by James Ellroy
His headache dimmed—Godzilla to King Kong. He found some gin. He dosed it more—King Kong to Rodan.
He searched the pad. He tossed the pad. He faked a B&E. He trashed the bedroom. He trashed the kitchen. He searched the file sleeves. He found clips. He found notes. He found a folder marked “Book.”
Sixteen pages/typed text. Conspiracy—shit.
Pete skimmed the file. The story wandered. The gist cohered.
Wendell Durfee was a “dumb pimp.” He was “too dumb to kill Maynard Moore.” Moore had a temp job. Moore had a partner: Wayne Tedrow Junior/LVPD.
Koethe knew Sergeant A. V. Brown. Sergeant Brown said:
“There was bad blood between Moore & Junior. They got in a ruckus at the Adolphus Hotel. Moore allegedly failed to show up for a meeting with Junior. I think Junior killed him, but I’ve got no proof.”
Koethe knew a Fed man. Koethe quoted said Fed:
“Tedrow Senior ran snitch-Klan informants. Maynard Moore reported to him, so I think it’s a hell of a coincidence that Moore and Tedrow Junior got assigned together that weekend.”
Koethe riffed:
Moore knew J. D. Tippit. They were “Klanned-up.” Moore knew Jack Ruby. Moore dug on the Carousel Club.
Koethe riffed off Ruby. Koethe quoted a “Secret Source”:
“Jack brought some people by this safe house where the hit team was holed up. It might’ve been North Texas or Oklahoma, and it might’ve been some kind of motel or a hunting lodge. I think it was Jack and two women and maybe Hank Killiam. I think they saw some things they shouldn’t.”
Koethe riffed. Koethe listed Jack Ruby KAs. Starred names: Jack Zangetty/Betty McDonald/Hank Killiam. Koethe listed footnotes—newspaper-sourced:
Jack Zangetty disappears—Xmas ’63. Jack washes out of Lake Lugert. Betty McDonald/suicide—2/13/64. Hank Killiam/suicide—3/17/64.
Jim Koethe—verbatim: “Who was the other woman at the safe house?”
Koethe riffs. Koethe thinks the “hit team” disbanded. “They had to leave Dallas. They might have crossed the Mexican border.” Koethe secures a “Border-Patrol Source.” Said source secures a passport-stop list.
The dates: 11/23–12/2/63.
Koethe works the list. Koethe taps “Secret Sources.” Koethe runs 89 names. Koethe nails “a major suspect.”
Jean Philippe Mesplède/white male/age 41. Born: Lyon, France. Ex–French Army/ex–OAS trigger.
Mesplède has “right-wing ties.” Mesplède has “ties to Cuban exile groups.” Mesplède’s current address: 1214 Ciudad Juarez/Mexico City.
The pro shooter was French. Chuck Rogers said so. Chuck said he walked over the border.
Pete skimmed pages. The text decohered. Koethe’s logic went south.
Let’s link Oswald and Ruby. Let’s link Oswald and Moore. Let’s link Lady Bird Johnson. Let’s link Karyn Kupcinet.
Pete skimmed pages. Shit decohered. Let’s link Dorothy Kilgallen. Let’s link Lenny Bruce. Let’s link Mort Sahl.
Pete skimmed pages. Shit recohered—FUCK—
There’s a mug shot. It’s file exhibit A. It’s Kansas City PD sourced—3/8/56.
It’s Arden-Jane. Arden Elaine Bruvick then. Felony bounce—“Receipt of Stolen Goods.”
One mug shot. Attached notes. “Confidential” tips:
Jack Ruby’s bookkeeper splits Dallas. Her name is Arden Smith. She went to the safe house. She saw things she shouldn’t. She split Big D. for good.
Koethe worked the name “Arden.” Koethe logged tips and tapped sources. This guy knew that guy. That guy knew this. A guy glommed a mug shot. Some guys glommed some tales.
Such as:
Arden went through men. Arden had a husband. Said hubby was a Teamster. Said hubby ran the K.C. local.
Said hubby had accounting skills. Said hubby went to school in Mississippi. Said hubby was anti-Hoffa. Said hubby stole some Teamster funds.
Arden was bent. Arden trucked with whores. Arden was tight with two sisters: Pat and Pam Clunes.
The Arden notes stopped. The “Book” notes stopped. The file dead-ended. Pete felt dizzy. Pete took his pulse—1-fucking-63.
