The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  “I figured you’d try to softsoap me about Lyle. The ‘you lost a brother, I lost a friend’ routine.”

  Littell coughed. “It was fifteen months ago. I didn’t think it was fresh on your mind.”

  Dwight squared his necktie. “Lyle was doubling. He leaked some anti-Bureau shit to the House Judiciary Committee and Bobby Kennedy. Mr. Hoover had to pull a few bugs.”

  Littell went slack-jawed. I don’t believe it! Littell made big eyes.

  Dwight said, “Lyle, the closet liberal. It took some getting used to.”

  “I could have helped you.”

  Dwight laughed. “Yeah, you wrote the book.”

  “Not completely. You know I’d rather scheme against liberals than be one.”

  Dwight shook his head. “You are one. It’s this fucked-up Catholic thing you’ve got going. You love high-level ops, you love the great unwashed, you’re like the fucking Pope ashamed that his church makes money.”

  Littell roared—Blue Rabbit—mon Dieu!

  “You flatter me, Dwight. I’m not that complex.”

  “Yeah, you are. It’s why Mr. Hoover enjoys you. You’re Bayard Rustin to his Marty King.”

  Littell smiled. “Bayard has his own ambiguities.”

  “Bayard’s a piece of work. I ran surveillance on him in ’60. He poured Pepsi-Cola on his Cheerios.”

  Littell smiled. “He’s King’s voice of reason. King’s been pushing on too broad a front, and Bayard’s been trying to restrain him.”

  Dwight shrugged. “King’s a bullet. It’s his time, and he knows it. Mr. Hoover’s getting old, and he’s letting his hatred show in the worst possible ways. King orates and pulls his Mahatma Gandhi shit, and Mr. Hoover plays in. He’s afraid that King will team up with Bobby the K., which as fears go has its merits.”

  Blue Rabbit shows insight. Blue Rabbit shows balls. Blue Rabbit doubts Mr. Hoover.

  “Is there anything I can do?”

  Dwight tugged his necktie. “On the King front, zero. Mr. Hoover thinks you were too close to Lyle’s death and that Bogalusa bombing.”

  Littell shrugged—moi?—how could he.

  Dwight smirked. “You want back in. You got cut out of BLACK RABBIT, and it’s galling you.”

  Littell smirked. “I’m wondering why Mr. Hoover had you pick up the list, when I could have airtelled it.”

  “No, you’re not. You know he sent me to gauge your line of shit and decode your dissembling.”

  Littell sighed—how passé—you know me.

  “I miss the game. Tell him that for a fucked-up liberal, I’m on his side.”

  Dwight winked. “I was talking to him this morning. I proposed a job for you, pending my assessment.”

  “Which is?”

  “That you’re a fucked-up liberal who disapproves of bugs and wiretaps, but loves to install them anyway. That you wouldn’t mind bugging sixteen Mob joints for us, just so you can stay in the game.”

  Littell tingled. “Quid pro quo?”

  “Sure. You plant the wires. You get out. We don’t tell you where the listening posts are. You deny Bureau complicity if you get caught, and you win points with Mr. Hoover.”

  Littell said, “I’ll do it.”

  The door blew open. Smells blew in: burnt pizza/spilled blood/ice cream.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/3/66. Verbatim FBI 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: Start with Le Grand Pierre, henceforth to be known as BIG RABBIT.

  BR: He’s in, Sir. Along with Fred Otash and Freddy Turentine.

  DIR: Has he recruited his bait?

  BR: He has, Sir. He’ll be using a homosexual actor named Sal Mineo.

  DIR: I’m delighted. Young Mineo was boffo in Exodus and The Gene Krupa Story.

  BR: He’s a talented youth, Sir.

  DIR: He is talented and given to Greek profligacy. He has indulged numerous liaisons with male movie stars, among them James Dean, the “Human Ashtray.”

  BR: BIG RABBIT has chosen well, Sir.

  DIR: To continue.

  BR: BIG RABBIT has a wedge on Mineo, which he declines to reveal. He wants him protected if he’s arrested by an outside agency. I think BIG RABBIT is buying himself protection, too.

  DIR: He’s buying, we’re selling. I would be delighted to protect BIG RABBIT and young Mineo.

  BR: I gave BIG RABBIT a fact sheet for Mineo to memorize. We want him to be able to convince PINK RABBIT that he’s a civil-rights zealot.

  DIR: That will be no great stretch. Actors are morally decentered and psychically unhinged. They cling to their scripts of the moment with great verve. It fills their voids of emptiness and allots them the will to exist.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: To continue. Describe your meeting with CRUSADER RABBIT.

