provisional commitment. If the Mormons incur trouble, you could assess the situation and intercede on their behalf, or use their trouble to put Wayne Senior in your debt.
JEH: Do you want me to offer the Mormons covert protection?
WJL: No, Sir.
JEH: Will you inform Senior and the Mormons of the potential Federal risk?
WJL: The job description carries its own warning. I will not gild the lily beyond that.
JEH: And who will your co-opt strategy benefit?
WJL: Mr. Hughes and my Italian clients.
JEH: Feel free to proceed, then. And feel free to rely on my potential assistance.
WJL: Thank you, Sir.
JEH: Be sure that Mr. Hughes remains convincingly unaccountable.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell.
WJL: Good day, Sir.
47
(Las Vegas, 7/14/64)
Golf bored him. Wayne Senior insisted—I’m playing the DI.
Littell stood by the drink stand. Littell dodged the heat.
Vegas heat scalded. Vegas heat singed.
Some holes ran close. Littell watched the Tedrows play 8. Janice killed Wayne Senior. Janice parred and birdied. Janice drilled shots home.
She moved with grace. She flaunted her gray streak. She moved deft like Jane.
De Kalb scared him. De Kalb taught him:
You welcomed Jane’s lies. You set up truth points within. You rigged the lie game. You have no redress.
She trashed his lie aesthetic. She trashed embellishment. She co-opted memories. She furnished her past secondhand.
She lied. She embellished. She codified. He knew her solely through code. He couldn’t brace her honestly—he’d exploited her skills. She taught him to embezzle. She helped him bilk Howard Hughes.
The Tedrows played 9. Janice birdied it. Wayne Senior shot bogey. Janice walked to 10. A caddy met her. Wayne Senior waved to Littell.
He drove his cart up. He brodied on grass. The cart awning made some nice shade.
Littell leaned in. Wayne Senior smiled.
“Do you play?”
“No. I’ve never enjoyed athletics.”
“Golf is more of a business activity. Mr. Hughes could buy you less—”
“I want to co-opt three of your men. I can get them courier work now, and casino work when Mr. Hughes settles here.”
Wayne Senior twirled his putter. “ ‘Courier’ sounds euphemistic. Are you describing a security operation?”
“Yes, in a sense. The men would fly Hughes charters to various cities.”
“Out of McCarran?”
“I was hoping to run them out of Nellis.”
“For added security?”
“Yes. You have friends at Nellis, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t try to arrange it.”
A caddy yelled “Fore!” A ball dinged the cart.
Wayne Senior flinched. “I’ve got friends in food service and defense purchasing. General Kinman and I are close.”
“Would you call him a colleague?”
“Colleague and conduit, yes. He’s told me that Vietnam is about to get hot, and he’s one who should know.”
Littell smiled. “I’m impressed.”
Wayne Senior twirled the putter. “You should be. There’s going to be a staged naval event next month, which will help LBJ to escalate the war. Mr. Hughes should know that I know people who know things like that.”
Littell said, “He’ll be impressed.”
“He should be.”
“Have you considered my off—”
“What will the couriers be transporting?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“My men will tell me.”
“That would be their decision.”
“We’re talking about accountability, then.”
The awning fluttered. Littell blinked. The sun hit his eyes.
“Your men will be paid 10% of the value of each courier shipment. You can work out your cut at your discretion.”
Moe agreed to 15. He could pocket and tithe 5.
Wayne Senior squeezed a golf ball. Wayne Senior chewed on a tee.
Skim.
He knows it. He won’t say it. He’ll stay clean. He’ll risk his men instead.
Janice walked down 11. Her gray streak swirled. She dropped a ball. She set up. She winged a shot. She hit the cart clean.
Littell flinched. Janice laughed and waved.
Wayne Senior said, “I’m interested.”
48
(Las Vegas, 7/15/64)
The Deuce was dead.
The dealers yawned. The barman yawned. Stray dogs meandered through. They beat the heat. They scrounged cocktail nuts. They scrounged hugs and pets.
Wayne perched by the bar. Wayne nuzzled a Lab mix. The intercom kicked: “Wayne Tedrow. See the pit boss, please.”
Wayne walked over. The Lab tagged along. The pit boss yawned. The Lab pissed on a spittoon.
“You remember that colored guy? Ten, twelve days ago?”
“I remember.”
“Well, you should, ’cause you broke a whole lot of bones.”
Wayne flexed his hands. “It was a deterrent.”
“That’s your version, but the NAACP says it was an unprovoked assault, and they allegedly got two witnesses.”
“You’re saying it’s a lawsuit.”
The pit boss yawned. “I got to let you go, Wayne. They’re asking twenty grand from us and the same from you, and they’re hinting they might file on you for some other shit you done.”
“Cover yourself. I’ll take care of my end.”
Wayne Senior loved
it. Wayne Senior riffed:
Pay it off—don’t call Littell—he’s on their side.
The deck was hot. The air stung. Fireflies jumped.
Wayne Senior sipped rum. “You disarmed him and knee-dropped him. I’m curious about your justification.”
“I still think like a policeman. When he broke that bottle, he signaled his intent to hurt me.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “You revealed yourself with that answer.”
“You’re saying I still need a rationale.”
“I’m saying you’ve revised your basis for action. You err on the aggressive side now, which you—”
“Which I rarely did as a cop.”
Wayne Senior twirled his stick. “I want to pay off your suit. Will you accept the favor?”
“You can’t make me hate them like you do. Will you accept that?”
Wayne Senior flicked a wall switch. Cold air hissed out.
“Am I that predictable a father?”
“In some ways.”
“Can you predict my next offer?”
“Sure. It’s a job offer. It relates to your quasi-legal union or one of the fourteen casinos you own in violation of Nevada Gaming Commission law.”
Cold air swirled. Bugs beat their wings. Bugs evacuated.
“It sounds like you’ve investigated me.”
“I burned my file when I left the PD.”
“Your file on your fath—”
“You used to run card cheats out of rival casinos. A guy named Boynton and a guy named Sol Durslag, who works for the Clark County Liquor Board. You’ve got some Nellis guy in your pocket. You’re selling pilfered food and liquor to half the hotels on the Strip.”
Wayne Senior stretched. “You anticipated my offer. I need someone to run shipments to the hotels.”
Wayne counted fireflies. They jumped. They lit up. They fell.
“It’s ‘yes’ to both offers. Don’t let it go to your head.”
The Rugburn Room:
A hipster hive. Six tables/one stage. A beatnik gestalt.
Milt Chargin employed a duo. They were Miles Davis acolytes. They played bongos and bass sax.
Milt drew a hip crowd. Femme dykes served beer. Sonny Liston showed and dredged some cheers up.
Sonny hugged Wayne. Sonny sat down. Sonny met Barb and Pete. Sonny hugged them. They hugged Sonny. Sonny sized Pete up.
They arm-wrestled. Hipsters bet. Pete won two out of three.
