The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2
Page 40
There’s BLUE RABBIT. He’s Fed. Who else wants Chuck?
He called motels. He hit 28. He got nil results. The outside noise got bad—these loud Nigger! shouts.
Littell worked. Littell called motels. Littell got nil results. Motel 29. Motel 30. Motel 31-2-3.
Motel 34: “You’re the second guy askin’ about that Rogers an’ that car, but I ain’t seen him or it.”
The Moonbeam Motel/the Lark Motel/the Anchor Motel—nil results. The Dixie/the Bayou/the Rebel’s Rest:
“Office. May I help you?”
“This is Special Agent Brown, FBI.”
The guy laughed. “You come to curtail these agitators?”
“No, sir. It’s about something else.”
“That’s too bad, because—”
“I’m looking for a white man driving a 1953 Oldsmobile with Texas license plates.”
The man laughed. “Then you’re one lucky member of the Federal Bureau of Integration, ’cause he checked into room 5 yesterday.”
“What? Repeat th—”
“I got it right here. Charles Jones, Houston, Texas. ’53 Olds sedan, PDL-902. By my lights, he’s a mean motherhumper. Probably gargles with antifreeze and flosses with razor blades.”
Traffic crawled. The disruption ratched it up.
Sidewalk marches. Hecklers. TV crews out. Signs and countersigns. Shriekers with good lungs. Nonparticipants out for yuks.
Freedom Now!/Jim Crow Must Go!/Nigger Go Home! We shaaaall overcome! in re-run shouts.
Littell drove his rental car. Traffic slogged. Littell parked and walked. Egg crews roamed. White kids chucked eggs. They chucked at Negroes. They nailed perceived Feds.
Littell walked. Littell dodged eggs. Eggs hit marchers. Eggs hit picket signs.
Egg crews walked. Egg trucks roamed. Egg men trucked ammo. Eggs flew. Eggs hit doors. Eggs hit awnings and cars.
The marchers wore slickers. The slickers dripped yolk. The slickers dripped cracked shells. Cops stood around. Cops dodged eggs. Cops sucked Nehi and Coke.
Littell walked. Eggs creased him. Littell looked all-Fed.
He cut left. He walked two blocks. He passed two egg huts. Egg crews formed. Egg crews armed. Egg trucks loaded up.
He saw it—right there—the Rebel’s Rest.
One floor. Ten rooms. All street-view units. Rebel flag and rebel sign—neon Johnny Reb.
Parking slots/outdoor walkway/the office detached.
Littell palmed a credit card. Littell cut straight over. Littell saw room 5.
He knocked. He got no answer. No car in front/no people/no Olds 88.
He faced the street. He braced the door. He worked backwards. There now—by touch:
The jamb. The bolt. Wedge the card and slide it through fast.
He did it. The door popped. He fell backwards inside. He locked the door behind him. He hit the lights. He checked the room out.
One bed. One bathroom. One closet. One overnight bag on the floor.
He tossed the bag. He saw clothes and a razor. He saw hate tracts. He checked the closet. He checked the shelf. He saw a box of fuses—half full.
He saw a Mossberg pump. He saw a .45. He saw a .357 mag.
He grabbed the pump. He dumped the shells. He grabbed the .45. He popped the hot round. He popped the clip.
He grabbed the mag. He popped the cylinder. He dumped the shells. He pulled the rug up.
He hid the ammo. He shut the closet door. He killed the room lights. He sat down. He pulled his piece. He cocked the hammer.
He leaned on the bed. He faced the door. He counted rabbits full-out.
He dozed. He cramped up. He heard chants outside. Two words—say two blocks out.
“Freedom” and “nigger”—two words overlapped.
The sun arced—light cut through window shades—shades going black.
Littell dozed. Littell stirred. Littell heard siren bursts. Short bursts—per stalled traffic.
He got up. He walked outside. Tenants mingled. Tenants rebel-yelled.
A man laughed. A man went “Ka-pow!”
A man said, “A nigger church just went ka-blooey.”
Littell ran.
He cut left. He ran two blocks. He passed the egg huts. His coat flapped. His piece showed. Some egg men perked up.
They chucked eggs. They hit him. They dosed his pants. They grazed his head.
He hit the main drag. He cut right. He pushed through pickets. He ate eggs. He ate picket signs.
He slid. He hit eggshells. He tripped. A redneck kicked him. A marcher kicked him for kicks.
Horns. Sirens. Shouts—street blockade dead ahead. Egg trucks and egg men. An ambulance stalled and bucked.
