by James Ellroy
Bob Relyea had his hole-up. Bob had some shack near Phoenix. Wayne got better lodging. Wayne made phone calls. Wayne watched TV.
The Feds traced Ray to England. The search tapped out there. They’ll get him. They’ll kill him or bust him. He’ll give up “Raul.” They’ll say you’re crazy. They’ll say there is no “Raul.”
The TV spieled news. Wayne Senior called daily. Wayne Senior spieled gossip.
I work with Carlos now. Carlos said he got some tapes. Mr. Hoover sent them. The tapes scared him. Bobby K.’s out to fuck us. Let’s clip him fast.
Wayne Senior tattled. See what I know? Wayne Senior bragged.
Fred O.’s gigging it. He runs the new shooter. Pete B. runs backup. Wayne Senior gloated. I’m an insider. Wayne Senior bragged.
Pete killed some kadre men. Pete klipped loose ends at sea. Carlos told me that. Wayne Senior tattled. Your daddy hears things. Wayne Senior bragged.
The kadre biz was a shuck. The Boys fucked the Cause. Carlos told me that. Wayne hashed it out. Wayne came to this: I just don’t care.
He watched TV. He caught the war. He caught politics. Wayne Senior puffed. Bobby’s a dead man. I’ll set Nixon up with the Boys.
Wayne hashed it out. It felt felicitous. Wayne grooved the details. Wayne foresaw the balance.
King’s dead. Bobby soon. Shit will peak and resettle. The Poor People’s March tanked. The riots upstaged it. Fools popped their rocks and resettled. Chaos is taxing. Fools tire quick. King’s death let them roar and resettle. Bobby will go. Dick Nixon will reign. The country will roar and resettle.
The fix will work. Peace will reign. His type will run things. He saw it. He felt it. He knew.
And:
You’ll step up. You’ll get your piece. You know it. You’re making calls. You’re listening. You’re thinking.
He called Wayne Senior. He let him talk. He let him tattle and puff.
Wayne Senior said this:
Littell will retire. I’ll get his job. I’ll span Howard Hughes and the Boys. Dick Nixon and me. Dick and the Boys—shitfire.
Wayne listened. Wayne prompted. Wayne dropped soft tell-me-mores.
Wayne Senior said:
I ran Maynard Moore. He was my snitch. I bankrolled most of Dallas. I sent you there. I got you close. I bought you history. You killed Moore—didn’t you?—you lived history.
Wayne dodged the probe. Wayne rethought Dallas. Moore and the bankroll were old news. The hot news was contempt and hubris.
Dallas derailed your life. Dallas killed your wife. Dallas almost killed you. Wendell D. was there. You weekended with him. Cut to your last rendezvous.
Wayne Senior found Durfee. Dwight Holly helped. They found him and staked him for you. Durfee killed three more women. He killed them during that interval—before your last rendezvous.
Wayne Senior gloated. Hear this now. Wayne Senior bragged. Pete killed the kadre men. Carlos vouched the job. Carlos said Pete could “retire.” Carlos lied to Pete. Carlos told Wayne Senior why.
Pete was impetuous. Pete was erratic. Pete had ideals. Pete and Barb go. Pete and Barb go after Bobby. Carlos has a guy. His name’s Chuck the Vice. Chuck kills shitfire. Carlos will call Chuck après Bobby.
Hubris. Miscalculation. Pure contempt for YOU.
He had time. He had the phone. He had scrambled frequencies. He called out. He didn’t call Barb. He didn’t call Pete.
He called Janice. He listened. She talked.
She had cancer. They cut some out. Most of it spread. She had six months tops. She blamed herself. Her cramps hid the symptoms. Said cramps were Wayne Senior–derived.
She hid the prognosis. She never told Ward. She moved into his suite. She still loved the golf course. She still hit shag balls.
She was fading. Ward never sensed it. Ward was soooo Ward. Ward talked in his sleep now. Ward invoked “Bobby” and “Jane.”
Ward studied ledger books. There were two separate sets. Ward had them hidey-hole stashed. Ward was secretive. Ward was heedless. She found the stash.
Teamster books. Figures and code names. One set. Anti-Mob books. Typed pages with hand scrawls. One set.
Feminine scrawl. Probably scrawled up by “Jane.”
Ward mimeo’d the Jane sheets. Ward wrote cover notes. Ward filled envelopes. Ward was secretive. Ward was heedless. She watched him. She peeked and saw.
She did the pencil trick. She traced a scratch-pad sheet. She bagged a cover note verbatim. Ward wrote to “Paul Horvitz.” He was on Bobby’s staff. Ward pleaded. Ward groveled. Ward pressed. Ward said here’s more dirt. Ward said I’m not a spy. Ward said please don’t hate me.
It was pathetic. Janice said so.
He called her again. She disdained cancer talk. She talked about Ward.
He’s guilt-wracked. He’s paranoid. He’s confused. He’s talking crazy. He says the Feds are on me. He says the Boys might be out for Bobby.
He plays Bobby tapes. He plays them late at night. He thinks I’m asleep. He sleeps fitful. He prays for Bobby. He prays for Martin Luther King. He split ten days ago. He hasn’t called. I think he wigged out.