He bagged the file. He checked the drawers. He checked bookshelves and cabinets. No duplicates/no stash of loose clips.
He retossed the crib. He grid-searched it. He re-retossed it. He detossed it quick.
He trashed. He tidied. He worked fast. He worked fastidious.
He tossed the medicine chest. He restacked the shelves. He debuilt and rebuilt the toilet. He tapped the walls. He pulled up rugs. He laid them back straight. He slit-checked the chairs. He slit-checked the sofa. He slit-checked the bed.
No slits. No stash holes. No duplicates extant. No stash of loose clips.
He popped some Bayer’s. He chased them with gin. He dredged up some guts. Queers overkilled queers. It was standard cop wisdom. All cops knew it.
He got a knife. He stabbed Jim Koethe ninety-four times.
South—80 miles per hour plus.
He took I-35. He cut through shit suburbs. He smelled like blood and gin. He smelled like Jim Koethe’s shampoo.
He passed rest stops. He passed campgrounds. He saw kids’ swings and bar-b-que pits. A car laid back—ten car lengths—it spooked him.
He ran tail riffs. He ran no-tail riffs. 4:00 a.m.—one highway/two cars.
His headache rehit. It built and mushroomed. King Kong greets Rodan.
He saw a camp sign. He pulled down a ramp. He saw a grill pit and tables. He nosed up. He killed his lights. He worked in the dark.
He dumped Koethe’s file. He filled the pit. He siphoned gas and doused it. He lit a match and got a big whooooosh.
The flames built. The flames leveled off. The heat torqued his headache. It was monster. It was Godzilla-plus. It was the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Pete ran to his car. Pete swerved up the ramp. Pete hit the highway. Let’s ditch Big D. Let’s sedate forever. Let’s eat secobarbital. Let’s geez hair-o-wine.
That car laid back. It’s a spaceship. The driver’s King Kong. He’s got X-ray eyes. He knows you killed Koethe and Betty.
Pete got dizzy. The windshield vaporized. It’s a porthole/it’s a sieve. The road dropped. It’s an inkwell. It’s the Black Lagoon.
The Creature bit his head. Pete puked on the wheel.
There’s a ramp. It’s dropping. There’s a sign:
HUBBARD, TEX, POP 4001.
Japs. Slice cords. Betty Mac. Slant eyes/crossbars/capris.
It came. It went. Roads dropped. Roads resurfaced. Ink blots and lagoons.
He came. He went. He felt Frankensteined. Sutures and staples. Green walls and white sheets.
Behold the Body Snatchers. Behold Doc Frankenstein:
You’re lucky. A man found you. It’s been five days now. God must love you—you cracked up near St. Ann’s.
Doc had acne scars. Doc had halitosis. Doc had a drawl.
It’s been six days. We cut a fat pad from your head—it was benign. I bet you had some darn bad headaches.
Don’t worry now—that man in the car called your wife.
They brought him back.
Frankenstein came. Frankenstein went. Nuns fluttered and fussed. Don’t hurt me—I’m Protestant French.
Frank destapled him. Nuns shaved him. He dehazed. He saw razors and hands. He rehazed. He saw Japs and Betty.
Hands fed him soup. Hands touched his dick. Hands jabbed tubes in. The haze sputtered. Words filtered through. Decrease his dose—don’t addict him.
He dehazed. He saw faces:
Student nuns—the brides of Frankenstein. A slight man—Ivy League threads—John Stanton-like. Memory Lane: Miami/white horse/Outfit-Agency ops.
He squinted. He tried to talk. Nuns went ssshhh.
He rehazed. He dehazed. He dehazed for real. Stanton was real—dig his tan—dig his drip-dry suit.
Pete tried to talk. His throat clogged. He hocked phlegm. His dick burned. He pulled his catheter out.
/>
Stanton smiled. Stanton pulled his chair up.
“Sleeping Beauty awakes.” Pete sat up.
Pete stretched his IV taut.
“You were tailing me. You saw me go off the road.”
Stanton nodded. “And I called Barb and told her you were safe, but you couldn’t have visitors yet.”
Pete rubbed his face. “What are you doing here?”
Stanton winked. Stanton popped his briefcase. Stanton pulled out Pete’s gun.
“You rest. The doctor said we’ll be able to talk tomorrow.”
They grabbed a bench. They lugged it outside. Stanton wore a drip-dry. Pete wore a robe.
He felt okay. Headaches—adieu.
He called Barb yesterday. They caught eight days up. Barb was okay. Stanton prepared her. Barb held in tough.
