The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  Lyle slapped his forehead. Lyle moved his lips. Littell watched. Littell read his lips. Lyle said, “Oh, shit.”

  Schizo/comrades/young meat.

  Lyle might keep private files. Said files might indict. Said files might indict BLACK RABBIT.

  Lyle looked around. Lyle saw Littell. Lyle waved his checkbook. Littell waved and nodded.

  Lyle walked to the cage. Lyle grabbed the grate. Lyle wrote a check. Lyle fumbled chips.

  Their waitress walked by. Littell stopped her.

  “My friend’s on the floor. Bring him a triple Johnnie Walker.”

  She nodded. She smiled. Littell gave her ten bucks. She walked to the bar. She poured the drink. She trekked the floor. She hit the roulette stands. She saw Lyle and fueled him.

  Lyle guzzled scotch. Lyle stacked his chips. Red chips—hundreds—big stacks.

  The wheelman bowed. The wheelman twirled. The wheel spun. The wheel stopped. The wheelman raked chips.

  Lyle slapped his forehead. Lyle moved his lips. Littell watched. Littell read his lips. Lyle said, “Oh, shit.”

  Littell walked over. Littell passed the waitress. Littell slid her ten bucks. She nodded. She got it. She smirked.

  Lyle walked up. Lyle killed his drink. Lyle chewed the ice.

  “I’m down, but I’m not licked, and I’ve got resources.”

  “You were always resourceful, Lyle.”

  Lyle laughed. Lyle swayed half-blotto. Lyle burped.

  “You’re patronizing me. It’s that saintly quality that Dwight hates about you.”

  Littell laughed. “I’m no saint.”

  “No, you’re not. Martin Luther Coon’s the only saint I know, and I’ve got some hair-curling shit on him.”

  The waitress swooped by. Lyle grabbed his refill.

  “Hair-curling. Or hair-kinking, in his case.”

  Work him—slow now—ease in.

  “You mean Mr. Hoover has shit.”

  Lyle swirled scotch. “He’s got his, I’ve got mine. I’ve got a big stash at my place in L.A. Mine’s better, ’cause I’ve got daily access to Saintly Marty himself.”

  Tweak him—slow now—ease in.

  “Nobody has better intelligence than Mr. Hoover.”

  “Shit, I do. I’m saving it for my next contract powwow. I tell my handler, ‘You want the goods, you raise my pay—no tickee, no washee.’ ”

  Sammy Davis walked by. Lyle bumped into him. Sammy swerved. Sammy goofed—cat, you are blitzed!

  Lyle swerved. Lyle slugged scotch. Lyle pinched a zit on his chin.

  “White chicks dig him. He must be hung.”

  Fumes glowed. Mash and smoke—86 proof. Littell salivated. Littell stepped away.

  Lyle pulled two checkbooks—both embossed—“L.H.” and “SCLC.” He kissed them. He slung them. He drew them quick-draw style. He twirled them and aimed.

  “I’ve got a lucky feeling, which means I just might have to float a loan from the civil-rights movement.”

  Littell smiled. Lyle weaved. Lyle settled. Lyle walked off blitzed.

  Littell watched.

  Lyle braced the cage. Lyle showed a checkbook—blue for SCLC. Lyle wrote a check. Lyle kissed said check. Lyle fumbled chips.

  Reds—ten stacks—five G’s.

  Slow now—ease in—this is for real.

  Littell walked to the phone stand. Littell grabbed a booth. He picked up. The line clicked active. He got service quick.

  “Desert Inn. How may I help you?”

  “It’s Littell, suite 108. I need an outside line to Washington, D.C.”

  “The number, please.”

  “EX4-2881.”

  “Please hold. I’ll connect you.”

  The line buzzed—long-distance coming—static popped and clicked. Littell looked around. Littell saw Lyle. Lyle’s at a crap table. Lyle’s stacking chips.

  The shooter rolls. Lyle slaps his forehead. Lyle says, “Oh, shit.”

  Static clicked. The call clicked in. Mr. Hoover said, “Yes?”

  Littell said, “It’s me.”

  “Yes? And the purpose of this unsolicited contact?”

  “White Rabbit suggested a meeting. He arrived at the Desert Inn drunk. He’s running up a casino debt with SCLC money.”

  The line fuzzed. Littell cleared the cord. Littell slapped the receiver. There’s Lyle. Lyle’s at the cage. Lyle’s ecstatic. Lyle’s got more chips.

  Reds—high stacks—maybe ten G’s.

  The line fuzzed. The line popped. The line cleared.

