by James Ellroy
They drove by the dope cribs. They saw cabs pull up. They saw GIs walk out. They saw GIs bop zombified.
Mesplède was shocked. Mesplède vibed très sincere and très horrified. On va tuer le cochon. Le cochon va mourir.
Pete said yes. Pete amended. Pete said Die Tough.
It was hot. It was a.m.-sticky. The dash fan puffed. Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete chewed Tums.
6:18. 6:22. 6:29. Fuck, this could go on—
There’s Stanton.
With a suitcase. Errands first? Then the airport?
Stanton got a cab. The cab pulled out. The cab pulled out slow. Pete nudged his driver—tail that cab fast.
The driver gunned it. A cab cut him off. The driver swung around fast. Tu Do was busy. Gun trucks goosed traffic chop-chop.
Stanton’s cab cut south. Pete’s cab bird-dogged it. Pete’s cab stuck two car lengths back. A rickshaw cut in. A coolie lugged cargo—tail cover boocoo.
Traffic slowed. They drove south. They bopped toward the docks.
Pete’s cab goosed the rickshaw. The driver rode his horn. The coolie flipped him off. Pete sighted in. Pete watched Stanton’s cab antenna. It wiggles/it weaves/it tracks good.
They hit the docks. Pete saw warehouse blocks. Pete saw loooong buildings laid out. Stanton’s cab braked. Stanton’s cab stopped. Stanton got out.
The rickshaw passed him. Pete’s cab passed him. Pete ducked and looked back. Stanton grabbed his suitcase. Stanton walked. Stanton unlocked a warehouse.
He did it mock-cool. He looked around. He stepped in. He pulled the door shut.
Stanton’s cab waited. Pete’s cab U-turned. Pete’s cab parked down the block. Pete swiveled the fan. Pete ate hot air and watched.
Time the visit. Do it now. Run your time clock.
Pete checked his watch dial. The second hand swept. Six minutes/nine/eleven.
Stanton walked out. Stanton still had his suitcase. Stanton locked the door up.
He shagged his cab. He stretched and yawned. The cab took off north-bound—toward Tan Son Nhut.
Pete paid his driver. Pete got out and walked. The cab peeled off.
The warehouse stretched. It ran two football fields plus. One story/one steel door. Side walkways adjacent. Mesh-covered windows inset.
Pete pushed the buzzer. Chimes ricocheted. No footsteps/no voices/no peephole slid back. Two walkways. Side windows. No witnesses out.
Pete cut south. Pete hit the near walkway. Pete took his coat off.
He found a window. He flexed his hands. He peeled the mesh back. His bad hand tore. Glass specks got reimbedded.
He made a fist. He wrapped it up. He made a coat-fabric glove. He punched out the window. Glass blew inward.
He hauled himself up. He squeezed through the frame space. He rolled to the floor. His hand throbbed. He squeezed blood out. He patted the wall. He caught a switch. Lights went on—two football fields plus.
He saw a space. He saw a floor. He saw merchandise. He saw swag. He saw rows and rows. He saw piles and piles.
He walked. He touched. He looked. He counted. He inventoried. He saw:
Sixty boxes stuffed with watches—pure gold waist-high. Mink coats dumped like trash—forty-three piles hip-high. Six hundred Jap motorcycles—laid side to side. Antique furniture—twenty-three rows stretched wide.
New cars—parked side by side. Thirty-eight rows/twenty-two cars per/stretched out lengthwise.
Bentleys. Porsches. Aston-Martin DB-5s. Volvos/Jaguars/Mercedes.
Pete walked the rows. Pete ID’d booty. Pete saw export tags attached. Point of shipment: Saigon. Point of entry: U.S.
Kall it easy. Kall it kold. Kall it dead:
Swag. Black-market-purchased. Non-U.S.-derived. Swag from Europe/Great Britain/the East.
Stanton ran the gig. His CIA pals helped. They bootjacked kadre money. They laundered it. They glommed luxury shit.
Stanton’s disbanding. They ship the goods now. They ship duty-free. The Boys help them. Carlos walks point. They resell near-retail. Carlos takes points. Carlos pays the Stanton guys. Cold millions accrue.
The dope plan. The funnel. Cash for the Cause. Wrong—the Cause was THIS.
Pete walked the warehouse. Pete kicked tires. Pete smelled leather seats. Pete flicked antennas. Pete buffed rosewood. Pete fondled mink.
THIS.
He tracked logic. He looked for loopholes. He got none.