He read the Times-Herald. He got the gist. The Koethe snuff came and went. DPD worked it. DPD hassled queers. DPD cut them loose. The case vibed open file. It’s a queer job—fuck it.
The Morning News ran a piece. They ragged Koethe. They ragged his “wild talk.” Koethe was a perennial crank. Koethe was a “conspiracy nut.”
He burned Koethe’s notes. The Arden dirt went up. He debated. He decided—don’t tell Ward Littell.
It was sketchy dirt—fill it out first.
A nun walked by—a sweet number—Stanton studied her.
“Jackie Kennedy wore hats like that.”
“She wore one to Dallas.”
Stanton smiled. “You’re a fast study.”
“I took Latin in school. I know what ‘quid pro quo’ means.”
The nun smiled. The nun waved and giggled. Stanton was cute. Stanton lived on salads and martinis.
“Did you hear about that reporter who got killed? I heard he was writing a book.”
Pete stretched. A head stitch popped loose.
“Let’s start over. You were tailing me. You saved my life. I said thank you.”
Stanton stretched. His shoulder rig showed.
“We know that some Agency men were at least peripheral to the Kennedy thing. We’re pleased with the result, we have no desire to dispute the Warren Report, but for deniability’s sake, we’d like a rough sketch.”
Pete stretched. A stitch popped. Pete rubbed his head. Pete said, “Cuba.”
Stanton smiled. “That’s not much.”
“It says it all. You know who he fucked with, you know who had the money and the means. You saved my life, so I’ll be generous. You’ve met and worked with half the personnel.”
The bench was damp. The slats sustained doodles. Stanton drew stars. Stanton wrote “CUBA.”
Pete rubbed his head. A stitch unraveled.
“Okay, I’ll play.”
Stanton drew stars. Stanton put “!” after CUBA.
“Jack broke our hearts. Now Johnson’s compounding the hurt.”
Pete drew “?” Stanton crossed it out.
“Johnson’s quits on the Cause. He thinks it’s a loser and he knows it got Jack killed. He’s fucked the Agency out of our Cuban ops budget, and some colleagues of mine think it’s time to circumvent his policy.”
Pete drew “!” Pete drew “$.” Stanton crossed his legs. His ankle rig showed.
“I want to bring you to Vietnam. I want you to move Laotian heroin back to the States. I’ve got a team set up in Saigon. It’s all Agency and South Vietnamese Army. You can recruit your own team on both ends. Dope has financed a dozen Vietnamese coups, so let’s make it work for the Cause.”
Pete shut his eyes. Pete ran newsreels. The French lose Algiers. The French lose Dien Bien Phu.
Et le Cuba sera notre grande revanche.
Stanton said, “You funnel the dope to Las Vegas. I’ve consulted Carlos on that aspect. He thinks he can get the Outfit to rescind their no-dope rule, if you push exclusively to Negroes. We want you to set up a system, buy off the key cops and limit your street exposure to the last two links on the distribution chain. If the Vegas operation flies, we’ll expand to other cities. And 65% of the profits will go to worthy exile groups.”
Pete stood up. Pete swayed. Pete threw hooks and jabs and popped stitches.
A nun walked by. She saw Pete. She got spooked. She crossed herself.
C’est un fou.
C’est un diable.
C’est un monstre Protestant.
56
(Las Vegas, 9/30/64)
Break time—4:00 p.m. sharp.
He put his work down. He made coffee. He sat outside his suite. He played the news. He watched the course. Janice played most days.
She’d see him. She’d wave. She’d yell epigrams. She’d say, “You don’t like my husband.” She’d say, “You work too hard.”
Janice played scratch golf. Janice moved lithe. She’d hit shots. Her skirts would hike. Her calves would bunch and stretch.
Littell watched 6. Littell played the news. LBJ barnstormed Virginia. Bobby barnstormed New York.
Janice played 6. Janice outdrove her friends. She saw him. She waved. She yelled.
She said, “My husband fears you.” She said, “You need some rest.”
Littell laughed. Littell waved. Janice aced a shot.
Jane feared Vegas. The Boys ran the town. Janice was Vegas direct. He enjoyed his glimpses. He took them to bed. He put Janice’s body on Jane.
The news went off. Janice parred 6 and waved. Littell walked inside. Littell wrote appeal briefs.
Jimmy Hoffa was through. The Boys knew it. Carlos soldiered for Jimmy. Carlos dunned donations. Carlos built a Help Jimmy Fund. It was futile. It was hopeless. Their bribe roll had crapped out.