  Mr. Hoover said, “Cut off his credit and get him out of Las Vegas immediately.”

  The line fuzzed. The call faded. Littell heard hang-up clicks. There’s Lyle. Lyle’s at a crap table. Lyle’s in a crowd. Lyle’s stacking chips.

  Sammy Davis bows. Sammy Davis prays. Sammy Davis rolls the dice. The crowd cheers. Lyle cheers. Sammy Davis genuflects.

  Littell walked over. Littell pushed his way in.

  Lyle crowded Sammy. Lyle played Sammy’s foil. Sammy goofed on the white freak. He winked at a blonde. He flicked lice off his coat. He went ick.

  Red chips down—pass-line bets—all Lyle’s money. Good money—Lyle’s up twenty G’s.

  Sammy gets the dice. Sammy holds them out. Lyle blows wet kisses. Sammy goofs on Lyle—he’s a Rat Pack reject—the crowd genuflects.

  Sammy rolls. Sammy hits 7. Lyle hits forty G’s. The crowd cheers. Lyle hugs Sammy. Sammy grabs the dice.

  Lyle blows on them. Lyle drools on them. Lyle genuflects. Sammy pulls a handkerchief. Sammy makes entertainment. Sammy wipes said dice.

  Sammy rolls. Sammy hits 7. Lyle hits eighty G’s. The crowd cheers. Lyle hugs Sammy. Lyle snuffs his cigarette.

  Sammy grabs the dice. Lyle shoves up close. Sammy steps way back. The blonde horns in. Sammy grabs her. Sammy rubs the dice on her dress.

  The crowd laughs. Lyle says something. Littell caught “coon” or “kike.”

  Sammy rolls. Sammy makes 9. Sammy craps dead out. Sammy shrugs—life’s a crapshoot, baby. The crowd claps and laughs.

  The dealer raked in—all Lyle’s chips—big ten grand stacks. Lyle killed his drink. Lyle dropped his glass. Lyle sucked cracked ice. The crowd dispersed. Sammy walked. The blonde chased his back.

  Lyle walked. Lyle staggered. Lyle lurched. Lyle navigated. Lyle tried handholds. Lyle grabbed at slot-machine racks.

  He lurched. He made the cage. Littell cut in sidelong. Littell mimed cut him off. Lyle bumped the window. The cashier shook his head. Lyle kicked a slot machine rack.

  Littell grabbed him. Littell steered him. Littell walked him half-slack. Lyle went limp. Lyle tried to talk. Lyle blathered mumbo-jumbo.

  They crossed the floor. They got outside. They made the parking lot. Hot skies—blowtorch time—dry Vegas heat.

  Lyle passed out. Littell hauled him—dead weight.

  He picked his coat pockets. He checked his billfold. He got his address and car stats: Merc coupe/’61/CAL-HH-492.

  Littell looked around. Littell saw the car. Littell lugged Lyle Holly slack. Lyle was small—one-forty tops—slack weight but light.

  He made the car. He rolled down the windows. He rolled Lyle in and made him comfy. He pushed the seat back.

  L.A.—five hours tops.

  Lyle would sleep in his car. Lyle would rouse. Lyle would rouse in the DI lot. Lyle gambled compulsive. Lyle knew the drill:

  First they vet you. Then you lose. Then they check your money.

  Lyle lost his own coin. Lyle lost the SCLC’s. The DI calls fast. The SCLC stops payment. Lyle lives in D.C. Lyle lives in L.A. Casino collectors move. Said collectors hit L.A. first.

  Said collectors break laws routinely. Said collectors seize assets. Said collectors kick ass.

  Littell drove. His car overheated. Littell drove I-10 west.

  He gauged time. He knew booze regimens. He knew pass-outs and wake-ups. He knew pass-out stats.

  Three hours—four tops. Lyle wakes up/Where am I?/Oh fuck.


  The desert torched. Heat rays jumped. The heat gauge swerved. Littell made Baker. The heat ebbed. Littell made San Berdoo.

  He made Redlands. He made Pomona. He made L.A. He drove one-handed. He read street maps. He logged a route.

  Lyle lived on North Ivar. It was downscale Hollywood—a cul-de-sac chute.

  He ditched the freeway. He took side streets. He looped through Hollywood. There—North Ivar/2200.

  Small houses. Sun-scorched awnings. Drab pastel paint. 7:10/summer dusk/quiet.

  A cul-de-sac. An end-of-block barrier: a fence and a cliff.