  BR: To start, I’ll finally have to concede that he’s just as gifted as you’ve always contended. That said, I don’t know how trustworthy he is, or isn’t, for that matter. He seemed sincerely shocked when I mentioned my brother’s alleged leaks to Bobby Kennedy and the Judiciary Committee, but he may have calculated his response in advance.

  DIR: Do you remain convinced that your brother did not write that “Confession”?

  BR: More than ever, Sir. Although now I’m starting to think that it was not CRUSADER RABBIT. I think there’s a fair chance that it could have been someone within the SCLC, who had a private investigator or someone of that ilk sweep and find the bugs and taps, and then decide to capitalize on my brother’s death and send in the “Confession.”

  DIR: I will concede the possibility.

  BR: I think your basic assessment of CRUSADER RABBIT is valid, Sir. He lives for intrigue, he’ll betray his moral convictions for the chance to do high-level ops, and he’s trustworthy and exploitable within a limited sphere.

  DIR: Did you offer him the chance to install the bugs?

  BR: I did, Sir. He accepted immediately.

  DIR: I thought he would.

  BR: I’m glad you approved my proposal, Sir. Public opinion has turned against electronic surveillance, and we need organized-crime wires in place.

  DIR: I would amend your statement. We need covertly planted, deniable bugs monitored by handpicked agents in place.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: How did you describe the assignment?

  BR: I said sixteen cities, Stage-2 Covert. I mentioned Mike Lyman’s Restaurant in Los Angeles, Lombardo’s in San Francisco, the Grapevine Tavern in St. Louis, and a few others.

  DIR: Did you mention the stately El Encanto Hotel in Santa Barbara?

  BR: I did, Sir.

  DIR: How did CRUSADER react?

  BR: He didn’t. He obviously has no idea that Bobby Kennedy keeps a suite there.

  DIR: The attendant irony delights me. CRUSADER RABBIT bugs Prince Bobby’s hotel digs. He’s convinced the suite belongs to a prince of organized crime.

  BR: It’s a pisser, Sir.

  DIR: CRUSADER RABBIT is an entrenched Bobbyphile. You’re sure that he has no knowledge of Bobby’s suite?

  BR: I’m certain, Sir. I’ve got the manager in my pocket. He told me that Bobby’s policy is never to reveal that he stays there. He’ll let CRUSADER in to do his work, and he’ll make sure that Bobby’s personal belongings are temporarily removed.

  DIR: Salutary.

  BR: Thank you, Sir.

  DIR: We need access to Bobby. I’m convinced that he’ll form an unholy alliance with RED RABBIT.

  BR: We’re covered on the Bobby front, Sir.

  DIR: As we’ll be on PINK front, assuming that young Mineo is convincingly fetching.

  BR: He will be, Sir. We hired queer to entrap queer, which should pay off in the end.

  DIR: I want a duplicate copy of the film. Have it processed the morning
after the fund-raiser.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: Make two copies. I’ll give Lyndon Johnson one for his birthday.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: Good day, Dwight. Go with God.

  BR: Good day, Sir.

  100

  (Las Vegas, 12/5/66)

  Wayne picked the lock.

  He worked two picks. He tweaked the bolt. He jiggled hard right. Deadbeat patrol/room 6/Desert Dawn Motel.

  Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s got two last names. Sirhan Sirhan.”

  The door popped. They stepped inside. Wayne toed the door shut. Check the four-wall dump-site.

  Soiled bed. No rugs. Horse-race posters/jockey silks/racing forms stacked.

  Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s a track nut.”

  The room smelled. Scents mingled. Spilled vodka and stale chink. Stale cheese spread and cigarettes.

  Wayne checked the dresser. Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne sifted junk. Acne swabs/booze empties/cigarette butts.

  Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s a pack rat.”

  Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne perused. Wayne sifted junk. Racing forms and tip logs. Scratch sheets and hate tracts.

  Cheap-paper tracts. Non–Wayne Senior stock. Text and cartoons—anti-Jew stuff.

  Dollar-sign skullcaps. Bloody prayer shawls. Fangs dripping pus. “The Zionist Pig Order”/“The Vampire Jew”/“The Jewish Cancer Machine.” Jews with claw hands. Jews with pig feet. Jews with scimitar dicks.

  Wayne skimmed text. Said text waxed repetitious. The Jews fucked the Arabs. The Arabs vowed payback.

  Sonny said, “Motherfucker don’t like the hebes.”

