The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  Look: you’ve got his face. Look: you’ve got his eyes.

  Wayne Senior dropped the cane. Wayne Senior grabbed his hands. Wayne Senior squeezed them way tight.

  “I’m sorry for Dallas, son. It’s the one thing in this life I am truly sorry for.”

  Look—he means it—those eyes getting wet.

  Wayne smiled. “There’s times when I think I was born there.”

  “Are you grateful?”

  Wayne torqued his hands free. Wayne shook some blood in. Wayne cracked his thumbs.

  “Don’t press me. Don’t make me regret coming out.”

  Wayne Senior stubbed his cigarette. The ashtray jumped. His hand shook.

  “Have you killed Wendell Durfee?”

  “I haven’t found him.”

  “Do you know—”

  “I think he’s in L.A.”

  “I know some LAPD men. They could issue a covert APB.”

  Wayne shook his head. “This is mine. Don’t press me.”

  Gunshots popped—ten o’clock/northwest.

  Wayne said, “I’m sorry for Janice.”

  Wayne Senior laughed. Wayne Senior howled. Wayne Senior roared shitfire.

  “My son fucks my wife and tells me he’s sorry. Excuse me for laughing and saying I don’t care, but I always loved him more.”

  Look—wet eyes and laugh lines—he means it.

  A breeze stirred. Cold air whipped. Wayne prickled.

  Wayne Senior coughed. “Will you entertain an offer?”

  “I’ll listen.”

  “Dwight Holly’s going to be running some very sophisticated civil-rights ops. You’d be a perfect backup man.”

  Wayne smiled. “Dwight hates me. You know that.”

  “Dwight’s a smart hater. He knows how you hate, and I’m sure he knows how useful you could be.”

  Wayne cracked his thumbs. “I only hate the bad ones. I’m not some Klan fuck who gets his rocks off bombing churches.”

  Wayne Senior stood up. “You could run high-level ops. You know how the world works and how to keep things stable. You could get all this risky business out of your system, hitch your star to the right people and do some very exciting things.”

  Wayne shut his eyes. Wayne ran signs: Hate/Love/Work.

  “You’re waxing pensive, son. You’ve got your daddy’s nose for opportunity.”

  Wayne said, “Don’t press me. You’ll fuck it all up.”

  95

  (Las Vegas, 11/28/66)

  The cat prowled. The bed was his turf.

  He clawed the headboard. He clawed the sheets. He clawed Pete’s pillow. Pete woke up. Pete kissed Barb. Pete saw this big bruise.

  He sacked out early. Barb sacked out late. He missed her coming in.

  He touched her hair. He kissed the bruise. The doorbell rang—Barb slept through it.

  Shit—7:40 a.m.

  Pete got up. Pete put a robe on. Pete walked out and popped the door. Shit—it’s Fred Turentine.

  Frizzy-haired Freddy—fucked-up and frazzled. In his robe. In fuzzy slippers. In fucking shock.

  With a tape rig. With a tape. With the jit-jit-jit-jitters.

  Pete pulled him inside. Pete grabbed his gear. Pete shut the door. Fred got his sea legs. Fred quashed his shit-shakes and jitters.

  “I was at the listening post. I was running last night’s tapes off the swinger suites. I heard this grief with Dom and Sal Mineo.”

  Hold on. What’s—

  Pete cleared chair space. Pete laid the gear out. Pete plugged the rig in. Pete looped the tape.

  He hit the volume. He hit Play. He heard static hiss. He heard timed beeps—no voice to activate.

  There—Sal’s voice/the on-click/we activate.

  “Dom … hey … you hump, that’s my wall—”

  Dom: “… not what you … just looking … that phone numb—”

  Sal: “You hump. You fucking sissy cocksucker.”

  Dom: “You’re the cocksucker. You suck my big braciol’ every chance you get, you fucking has-been cock—”

  Crash sounds/breath sounds/clatters. Kitchen noise/drawer noise/glass shatters.

  Clatters. Knife pings. “Sal no no no.” Yelps/gurgles/choked breath.

  Silence. Timed beeps. Static. Sobs. Drag sounds. Clatters.

  Sal: “Please please please. God please please please.”

  Sobs. Heaves. Breath and prayers—this papal shit: “O my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of—”

  Pete got prickles. His balls contracted. His neck hair stood up. He hit Stop. He grabbed his pass keys. He grabbed his piece.