  Littell cruised slow. Littell read curb plates. Littell read numbers. Lyle’s house—there:

  2209. Brown lawn. Peach paint weather-stripped.

  He parked two doors down. He got out and popped his trunk. He grabbed a crowbar. He walked up. He looked around. He saw no eyeball wits.

  Hardwood door/strong jambs/good fittings.

  He worked the crowbar. He tapped the jamb. He leaned hard. He made slack. He wedged his blade in.

  He pushed. He shoved. He applied. Wood cracked. Wood splintered. Wood sheared.

  He regripped. He rewedged. He snapped the bolt. He popped the door. He stepped inside and shut himself in.

  He brushed the walls. He tripped switches. He got lights.

  WHITE RABBIT’s den:

  Dusty and musty. Beaten-down bachelorized.

  Living room. Kitchen. Side doors. Gag wall prints—dogs at card games and dogs in black tie. Faux-leather couches. Faux-leather ottomans. Faux-leather chairs.

  Littell prowled. Littell checked the kitchen. Littell checked the bedroom and den.

  Old fixtures. Cold cuts and liquor. Ratty drawers and cupboards. Undusted shelves.

  More prints—dogs at stag nights and dogs ogling chicks.

  One desk. One file drawer. Please: No wall panels or safes.

  Now: Trash it first.

  Littell put gloves on. Littell grid-worked. Littell trashed systematic.

  He dumped drawers. He scattered clothes. He stripped the bed. He found a German Luger. He found Nazi flags. He found Nazi hats. He bagged them in a pillowcase. They played burglar swag.

  He found a Nazi dagger. He found Krugerrands. He found a Jap knife. He bagged them in a loose sheet. They played burglar swag.

  He popped the fridge. He dumped the cold cuts. He dumped the booze. He swung the crowbar. He ripped up the couches. He sliced up the chairs.

  He dumped the kitchen cabinet. He found a Mauser pistol. He found a Nazi knife. He bagged them in a paper bag. They played burglar swag.

  He swung the crowbar. He ripped up floorboards. He tore up wall beams.

  Now: the desk and file drawer.

  He walked back. He tried them. They were unlocked.

  He went through them. He bagged bills. He bagged letters. There: one file extant.

  It was folder-sealed. It was doodled up. Lyle drew Nazi maidens and shivs.

  It was marked. It was circled: “Marty.”

  He drove south. He got out of Hollywood. He found a trash bin. He dumped Lyle’s swag.

  Don’t go home—Jane’s there—find a motel.

  He cruised south. He found a place on Pico. He booked a one-night room. He locked himself in. He skimmed Lyle’s bills. He read Lyle’s letters.

  Bland: Phone bills/gas bills/second-mortgage strife. Flyers from gun shows/notes from ex-wives.

  Slow now—here’s “Marty.”

  He opened the folder. He saw typed notes—sixteen pages single-spaced.

  He skimmed through. He got the gist. Dr. King plans. Dr. King plots. Dr. King schemes.

  The intro—WHITE RABBIT verbatim:

  “The following points detail MLK’s overall designs between now (3/8/65) and the ’68 Pres’l election. MLK has discussed the following topics in high-level SCLC staff meetings, has forbidden staff members to announce them publicly or discuss them outside staff meetings and has rebuffed all criticism that points out one obvious fact: The breadth of his socialistic agenda will divert his energies, deplete SCLC resources and undermine the credibility of the civil-rights movement. It will enrage the American status quo, perhaps cost him congressional and presidential support and will earn him the enmity of his ‘limousine liberal’ supporters. The true danger of his plans is that they may well serve to fuel and unite a coalition of hard-core Communists, Communist sympathizers, far-left intellectuals, disaffected college students and Negroes susceptible to inflammatory rhetoric and prone to violent action.”

  MLK on Vietnam:

  “Genocide cloaked as anti-Communist consent. An evil war of attrition.”

  MLK plans speeches. MLK plans boycotts. MLK plans dissent.

  MLK on slums:

  “The economic perpetuation of Negro poverty. The bedrock of de facto segregation. 20th-century slavery, euphemized by politicians of all stripes and creeds. A cancerous social reality and a condition which mandates a massive redistribution of assets and wealth.”

  MLK plans speeches. MLK plans boycotts. MLK plans rent strikes.

  MLK on poverty:

  “The Negro will not be truly free until his God-given rights to coexist with whites are supplanted by economic entitlements which make him the financial equal of whites.”

  MLK plans speeches. MLK plans dissent. “Poor People’s Unions.” “Poor People’s Marches.” Poor people hooked on dissent.