And:
Stanton stopped here. Stanton lugged in his suitcase.
Why?
He dropped something off. He picked something up.
Which?
Pete walked the walls. Pete tapped the walls. Pete tapped whole cement. No wall panels or hidey holes—shit.
Pete checked the floor. Pete looked for chipped paint. Pete looked for off-color streaks. Pete got whole cement/solid/no streaks.
Pete checked the ceiling. It was solid cement. No patches/no caulking/no streaks.
No bathroom. No storerooms. No closets. Four walls/one looooong strrrretch/two football fields plus.
Something was somewhere. Something was here.
Cars/minks/watches. Motorcycles/antiques. It’s a day’s work. It’s needle meets haystack. It’s do it anyway.
He walked the rows. He plowed watch piles. He dug through mink. He grabbed. He touched. He fished.
Forty-three piles/sixty boxes—shit.
He walked the rows. He popped antique drawers. He rifled and dipped.
Twenty-three rows—shit.
His stomach growled. Hours flew. No food and no fucking sleep.
He checked the motorcycles. He opened saddle bags. He popped gas caps and peeked.
Six hundred bikes—shit.
He checked the cars. He checked row by row. He checked twenty-two times thirty-eight.
He popped hoods. He popped glove compartments. He popped trunks. He checked under rugs. He checked engine mounts. He checked under seats.
Porsches first. Bentleys next—shit.
The space went dark. He worked by touch. Volvos/Jaguars/DB-5s. He got the feel. He worked fast—Braille by necessity.
Five models down. One left: Mercedes.
He hit the top row. He braced the first car. He snapped the hood. He touched the valve covers. He touched the air cleaner. He brushed a cylinder ledge.
Wait—feel the bump—Braille by necess—
He felt the bump. He felt tape. He pulled. Something tore loose. Said something was textured and flat.
Rectangular. Paged. A long book.
He grabbed it. He reached up and popped a wind wing. He tapped the key and headlights. Good kraut autowerk—fog lights beamed out.
He got down. He turned pages. He read by fog light. One cross-columned listing ledger—names/money/dates.
Key dates. Back to late ’64. The kadre ops inception.
Names:
Chuck Rogers. Tran Lao Dinh. Bob Relyea. Laurent Guéry. Flash Elorde. Fuentes/Wenzel/Arredondo.
Payouts/monthly stipends/covert. Odd spic names/cross-columned/starred with “CM”s.
Kall it: CM for Cuban Militia. Cuban passage paid in full.
Pete scanned columns. Pete scanned dates. Pete scanned names. Names stated/names absent/names unindicted: His name/Wayne’s/Mes-plède’s.
Money paid out. Loyalty purchased. Kadre kode breach.
Guéry and Stanton ran poly tests. They were all lies. Flash snuck into Cuba. It was a lie. Cuban dissension—one sustained lie. Safe runs to Cuba—one prepaid lie. Cuban Militia sold out as fodder—part of the lie. Guns sent to Cuba—funneled to where?—key to the lie.
Cars.
Watches.
Furs.
Jap motorcycles.
Faggot antiques.
Years gone. One heart attack. THIS.
Pete dropped the ledger. Pete flipped the car key. Pete killed the fog lights.
The dark felt right. The dark scared him. IT WAS ALL A BIG FUCKING LIE.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/25/68. Te
lephone call transcript. Taped by: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: “FBI-Scrambled”/“Stage-1 Covert”/ “Destroy Without Reading in the Event of My Death.” Speaking: BLUE RABBIT, FATHER RABBIT.
BR: It’s me, Senior. You hear those clicks?
FR: I know. Scrambler technology.
BR: Are you ready for some good news?
FR: If it relates to D-day, I am.
BR: It’s connected. That’s for damn sure.
FR: Have we got a date? Have we got a loc—
BR: My men found Wendell Durfee.
FR: Oh, sweet Jesus.
BR: He’s in L.A. He’s got a room on skid row.
FR: I hear the saints, Dwight. They’re singing hymns all for me.
BR: My men make him for some rape-snuffs. You think he developed a taste with Lynette?
FR: How could he? She always struck me as frigid.
BR: RED RABBIT’s on the move. I’m looking at D-day for sometime next month.
FR: Shitfire. Let’s bring Wayne in, then.
BR: My guys have got Durfee staked out. I’ll wait a few days, then have some jig stiff a call through Sonny Liston.
FR: Hymns, Dwight. I mean it. And all in stereo.