  He walked outside. He checked the lot. He scoped the bungalow suites. 8:00 a.m./cars parked/all quiet.

  Sal flew to Vegas. Dom drove to their tryst. Dom always drove to his shack jobs.

  Dom’s T-Bird: Gone.

  Pete walked over. Easy now—there’s the fuck pad. Easy now—jiggle the door.

  He did it. The lock held stiff. He pulled his keys. He unlocked the door. He walked in. He saw:

  Pink carpets—deep shag—blood-spritzed. Pizza boxes. Beer cans. Pizza crusts on plates. Dumped chairs. Dumped tables. White walls with red marks scrubbed pink.

  Pete shut the door. Pete hit the kitchen. Pete checked the sink.

  Ajax. Sponge. Clogged drain meat. Organ meat—hair-clotted—wop skintone meat.

  Queers killed butch. Queers killed operatic. Queers killed buon gusto.

  Pete checked the bathroom.

  No shower curtain/knives in the toilet/knives in the sink. Floor dots—loose bristles—bath mats scrubbed pink.

  A thumbprint on a wall. Print-points still visible. Print whorls scrubbed red into pink.

  Pete walked the suite. Pete nailed the damage. Pete got the gist. Pete locked up. Pete walked back. Pete unlocked his suite.

  There’s Fred T.

  He’s slugging Jack Daniel’s. He’s noshing corn chips. He’s fine now. He’s deshocked. He’s blitzed.

  Fred laughed. Fred dribbled Black Jack. Fred spewed corn chips.

  “I see potential in this. Sal’s an Academy Award nominee.”

  Pete pulled drawers. Pete grabbed his Polaroid. Pete snatched film and loaded it in.

  Fred said, “I hope he saved Dom’s pecker. I could use a transplant.”

  Barb was up. Pete heard her. Pete heard her fluff sheets.

  Fred said, “I never liked Dom. He had the arrogance that always complements a big dick.”

  Pete grabbed him. Pete pinned his wrists.

  “Talk to Barb. Keep her here while I take some pictures.”

  “Pete … Jesus … come on … I’m on your side.”

  Pete torqued his wrists. “Keep your mouth shut while I work this. I don’t want any shit coming back to the Cavern.”

  “Pete, Pete, Pete. You know me. You know I am the Pharaoh’s own fucking sphinx.”

  Pete let him go. Pete walked out. Pete jogged through the lot. Pete rehit the suite.

  He unlocked it. He stepped in. He shot pix. Polaroids—twelve color prints.

  He got the thumbprint. He got the bloodstains. He got the meat. He got the pink rugs. He got the knives. He got the spritz.

  Pete shot twelve photos. The camera developed them. The camera made sounds. The camera cranked wet prints.

  He grid-searched. He reloaded. He shot more pix:

  Dom’s thumb—drain-trapped—stuck between grates. A dildo/a hash pipe/hash dregs.

  He dried the prints. He spread them out on a sofa. He grabbed the phone. He dialed L.A. direct.

  Three rings—be there—

  “This is Otash.”

  “It’s Pete, Freddy.”

  Otash laughed. “I thought you were pissed at me. The Littell thing, remember?”

  Pete coughed. His chest bipped. His pulse raced.

  “I’m the forgiving type.”

  Otash yukked. “You’re a lying frog fuck, but I’ll let it go for old times’
sake.”

  Pete coughed. His chest bipped. His pulse raced.

  “Do you know Sal Mineo?”

  “Yeah, I know Sal. I pulled him out of some grief with some high-school quiff.”

  “He’s in the shit again. It’s a two-man job, and I’ll explain when I see you.”

  Otash whistled. “He’s in Vegas?”

  “I think he’s driving back to L.A.”

  “Money?”

  “We’ll muscle him and work something out.”

  “When?”

  “I’ll catch a noon flight.”

  “My office, then. And bring some coin in case Sal craps out.”

  Pete hung up. The door jiggled. Lock tumblers clicked. Barb walked in. Pete said, “Shit.”

  Barb looked around. Barb saw things. Barb caught the drift. She toed a rug stain. She bent down. She pinched fiber tufts. She sniffed her fingers. She made a face. She said, “Shit.”

  Pete watched her. Barb rubbed her cheek. She looked around. She saw the wall stains. She saw the pix.

  She studied them. She eyeball-cruised all twenty-four. She looked at Pete.

  “Sal or Dom? Fred wouldn’t say.”