  MLK on inclusion:

  “We can only topple the apple cart of the American power structure and commandeer and equitably redistribute its resources through the creation of a new consensus, a new coalition of the disenfranchised, which will not tolerate men living in luxury while other men live in wretchedness and filth.”

  MLK plans speeches. MLK plans workshops. MLK plans dissent.

  Summits. Workshops. Brain pools. Coalitions. War protesters. Pacifists. Leftist pamphleteers. Vote drives. Reapportionment. Resultant mainstream clout.

  WHITE RABBIT cited concepts. WHITE RABBIT ran timetables. WHITE RABBIT quoted dates.

  MLK prophesied. MLK decried Vietnam:

  “It will escalate into the most murderous misadventure of the American 20th century. It will divide, rip asunder and produce skeptics and people of conscience in epic numbers. They will form the nucleus of the consensus that will burn America as we know it to the ground.”

  Timetables. Fund drives. Operating costs assessed. Vote potentials. District boundaries. Registration stats. Tallies. Figures. Prognostications.

  It’s huge. It’s grand. It’s magnificent. It’s insane. It’s megalomaniacal.

  Littell rubbed his eyes. Littell fought double-vision. Littell dribbled sweat.

  Sweet and blessed Christ—

  Mr. Hoover would cringe. Mr. Hoover would gasp. Mr. Hoover would FIGHT.

  Littell cranked a window. Littell looked out. Littell saw freeway ramps. The cars looked new. The taillights streamed. The signposts blurred bright.

  He lit a match. He burned the file. He flushed the ashes down the sink. He prayed for Martin Luther King.

  His words stuck.

  He savored them. He replayed them. He said them in Dr. King’s voice.

  He surveilled Lyle’s house. He parked adjacent. No Merc extant/no collectors/no movement. Say Lyle dozed late—give him time—time the collectors’ approach.

  North Ivar was dead. Windows glowed black & white. The glass bounced TV shadows. He shut his eyes. He dipped his seat. He waited. He yawned. He stretched.

  Headlights—

  They passed his car. They swiveled. They strafed Lyle’s house. There—the blue Merc.

  Lyle parked in his driveway. Lyle got out and walked up. Lyle saw the door crashed and trashed.

  He ran inside. He hit lights. He screeched.

  Littell shut his eyes.

  He heard crash sounds. He heard toss sounds. He heard oh no yells. He opened his eyes. He checked his watch. He timed Lyle seeing things.

  More toss sounds. More crash sounds—no yells or screams.


  Lyle ran out. Littell clocked it: 3.6 minutes.

  Lyle stumbled. Lyle looked woozy. Lyle looked unkempt. Lyle got in his car. Lyle pulled out. Lyle hit reverse and floored it.

  He gunned it. He smoked tread. He smashed the barrier fence. The car flew. The car upended and flipped.

  Littell heard the crash. Littell heard the tank blow. Littell saw the flames.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/11/65. Internal telephone call transcript. (OPERATION BLACK RABBIT addendum.) Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A”/“Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director, BLUE RABBIT.

  DIR: Good morning.

  BR: Good morning, Sir.

  DIR: I was saddened by the news on your brother. You have my condolences.

  BR: Thank you, Sir.

  DIR: He was a valued colleague. That makes the circumstances surrounding his death all the more troubling.

  BR: I won’t apologize for him, Sir. He indulged occasional binges and behaved accordingly.

  DIR: The suicide aspect troubles me. A neighbor saw him back his car off that hillside, which confirmed the LAPD’s findings and the coroner’s verdict.

  BR: He was impetuous, Sir. He’d been married four times.

  DIR: Yes, in the manner of one Mickey Rooney.

  BR: Sir, did you—

  DIR: I’ve reviewed the LAPD’s paperwork and I’ve spoken to the Las Vegas SAC. WHITE RABBIT’s house had been thoroughly ransacked. A neighbor told officers that WHITE RABBIT’s souvenir gun collection had been stolen, along with the contents of his desk and file cabinets. Agents questioned the collection crew at the Desert Inn. A man admitted that he broke into WHITE RABBIT’s house, two days after the suicide, and that it had already been ransacked, which is undisputedly a lie. The LAPD officers who responded to the suicide call said that they found the door open and that they viewed the ransacked state of the living room.

  BR: It fits, Sir. My brother had run up casino debts before, although never to such a large amount.

  DIR: Did WHITE RABBIT keep a private file on the dealings of the SCLC?

  BR: I don’t know, Sir. He adhered to a need-to-know policy with me on most security matters.

  DIR: CRUSADER RABBIT’s proximity to the incident bothers me.

  BR: It bothers me as well, Sir.