BR: You think Wayne’s ready for this?
FR: I know he is.
BR: I’ll patch you when I’ve got more news.
FR: Make it good news.
BR: We’re close, Senior. I’ve got this feeling.
FR: From your mouth to God’s ears.
107
(Mexico City, 3/26/68)
Show-and-tell:
Sam G.’s villa / the rumpus room / drinks with umbrellas.
A valet toiled. Said valet dished hors d’oeuvres. Said valet built gin slings.
Littell ran charts. Littell ran easel graphs. Sam watched. Moe watched. Carlos twirled his umbrella. Santo and Johnny yawned.
Littell jabbed a pointer. “We’re getting our prices. Mr. Hughes should have all his hotels by the end of the year.”
Sam yawned. Moe stretched. Carlos ate quesadillas.
Littell said, “There’s a garbage-hauling business in Reno that I think we should take over first. It’s nonunion, which helps. All told, we’re on schedule in every area except one.”
Moe laughed. “That is vintage Ward. Lay out this big preamble and stop short of the point.”
Sam said, “Ward’s a cock tease.”
Santo said, “Ward dropped out of the seminary. They teach you to string things out there.”
Littell smiled. “Mr. Hughes is insisting that we enforce a ‘Negro sedation policy’ at his hotels. He knows that it’s unrealistic, but he’s dug in.”
Moe said, “The shvartzes need sedation. They’re creating too much social unrest.”
Sam said, “You don’t rape and pillage when you’re sedated.”
Carlos said, “The sedation concept is stale bread. We’re closing down Pete’s business.”
Littell coughed. “Why? I thought Pete’s thing was solvent.”
Sam looked at Carlos. Carlos shook his head.
“Solvent is as solvent does. It got us what we wanted, so we’re cutting it loose.”
Looks passed: Johnny to Santo/Santo to Sam.
Sam coughed. “We’re covered in Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Panama, and the D.R. These guys I greased did not need a road map.”
Santo coughed. “The U.S. dollar is the international language. You say ‘casino gambling’ and it paints a big picture.”
Johnny coughed. “The U.S. dollar buys influence on both sides of the political line.”
Santo coughed. “We’ve got our bearded pal to thank for that.”
Moe looked at Santo. Sam looked at Santo. Santo went oops. The Boys regrouped. The Boys sipped drinks. The Boys snagged hors d’oeuvres.
Littell flipped graph sheets. Littell gauged the gaffe.
They screwed Pete. They screwed Pete per his Cuban deal—somehow. Guns to Castro? Not rightists? Perhaps. They greased leftists—said “Influence”—Pete’s usefulness lapsed. Maybe/somehow/perhaps.
I won’t tell Pete/they know it/they trust me/they own me.
Sam coughed. Sam cued the valet. Said valet split rápidamente.
Carlos said, “We’re still waiting to see if LBJ runs again, but we’re 99% committed to Nixon.”
Santo said, “Nixon’s the one.”
Sam said, “LBJ can’t change Justice Department policy like a new man can.”
Johnny said, “Humphrey’s too soft on the spooks. I can’t see him or LBJ granting that pardon to Jimmy.”
Santo said, “Nixon’s the guy. He’s a shoo-in for the nomination.”
Carlos said, “You sit down with him in late June, Ward. Then you can retire.”
Santo smiled. “I know someone else who’s going to retire.”
Sam smiled. “Yeah, per that little box of goodies we got in the mail.”
Looks passed: Carlos to Santo/Moe D. to Sam. Santo flushed. Sam went oops.
The plane soared. Air Mexico—Vegas nonstop.
The summit soared. The Boys vouched his plans—no rebuttals/no controversy. The Boys made gaffes. They were niggling for him. They were troubling for Pete.
They dropped the dope biz. That implied trouble. That implied a pissed Pete. No more Cuban runs or Viet ops—probably.
The plane banked. Littell saw clouds. White puffs laced with grimey debris.
He called Janice. They talked last night. She was scared. Her cramps were worse. She saw a doctor. He ran some tests.
He cited trauma. It went long untreated. It was Wayne Senior’s work. It masked her symptoms. It masked internal damage. It was cancer possibly.
She talked scared. She talked strong. She ran litanies: I’m young/it’s not that/it can’t be. He calmed her down. He said goodnight. He prayed for her. He said rosaries.
The plane leveled off. Littell shut his eyes. Littell saw Bobby.
Bobby announced. Bobby met the press nine days ago. Bobby said I want it. Bobby voiced policy.