  The text rambled. Typos reigned. Longhand margin notes crawled. “Kill Kill Kill!”/“Death to Israel!”/“Zionist Pig-Suckers Must Die!”

  Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s got a grievance.”

  Wayne dropped the tracts. Wayne shut the drawers. Wayne kicked a chair back.

  “We’ll give him two hours. He owes Pete a grand and change.”

  Sonny chewed a toothpick. “Barb split on Pete. Frankly, I seen it coming.”

  “Maybe I got to her.”

  “Maybe Pete’s evil ways did. Maybe she said, ‘Quit selling hair-o-wine to Sonny’s fellow niggers or I’ll leave your white ass, you honky motherfucker.’ ”

  Wayne laughed. “Let’s call her and ask.”

  “You call. You the motherfucker who’s in love with her and too mother-fucking scared to say boo.”

  Wayne laughed. Wayne chewed his nails. Wayne tore a nail back.

  The Pete thing hurt. Pete bruised his balls. Pete trimmed his balls back. He was wrong. Pete was right. He knew it.

  He called Wayne Senior. They talked. Wayne Senior pledged Work. “Good work”/“in time”/“soon.” He might take it. He might not. He owed Pete rotations: Saigon/Mississippi/the funnel.

  Sonny said, “Let’s go to L.A. We’ll find Wendell Durfee and shoot his black ass.”

  Wayne laughed. Wayne chewed his nails. Wayne tore hangnails back.

  Sonny said, “Let’s kill some street nigger and say it’s Wendell. It’ll put the fucking quietus on all that shit you carrying around.”

  Wayne smiled. The door jiggled—whazzat?

  The door stuck. The door popped. A doofus walked in. A young guy/all swarthy/thick rat’s-nest hair.

  He saw them. He trembled. He crap-your-pants cringed.

  Sonny said, “Ahab the A-rab. Where’s your camel, motherfucker?”

  Wayne shut the door. “You owe the Golden Cavern eleven-sixty. Fork up or Brother Liston will hurt you.”

  The doofus cringed. Don’t hurt me. His shirttail hiked up. Wayne saw a belt piece. Wayne snatched it fast. Wayne dumped the clip.

  Sonny said, “How come you got two last names?”

  Sirhan gestured. His hands moved mile-a-minute. He made geek semaphore.

  “Forgive me … I take falls … race horses … many headaches … I forget I lose money if I don’t take medicine.”

  Sonny said, “I don’t like you. You starting to look like Cassius Clay.”

  Sirhan spieled some Arab shit. Sirhan spieled singsong. Sonny threw a left. Sonny hit the wall. Sonny tore plaster.

  Wayne twirled the gun. “Brother Liston knocked out Floyd Patterson and Cleveland ‘Big Cat’ Williams.”

  Sonny threw a right. Sonny hit the wall. Sonny tore plaster. Sirhan moaned. Sirhan exhorted Allah. Sirhan dumped his pockets fast.

  Booty: ChapStick/pen/car keys. C-notes/fives/dimes.

  Wayne grabbed the money. Sonny said, “What you got against the kikes?”

  Wayne hit the Cavern. Wayne unlocked his room. Wayne saw a letter on the dresser.

  He opened the envelope. He smelled Barb straight off.

  Wayne,

  I’m sorry for that night & I hope it didn’t cause any trouble between you & Pete. I told him you were justified, but he didn’t get it. I should have told him that I tried to stab you, which might have told him how far down I’d sunk & how much sense you made.

  I’m a coward for not writing directly to Pete, but I’m going to invite him to Sparta for Christmas, to see if we can work things out. I hate his business & I hate his war & I’d be an even bigger coward if I didn’t say so.

  I miss Pete, I miss the cat & I miss you. I’m working at my sister’s Bob’s Big Boy & avoiding the bad habits I picked up in Vegas. I’m starting to wonder what a 35-year-old ex-shakedown girllounge bunny does with the rest of her life.

  Barb

  Wayne reread the letter. Wayne caught subscents. There’s the Ponds and lavender soap. He kissed the letter. He locked up his room. He walked to the lounge.

  There’s Pete.

  He’s drinking. He’s smoking. The cat’s on his lap. He’s watching the Bondsmen—Barb’s combo sans Barb.

  Wayne shagged a waiter. Wayne passed him the letter. Wayne tipped him five bucks. Wayne pointed to Pete. The guy understood.

  The guy walked over. The guy dropped the letter. Pete tore at the envelope.