Rednecks ran over. Marchers ran over. Fat cops ran up slow. They hit the blockade. They yelled. They shoved.
The blockade held. Pushing and shoving. Horns/sirens/shouts.
Littell got up. Littell dripped eggshells. Littell ran over fast. The cops saw him. Looks traveled—check Johnny Fed.
Littell pulled his badge. Littell pulled his gun. The cops smirked. The egg men smirked. The marchers stepped back.
Louder now: Yahoos and nigger yells. Horns/sirens/shouts.
Littell grabbed an egg man. Said egg man smirked. Littell smashed his face on his truck. He hit the door. He hit the ground. His false teeth popped out and cracked.
The egg men stepped back. The cops stepped back. The cops bumped the marchers. The cops brushed picket signs.
Littell cracked the door. Littell jerked the brake. The truck rolled. The truck hit a light pole. The ambulance swerved and cut through.
Littell stepped back. Eggs hit his glasses. Tobacco juice hit his shoes.
Gutted:
Scorched timber/wet timber/wet dirt. Two dead—a boy and his dad.
The bomb hit a 4:00 p.m. service. The bomb made a floorboard blast. It reached up. Pews shattered. Wood sheared.
Littell mingled.
He saw the meat wagons. He saw the dead. He saw a boy with no toes. He saw fire trucks. He saw TV trucks. He saw some Klan youth.
They kliqued up. They klanvoked. They klowned for kamera krews.
Littell mingled.
He drew stares. He smelled like egg. He dripped shells and yolk.
Some marchers showed. Some Feds showed. The marchers consoled the victims. Folks bled and wept.
Medics hauled gurneys. Medics hauled vics. Meat wagons hauled Code 3.
Littell tailed them. Littell watched them unload. Folks limped. Folks hobbled. That boy held his toes.
The clinic was old. The clinic was unkempt. A sign read Colored Only.
Littell watched. The Feds watched Littell. Nurses pushed IV stands. A woman fell. The toe boy convulsed.
Littell drove to a liquor store. Littell bought a pint of good scotch.
75
(Bogalusa, 6/21/65)
Radio rock:
Hatenanny stuff. “Who Needs Niggers?” and “Ship Those Niggers Back.” Katchy. Kool kombos. Kall-ins on K-L-A-N.
Pete dipped his seat. Wayne watched the door. Door 5—the Rebel’s Rest Motel.
Chuck was out. Pete was right. Chuck shagged to Bogalusa. Chuck diced his folks. Chuck stole their car. Chuck shagged his ass here.
They tossed the house. They found body parts. They found no hit notes. They drove east. They called motels. They found Chuck.
They drove fast. They drove fried. No sleep since Saigon. They stopped in Beaumont. They scored bennies. They revitalized.
Pete told Wayne the hit story. Pete spieled full disclosure.
He named names. He dropped details. He spieled perspective. He blew Wayne’s mind. He framed Wayne’s own Dallas tale.
Wayne talked up Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior fed the hit fund. Wayne Senior ran snitch-Klans. Wayne Senior ran Bob Relyea now.
Pete said it: Wayne Senior runs YOU.
Radio rock: Odis Cochran/the Coon Hunters/Rambunctious Roy.
Wayne flipped the dial. Wayne caught a newscas
t.
“… leaky pipe explosion at a Negro church outside Bogalusa, which civil-rights agitators have called a ‘bomb blast.’ A spokesman for the Federal Bureau of Integration said that early evidence points to a faulty gas main.”
Pete turned it off. “That’s the Feds. They got to the radio people.”
Wayne popped two bennies. “They know it’s Bob.”
Pete sipped RC. Bennies parched him bad.
“They’ve got a hunch, and they want to cover their bets. They didn’t tell him to do it, they didn’t want him to do it, but he figured he could get away with it, and if they made him for it, they’d let him slide and warn him not to do it again.”
Wayne watched the doors. Night-lights bipped above them. Doorways glowed blue.
“You think Bob’s with Chuck?”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “I hope not. I don’t want to kill a Federal employee who’s hooked up with your dad.”
Wayne grabbed the RC. “I don’t like the chronology. Chuck gets the letter, Chuck flies home and clips his parents. He’s probably got the journal, and he might’ve told Bob about the hit.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “We’ll ask him about that.”
Wayne sipped RC. An Olds pulled up. Pete made the plates: PDL-902.
Chuck got out. Chuck picked his teeth and swaggered. Chuck entered room #5.
Wayne said, “He’s alone.”