Let’s end the war. Let’s work for peace. Let’s end poverty. Domestic reforms. Peace accords. No stated Mob policy.
Prudent Bobby. Sage Bobby. Sound policy.
Barb called him last week. She saw Bobby announce on TV. They talked. They got misty on Bobby.
Barb met Bobby once. It was spring ’62. Peter Lawford threw a party. Barb talked to Bobby. Barb liked Bobby then. Barb loved Bobby now. Pete deployed Shakedown Barb. Barb slept with JFK.
Barb laughed. Barb praised Bobby. Barb said he’d kick Dick Nixon’s ass. Barb predicted a victory.
A stew walked by. Said stew pushed a snack cart. Littell grabbed a club soda. Littell grabbed the L.A. Times.
He creased it out. He saw war headlines. He flipped the fold. Columns jumped. He saw “Poor People’s March”/“planning stages”/“momentum.” He flipped to page 2. He saw Bobby.
There’s Bobby caught candid. He’s standing by a putting green. He’s near some bungalows. The backdrop’s lush. The backdrop’s familiar.
Littell squinted. Wait now, what’s—
He saw the pathway. He saw the door. He saw the “301.” It’s the bungalow. It’s the “Mob meet spot.” It’s his gig for Dwight Holly.
Littell dropped the paper. Thoughts jumped and garbled. The Boys/that gaffe/“box of goodies.”
108
(Los Angeles, 3/30/68)
Death kit:
Four hypos / full loads / premixed: Big “H” and Novocain anesthetic.
One .44 mag. One silencer. One roll of duct tape. One paper-bag carryall. One pack of moist towelettes.
We’re here. We’re at 5th and Stanford. It’s Skid Row. It’s Bum Hell.
Wayne lounged. Wayne watched the hotel. Wayne jiggled his sack. He stood outside a blood bank. Bums hobnobbed. Nurses culled donors up.
He’s there. He’s in the Hiltz Hotel. He’s in room 402. It’s four floors up.
Wayne watched the front door. Wayne savored. Wayne stalled.
&nb
sp; He’d rotated south. He hit Bob’s kompound. He found it cleaned out. It vibed raid. It vibed heedless. It vibed state cops. Bob had friends. Bob was Fed-vouched. It vibed dumb state cops.
Wayne flew to Vegas then. Wayne checked the Cavern. Wayne picked messages up:
Call Pete. He’s in Sparta. Call Sonny.
He called Pete. He got no answer. He called Sonny. Sonny was jazzed. Sonny said, “This nigger called me.” Sonny cited said nigger source.
Bam:
Sonny’s guy saw Wendell. Wendell was nom-de-plumed. Wendell’s now Abdallah X.
It was warm. It was eighty at noon. Skid Row was crammed up. Winos/amputees on skateboards/he-shes rouged up.
They jostled Wayne. Wayne felt zero. Wayne felt ate up. His skin buzzed. He rode eggshells. His bloodstream froze up.
He walked over.
He walked through the front door. He passed bums in the lobby. He passed a TV cranked up.
’68 Novas! Buy now! Se habla español at Giant Felix Chevrolet!
A wino convulsed. Wayne dodged his legs. Wayne took side stairs up. He lost his feet. He lost his legs. He fought gravity.
He hit the fourth floor landing. He saw the hallway. He saw wood doors inset.
He passed 400. He passed 401. He hit 402. He touched the knob. He turned it. The door popped.
He’s right there. He’s backlit. You’ve got window light. There’s Wendell in a straight-back chair. There’s Wendell with a short-dog.
Wayne stepped inside. Wayne shut the door. Wayne almost threw up. Wendell saw him. Wendell squinted. Wendell grinned all fucked up.
Wayne stood there.
Wendell said, “You looks familiar.”
Wayne stood there.
Wendell said, “Give me a hint.”
Wayne said, “Dallas.” Wayne almost threw up.
Wendell slurped wine. Wendell looked bad. Wendell wore injection welts. Wendell wore needle tracks.
“That’s a good hint. Makes me think you a certain husband with a grievance. I’ve fucking widowered more than a few of them, so that narrows it down somewhat.”
Wayne scoped the room. Wayne saw empty short-dogs. Wayne smelled wine upchucked.
Wendell said, “That was some weekend. Remember? The President got shot.”
Wayne moved. Wayne took two steps. Wayne kicked out and up. He hit the chair. He hit the jug. He knocked Wendell flat.