  Pete stood up. His pulse raced. He grabbed a chair. He steadied in. He checked out Barb’s cheek.

  “What happened to your face?”

  Barb winced. “Wayne did a good job of getting my attention.”

  Pete gripped the chair. Pete dug his hands in. Pete ripped fabric free.

  Barb said, “I asked for it. I’ve asked for it from you, but Wayne cares about me in a different way, and he sees things you don’t.”

  Pete threw the chair. It hit a wall. It gouged pink bloodstains.

  “You’re mine. Nobody’s got the right to care for you, and nobody’s seen things in you that I didn’t see first.”

  Barb looked at Pete. Barb scoped the wall stains behind him. Barb closed her eyes. Barb ran. Barb ran straight past Pete.

  Otash said, “Dom’s in the trunk. I’ll lay you six to one.”

  Car surveillance—Fred O.’s car—the seats pushed way back. Fred O.’s farts and Fred O.’s cologne.

  They lounged. They scoped Dom’s T-Bird. They scoped Sal’s apartment house.

  Pete said, “You’re on. I say he dumped him in the desert.”

  Otash lit a cigarette. Smoke billowed. Pete caught the backdraft.

  Barb ran. He let her. She’d run straight back. Wayne hit her. Wayne loved her. Wayne’s fucking cork snapped. Wayne loved weird. Wayne was fucked up. Wayne was woman-fucked. Wayne gets muscled soon. Wayne gets lectured soon. Wayne’s cork gets desnapped.

  Pete yawned. Pete stretched. Pete craved Fred O.’s cigarettes.

  He scrubbed the suite. He wiped the walls. He burned the rugs. He called Dom’s bun boy. He played dumb. He said where’s Dom at? The geek said, “Huh?” The geek didn’t know. The geek knew shit from Shinola.

  He talked to his bellboys. They never saw Sal. Dom signed all the room-service chits. Dom booked the suite. That was good. That played their way.

  Otash said, “Sal’s on the skids. What kind of movie star lives in a fucking apartment?”

  Pete scoped the street. We’re in West Hollywood—the fucking Swish Alps.

  “You mean what kind of coin can he have?”

  Otash picked his nose. “Yeah, after he spends it all on fruit hustlers and dope.”

  Pete cracked his knuckles. “He’s got a gold Rolex.”

  “That’ll do for a start.”

  The sky went dark. Rain hit. Otash rolled his window up.

  “You want to hear my one concern? That he’s out spilling his guts to some faggot priest or the queens at the Gold Cup.”

  Pete cracked his thumbs. “He’s out drinking. I’ll give you that.”

  “Dom’s in the trunk. I can smell his rancid ass from here.”

  “The desert. A hundred says so.”

  “You’re on.”

  Pete peeled off a C-note. A car pulled up. Pete made the paint job—Sal’s ’64 Ford.

  Sal parked. Sal got out. Sal walked inside. Pete cued Otash—we roll on ten.

  They ticked down. They ticked slow. They hit ten. They got out. They hauled. They ran up. They made the front door. They made the main hallway.

  There’s Sal. He’s at his door. He’s got his mail. He’s got his key.

  He saw them. He dropped his mail. He fumbled his key. They ran up. Pete frisked him. Otash grabbed his key.

  He popped the door. He shoved Sal in. Pete grabbed a chair. Pete shoved Sal down. Otash pried his watch off.

  “This and half your pay for your next picture. Cheap for what it gets you.”

  Brash Sal: “This is a gag, right? The Friars Club sent you.”

  Pete said, “You know what it is.”

  Bold Sal: “Yeah. It’s a fraternity stunt. You and Freddy joined Chi Alpha Omega.”

  Otash buffed the Rolex. “Think back, paisan. You’ll put it together.”

  Wise Sal: “I get it. I split the Cavern and didn’t pay the bill. You’re the collection agency.”

  Otash said, “The Cavern. That’s a start.”

  Cool Sal: “I get it now. I made a bit of a mess. You want a damage deposit.”

  Pete said, “He’s getting warm.”

  Otash said, “He’ll be hot in two seconds.”

  Calm Sal: “You guys make a good team. The beefcake Abbott and Costello.”

  Pete sighed. “The time is upon us.”

  Otash sighed. “Yeah, just when I started digging on the repartee.”

  Smart Sal: “That’s a big word, Freddy. You must have learned it in goon school.”

  Pete said, “The trunk or the desert?”