Littell put his brief down. Littell grabbed his bankbooks. Littell ran figures and totaled his tithes.
Glad tidings:
The bagmen aced Wayne Senior. The bagmen stole his skim fees. The bagmen were duplicitous. The bagmen were good. The bagmen were Mormon-rowdy.
He directed them. He ran the skim. He wrote fictive reports. He lied to Drac. He embezzled Drac. He sucked Drac’s blood.
The bagmen bagged. The bagmen moved six hundred grand—two weeks’ worth of skim. He took his 5%. He fed his Chicago account. He opened accounts in Silver Spring and D.C. He used fake ID. He laundered the cash. He tithed the SCLC.
He wrote tithe checks. Five grand per. He wrote them under pseudonyms. He print-wiped the envelopes.
Drac and the Boys meet Dr. King—We Shall Overcome.
His desk phone rang. He grabbed it.
“Yes?”
Static hiss—long distance. A garbled Pete: “Ward, it’s me.”
The hiss built. The line buzzed. The hiss leveled flat.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in Mexico City. I’m losing the fucking connection, and I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“I need Wayne to cut the apron strings and come to work for me.”
Littell said, “With pleasure.”
57
(Las Vegas, 9/30/64)
Janice fucked Clark Kinman. Wayne watched.
She left the lights on. She knew he was there. She rode Kinman. She showed her backside.
Wayne braced the mirror. Wayne sipped Wayne Senior’s scotch. It was her sixth show. It was his sixth hide-and-see.
He surveilled the motel. Janice fucked every night. Wayne Senior caught her most times. The gigs were synced. Ditto the arrivals.
Kinman shows at 9:00. Janice shows at 9:10. Wayne Senior shows at 9:40. Kinman comes to fuck. Janice comes to act. Kinman co-stars unasked.
She fucked in the dark for Wayne Senior. She fucked in the light for Wayne.
He thought it out.
She saw him at Nellis. She knew him. She knew he’d break in. He’d log Wayne Senior’s routine. He’d seize on his off nights and LOOK.
Janice bent back. Her hair flew. Wayne saw her face topsy-turvy. The speaker popped. Kinman moaned. Kinman said dumb sex things.
Janice bent up. Janice raised her hips. Wayne saw Kinma
n inside her.
Sol Durslag checked out. The Vegas Sun ran the story. May ’55—Wardell Gray/tenor sax. Beaten dead/body dumped/sand dune/DOA. No suspects—case closed.
Janice bent back. Her hair dropped. Wayne saw her eyes upside down.
Kinman moaned per I’m-coming. Kinman said dumb sex things. Janice grabbed a pillow. Janice muzzled him.
His toes curled. His knees contracted. His feet clenched. Janice rolled clear and free.
Kinman dumped the pillow. Kinman smiled and scratched his balls. Kinman tapped his Saint Chris on a chain.
They talked. Their lips moved. The speaker fuzzed sighs.
Kinman kissed his Saint Chris. “I always wear this for protection. Sometimes I think you’re likely to kill me.”
Janice sat up. Janice faced the mirror-wall.
Kinman said, “Wayne Senior should take better care of you. Shit, I think we’ve gone sixteen days straight.”
Janice winked. Janice said, “You’re the best.”
“Tell true. Is he good?”
“No, but he’s got qualities.”
“You mean money.”
“Not exactly.”
“He’s got to have something, or you’d’ve found yourself a steady before me.”
Janice winked. “I’ve sent out invitations, but nobody knocked on my door.”
“Some boys don’t know how to read signs.”
“Some boys need to look first.”
“Shit, if your hubby could see you now.”
Janice raised her voice. Janice talked overt slow.
“I had a thing with a musician once. Wayne Senior found out.”
“What did he do?”
“He killed him.”
“Are you ribbing me?”
“Absolutely not.”
Kinman kissed his Saint Chris. “You’ll be the ruin of me. Shit, and I thought Junior was the only killer in the family.”
Janice got up. Janice walked to the mirror.
She primped. She fogged the glass. She licked a finger. She drew arrows and hearts.
A dust storm kicked through. Hot winds kicked sand and sagebrush.
Wayne drove to the ranch. Wayne walked to the guest house. Wayne saw a stray car en route.
There’s Ward Littell.
He ducked the wind. He blocked Wayne’s door. He looked sandblown and storm-fucked.