Pete popped two bennies. Wayne grabbed their guns. Pete tapped the silencers. They pulled up their shirttails. They stuffed the guns down. They covered the grips.
They walked over. The room-row rocked—shitkicker tunes and full tenancy.
Wayne tried the door. It was locked. Pete shouldered it. The jamb cracked. The lock split. They rode the door in. There’s this shit room—but where’s Ch—
Chuck exits a closet. Chuck has two guns. Chuck aims and fires. Two hammers click. Chuck fucking plotzes. Chuck fucking shits.
Pete charged him. Pete grabbed him. Pete threw him down. Wayne shut the door. Wayne tossed his cuffs. Pete snagged them.
Chuck crawled. Chuck tried to run. Pete grabbed his hair. Pete banged his head on the floor.
Wayne cuffed him. Pete picked him up. Pete threw him into a wall. He hit hard. He made dents. He hit the floor.
Wayne knelt down. “Did you tell Bob about Dallas?”
Chuck dribbled blood. “I told your daddy you’re a punk motherfucker.”
“Did you and Bob bomb that church?”
Chuck dribbled bile. “Ask Daddy Rabbit. Tell him Wild Rabbit’s his boy.”
Pete grabbed a hot plate. Pete plugged it in. Pete sparked the coils.
Wayne said, “Where’s the notes your parents found?”
Chuck pissed his pants. “Wild Rabbit says fuck you. Father Rabbit says he’s your daddy.”
Pete dropped the hot plate. It hit coil side down. It singed up Chuck’s hair.
Chuck screeched. The coil sizzled. Chuck yelled, “All right!”
Wayne grabbed the hot plate. Wayne grabbed a pillow. Wayne fluffed out Chuck’s hair.
Chuck dribbled blood. Chuck dribbled bile. Chuck rubbed his head on the floor.
“I … didn’t … tell Bob. I … I burned them notes.”
Pete cued Wayne. Wayne cranked the radio. Wayne reprised Rambunctious Roy:
“… White Man’s wise to Martin Luther Coon. Eatin’ watermelon in the month of June. Big teeth chompin’ sweet potato pie—”
Wayne pulled his piece. Pete pulled his piece. Chuck said, “No, please.”
The door creaked. The jamb snapped and sheared. Ward Littell walked in.
He was egg-spattered. He was blotto. He was non compos something. He put out booze breath.
Pete said, “Fuck.”
Wayne said, “Jesus Christ.”
Ward turned the music off. Ward walked up to Chuck. Chuck shit his pants. Chuck dribbled teeth.
Ward said, “Wild Rabbit.”
Chuck coughed. Chuck dribbled teeth.
“Wild Rabbit’s got the Federal pedig—”
Ward pulled his piece. Ward shot Chuck’s eyes out.
July 1965–November 1966
DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/2/65. Internal memorandum. To: Director. From: BLUE RABBIT. Topic: OPERATION BLACK RABBIT. Marked: “Stage-1 Covert”/“Eyes Only”/“Read and Burn.”
Sir,
Per the church bombing and related actions in Bogalusa, Louisiana.
Locally assigned agents have completed their internal investigation. They have reported to me orally, have filed no official reports and have confirmed the official judgment of the Bogalusa Police Department: that the “accidental explosion” was caused by a leaky pipe main. That judgment should stand as the authoritative verdict on this matter. It is crucial to the continued success of the WHITE-HATE arm of OPERATION BLACK RABBIT.
I’ve spoken to WILD RABBIT. His denials of complicity in the bombing were not convincing. I warned him that church bombings were outside his operating parameters and that no such incidents should happen again. WILD RABBIT seemed cowed and did not protest the reprimand. It should be noted that his arms bore odd bruises and that in fact he seemed to have sustained a recent beating.
WILD RABBIT refused to comment on his bruises and overall beaten appearance. I queried him on the possible presence of his known Vietnam associate Charles Rogers per the time of the church incident, and WILD RABBIT became visibly upset. It should be noted: The dismembered bodies of Rogers’ elderly parents were found in their Houston, Texas, home on 6/23, and Rogers (who cannot be located) is the leading suspect in this double homicide. I checked Vietnamese-U.S. passport records for the two weeks preceding the assumed date-of-death, learned that Rogers flew from Saigon to Houston on 6/15 and that the cargo on his flight included bomb material. It is my belief that Rogers supplied the explosives for the bombing and that WILD RABBIT assisted him in this unsanctioned provocation.