  Otash said, “We’ve got a bet. I say he’s outside right now.”

  Pete said, “The desert, right? You pulled off outside Vegas.”

  Otash said, “There’s always Griffith Park. You’ve got all those hills and caves.”

  Pete said, “I saw one of Dom’s movies. That thing had to be a yard long.”

  Brave Sal: “Hills, yards, shit. You’re talking Sanskrit.”

  Pete hummed “The Man I Love.” Otash flopped a limp wrist.

  Sharp Sal: “I didn’t think you guys were that way. Jesus, that’s a revelation.”

  Pete sighed. Otash sighed. Pete picked Sal up. Pete slapped him. Pete dropped him.

  Sal spit a tooth out. Said tooth hit Pete’s coat. Otash slapped Sal. Otash wore signet rings. Otash laid cuts.

  Sal wiped his face. Sal blew his nose. Sal made a mess.

  Pete said, “This can all go away. I work the Vegas end, Freddy watchdogs you here. I don’t want bad publicity at the Cavern, you don’t want a manslaughter bounce.”

  Sal wiped his nose. Otash supplied a hankie. Pete pulled his photos. Pete tossed them. Pete hit Sal’s lap.

  Dig that disarray. Dig that drain hair. Dig that blood. Dig that severed thumb.

  Sal dabbed his cuts. Sal checked the pix. Sal went gray-green.

  “You know, I really liked him. He was bad, but he had this sweet side.”

  Otash rubbed his knuckles. Otash wiped his rings.

  “Us or the fuzz?”

  Sal said, “You.”

  Otash said, “Where is he?”

  Sal said, “In the trunk.”

  Otash drew a dollar sign. Pete paid off—the trunk/six to one.

  He flew home. The ride bumped. He worried Barb and Wayne.

  Barb sniffed white horse. Wayne knew it. Wayne grieved. Wayne loves Barb. Wayne eschews women. Wayne’s a watcher. Wayne’s a martyr. Wayne’s woman-fucked.

  Warn Wayne. Tell Barb soft: I know you—just me.

  The plane landed. Vegas glowed radioactive. Pete cabbed to the Cavern. Pete unlocked the suite.

  The cat jumped him. He picked him up. He kissed him. He saw the note.

  It’s flat on the wall. It’s taped high. It’s his eye-level.

  Pete,

  I’m leaving you for a while to sort so
me things out. I’m not hiding; I’ll be staying at my sister’s house in Sparta. I need to get away from Vegas and figure out a way to be with you as long as you’re doing the things that you do. You’re not the only one who knows me, but you’re the only one I love.

  Barb

  Pete tore the note up. Pete kicked walls and shelves. Pete hugged the cat. Pete let the cat claw his shirt.

  96

  (Las Vegas, 11/29/66)

  Moe Dalitz said, “Look.”

  Littell checked the window. Littell saw nuts below. Ten floors down. Nuts with cameras. Nuts with kids in tow.

  Moe said, “They think Hughes sleeps in a coffin. They figure he’ll wake up at dusk and sign autographs in his cape.”

  Littell laughed. Littell went ssshhh. Hush now—biz-in-progress.

  Ten yards up. Two tables—Mormons meet front men.

  Moe grinned. “It’s my fucking hotel and my fucking king-size conference room. I’m supposed to whisper in my own joint?”

  A Mormon glanced over. Moe smiled and waved.

  “Goyishe shitheels. Mormons are roughly synonymous with the Ku Klux Klan.”

  Littell smiled. Littell steered Moe. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.

  “Would you like an update?”

  Moe rolled his eyes. “Tell me. Use words of one syllable only.”

  “Short and sweet, then. I think we’ll get our price. They’re discussing undistributed profits tax now.”

  Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.

  “I know you don’t like him, but that well-known goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior is essential to our plans. We need his union, and we need to keep his ex-buddies and Mormons in general running skim on those charter flights. Now, we’ve got the papers and TV bribed to do this ‘Hughes is cleaning out Mob influence in Vegas’ number, which makes me think we should recruit some more clean Mormon skim guys, because Hughes will insist on hiring Mormons to work the key fucking managerial positions, and I do not want any old-line skim people hanging around looking conspicuous when we can have some well-scrubbed shitheel Mormons, especially since the skim ante is about to go way up.”

  Littell brainstormed. Littell checked the window. He saw nut swarms. He saw newsmen. He saw clowns with snack carts.

  “The publicity heat will be going up, too.”