  He read the letter. He wiped his eyes. The cat clawed his shirt.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/6/66. Las Vegas Sun headline and subhead:

  HOWARD HUGHES IN VEGAS!

  EXCLUSIVE PIX OF HERMIT’S LAIR!

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/7/66. Las Vegas Sun headline and subhead:

  NO CLUES IN DISAPPEARANCE OF DANCER-CAB DRIVER

  FRIENDS APPEAL TO POTENTIAL WITNESSES

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/8/66. Las Vegas Sun headline and subhead:

  HUGHES SPOKESMAN SAYS:

  BILLIONAIRE HERMIT TO “NURTURE”–NOT “MONOPOLIZE” HOTEL SCENE

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/10/66. Las Vegas Sun headline and subhead:

  FBI ARRESTS SKIM BAGMEN

  HUGHES SPOKESMAN PRAISES DIRECTOR HOOVER

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/11/66. Chicago Tribune headline and subhead:

  MORE MAIL-FRAUD RAIDS IN SOUTH

  22 INDICTMENTS PENDING

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/14/66. Chicago Sun-Times headline and subhead:

  KING ATTACKS FBI’S SOUTHERN MANDATE

  “KLAN TERROR–NOT MAIL-FRAUD–SHOULD BE PRIORITY”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/15/66. Los Angeles Times subhead:

  KING INDICTS “GENOCIDA” WAR IN VIETNAM

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/18/66. Denver Post-Dispatch subhead:

  RFK DENIES RUMORS OF PREZ’L BID

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/20/66. Boston Globe headline:

  NIXON NON-COMMITTAL ON ’68 WHITE HOUSE PLANS

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/21/66. Washington Post headline and subhead:

  SCATHING INDICTMENT:

  FOREIGN JOURNALISTS ATTACK LBJ FOR CIVIL

  RIGHTS-VIETNAM “DICHOTOMY”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/22/66. San Francisco Chronicle headline and subhead:

  HOOVER ATTACKS KING IN CONGRESSIONAL RECORD

  CALLS CIVIL-RIGHTS LEADER “DANGEROUS TYRANT”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/23/66. Las Vegas Sun headline and subhead:

  HUGHES NEGOT
IATORS SWARM STRIP

  HOTEL PURCHASES LOOM

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/26/66. Washington Post headline and subhead:

  DOMESTIC STUDY GROUP VOICES OPINION:

  J. EDGAR HOOVER “OUTMODED”

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/2/67. Los Angeles Examiner subhead:

  CIVIL-RIGHTS FUND-RAISER

  TO DRAW STELLAR CROWD

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/3/67. Dallas Morning News headline:

  JACK RUBY—DEAD OF CANCER

  101

  (Beverly Hills, 1/3/67)

  Signs:

  Mau-Mau shit. Peace doves. Nigger hands clasped.

  Said signs blitzed walls. Said walls ran high. The ballroom soared up. Said ballroom welcomed oreos—race-mixer deelites.

  There’s celebs and pols. There’s spook matrons. There’s Marty the K. There’s Burl Ives. There’s Banana Boat Belafonte.

  Pete watched. Pete smoked. His tux fit tight. Otash watched. Otash smoked. His tux fit right.

  Ballroom accoutrements—dais and lectern. Ballroom seats and ballroom fare. Steam trays leaking steam—chicken à la coon deelite.

  Cops mingled. Their cheap suits stood out. Waiters roamed. Waiters schlepped trays. Waiters flogged deelites.

  Pete worked the Fuck-It Diet. Pete noshed meatballs. Pete noshed pâté. Pete noshed pygmy deelites.

  There’s Mayor Sam Yorty. There’s Governor Pat Brown. There’s Bayard Rustin—he’s tall and thin—dig that tartan tux. There’s Sal Mineo—he’s hovering—dig that swish lollapalooza.

  There’s Rita Hayworth. Who let her in? She vibes dipsomaniac.

  Otash said, “Has it occurred to you that we stand out here?”

  Pete lit a cigarette. “Once or twice.”

  “Rita looks soused. I had a two-second thing with her, about ten years ago. Redheads tend to age bad, Barb excepted.”

  Pete watched Rita. Rita saw Otash. Rita went ugh and stepped back.

  He flew to Sparta. He spent Christmas. He shacked up with his wife. They made love. They fought. Barb ragged his “war enterprise.”

  Barb quit sniffing “H.” Barb quit popping pills. Barb glowed non-Ritalike. Barb goosed his pulse. Barb wrung him out. Barb told him straight: I hate dope. I hate lounge work. I hate Vegas. I won’t back down. I won’t go back.