It should also be noted that local agents spotted CRUSADER RABBIT at the Negro hospital shortly after the bombing. He was visibly distraught and of unkempt appearance. I checked region-wide flight and car-rental records and learned that CRUSADER RABBIT flew from Las Vegas to New Orleans and drove to Bogalusa. I consider it likely that he met his client Carlos Marcello in New Orleans and took advantage of its proximity to Bogalusa.
I view CRUSADER RABBIT’s trip to Bogalusa as fully in character, and it does not surprise me that he wished to view the planned civil-rights agitation in person. Please respond per CRUSADER RABBIT.
Respectfully,
BLUE RABBIT
DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/6/65. Internal memorandum. To: BLUE RABBIT. From: Director. Topic: OPERATION BLACK RABBIT. Marked: “Stage-1 Covert”/“Eyes Only”/“Read and Burn.”
BLUE RABBIT,
Take all measures to see that the accidental explosion verdict is sustained in the Bogalusa case. Allow WILD RABBIT to claim credit for the “Bombing” and thus gain credibility for his new Klan unit. Continue to discourage WILD RABBIT from committing acts of violence outside his operating parameters.
I agree: CRUSADER RABBIT’s presence in Bogalusa was entirely in character, albeit marginally disturbing. CRUSADER RABBIT is a close associate of Pete Bondurant, who is a close associate of Charles Rogers.
The confluence troubles me. Have Los Angeles and Nevada-based agents tail CRUSADER RABBIT at irregular intervals. Initiate trash and mail covers at his Los Angeles and Las Vegas residences.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/8/65. Internal memorandum. To: Director. From: BLUE RABBIT. Topic: OPERATION BLACK RABBIT. Marked: “Stage-1 Covert”/“Eyes Only”/“Read and Burn.”
Sir,
I’ve talked to WHITE RABBIT. He told me he’ll be taking a Las Vegas vacation soon. Should I have him meet with CRUSADER RABBIT and judiciously assess his state of mind?
Respectfully,
BLUE RABBIT
DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/10/65. Internal memorandum. To: BLUE RABBIT. From: Director. Topic: OPERATION BLACK RABBIT. Marked: “Stage-1 Cov
ert”/“Eyes Only”/“Read and Burn.”
BLUE RABBIT,
Yes. Have WHITE RABBIT contact CRUSADER RABBIT during his stay in Las Vegas.
76
(Port Sulphur, 7/14/65)
Prospects: Gaspar Fuentes/Miguel Díaz Arredondo. Cubano/anti-Beard/allegedly pro-Tigre.
Flash boated to Cuba. Flash found them. Flash boated them out. Flash praised their skills. Flash praised their pidgin English. Flash praised their balls.
The venue: a cinder-block shack/10-by-10/a heat sponge. Two electric chairs—straps and hoods—bought from Angola Pen. A dynamo/two chair feeds/two polys.
Flash strapped Fuentes. Laurent G. strapped Arredondo. Wayne and Mesplède watched.
Shots popped outside. Troopers hit targets. Tiger South—Kamp with a “K.” Exiles in residence—sixty strong—kadre-adjunct/kadre-armed/kadre-fed.
Flash rigged the needles. Laurent pumped the cuffs. Wayne watched. Wayne drifted off.
We’re in Port Sulphur. Go north a bit—you’ll hit Bogalusa.
Littell shoots Chuck. Littell’s drunk. Littell vows sobriety. Pete consoles him: I’ll dump Chuck and brace WILD RABBIT. Wild Bob’s Fed now. He’s Wayne Senior’s boy.
Flash ran the polys. Laurent ran the quiz: Do you drink water? Is your shirt blue? Do you hate Fidel Castro?
Needle dip—short—no lies.
Port Sulphur—stone’s throw to Bogalusa.
They drove Chuck around. They found a swamp. They dumped Chuck in. Gators ate him. Wayne and Pete watched.
Wayne toured the hospital. Wayne saw the bomb damage. Wayne saw a boy minus toes.
Pictures. Add-on shots. Let’s augment your Bongo pix. Let’s augment Wendell D. Pictures: The icebox/Chuck’s parents/those big gator teeth.
Flash ran the polys. Laurent ran the quiz: Are you a spy? Do you serve the Cuban militia?
Needle dip—short—no lies.
Wayne drifted. Wayne yawned. The stateside runs bored him. He missed Saigon. He missed the lab. He missed the war and the threat.
Are you anti-Communisto? Are you pro-Tigre? Will you serve El Gato supreme?
Needle dip—short—no lies.
Flash smiled. Laurent smiled. Mesplède up and cheered.