I miss him. I might burn his stash pile. It might drive some sense home. It might wake him up.
Wayne said don’t do it. Janice laughed. Janice said it was just talk. Wayne proposed a date. He said I’ll pass through Vegas soon. We’ll meet at Ward’s suite.
Janice said yes.
He wanted her. Dying or not. He knew it. Janice got him thinking. Everything did.
He got an urge. It was time-travel stuff. It reached back fourteen years. He called his mother in Peru, Indiana.
The call shocked her. He let her calm down. They broke some ice. They bridged some pauses. They talked. He lied his life off. She said all good things.
You were a tender child. You loved animals. You set trapped coyotes free. You were a brilliant child. You learned complex math. You excelled at chemistry. You carried no hate. You played with colored children. You loved righteously.
I was pregnant once. It was ’32—two years before you. Wayne Senior had a dream. He saw the baby as a girl. He wanted a boy.
He beat my stomach in. He used brass knuckles. The baby died. Wayne Senior was right. It was a girl. The doctor told me.
Wayne said goodbye then. His mother said God bless.
Wayne thought it through. Wayne called Janice. Wayne set up their date.
116
(Long Beach, 6/3/68)
Bobby! Bobby! Bobby!
The crowd chanted it. The crowd went nuts. Speak Bobby speak!
Bobby climbed a flatbed truck. Bobby grabbed a microphone. Bobby rolled up his sleeves.
The Southglen Mall. Three thousand fans—Speak Bobby Speak! Parking-lot frenzy. Kids on daddies’ shoulders. Sound speakers on stilts.
The fans loved Bobby. The fans fucked up their vocal cords. The fans fucking shrieked. Watch Bobby smile! Watch Bobby toss his hair! Hear Bobby speak!
Pete watched. Likewise Fred O.
They watched Bobby. They watched his bodyguards. They watched the cop crew. The numbers were low. Bobby loved contact. Bobby shined on security.
Fred watched cops move. Fred watched cops scan. Fred watched cops flank. Fred nailed details. Fred memorized.
Fred met Sirhan. They “met” at the track. They “met” six weeks back. Fred staged a play for Sirhan. Fred beat up a Jew.
He was a big man. He had a big beak. He wore a big beanie. He was a very big Jew.
Fred kicked his ass. Sirhan watched. Sirhan dug the show. Fred dished rapport—I’m Bill Habib—I’m Arab too.
Courtship/subornment/recruitment/sheep dip.
Fred palled with Sirhan. Fred bought him booze. Fred ragged the Jews. They met every day. They worked up a mojo. They ragged Bobby K. They met semi-private. Fred stayed skinny. Fred stayed camouflaged.
Fred tweaked Sirhan. Fred studied Sirhan. Fred learned:
How far to push him. How much booze to pour him. How much hate to stoke.
How to get him talking. How to get him fuming: Kill RFK!
How to get him blackout drunk. How to get him fucked-up blotto. How to push him to memory loss. How to get him stalking rallies. How to get him talking death. How to get him talking fate. How to get him target shooting out in the hills—blasting at mock–Bobby K.’s.
Fred gauged Sirhan. Fred said:
He’s drinking hard. He’s drinking every night. He’s drinking with and without me. He’s hitting rallies. He’s rally-hopping countywide. He always packs his piece. I’ve tailed him. I’ve seen it. I know.
He hates Bobby. His logic’s warped. It’s misdirected and rationalized. He hates the Jews. He hates Israel. He hates Zionist Bobby. He hates Bobby because Bobby’s a fucking Kennedy.
He’s primed now. He’s ready now. He’s psycho. He’s blackout-prone. He’s booze-atrophied.
Fred picked the spot. Fred told Sirhan. Fred made Sirhan drink. Sirhan picked the spot. Sirhan picked it two bottles later. Sirhan usurped the idea. Sirhan thinks it’s his idea. It’s his booze epiphany.
Tomorrow night. The Ambassador Hotel. Bobby’s victory gala. Bobby to shout victory.
Bobby will be fried. Bobby will be torched and zorched—cumulatively. The kitchen’s the way out. It’s short and fast—serendipity. Sirhan’s there. Sirhan’s primed—tenaciously.
Fred knew the kitchen. Fred checked it out. Fred pumped rent-a-cops. Said cops pledged this:
Tight spaces/armed guards/tight security. That meant potential combustion/potential confusion. That meant potential insanity.
Fred’s suggested drama/Fred’s predicted lunacy:
Men draw their guns. Men shoot Sirhan. Shots bounce and hit Bobby K. Fred said he will shoot. Fred knew the nut turf. Fred-“Raul” ran James Earl Ray.
Pete looked around. The crowd yelled. The crowd went nuts. The crowd out-yelled Bobby.
The speakers backfired. Reverb blew wide. Bobby spoke basso-falsetto. Pete heard platitudes. Pete heard “end the war.” Pete heard “King’s legacy.”
Barb dug Bobby. Barb dug his antiwar shit. He hadn’t called her. She hadn’t called him. She never wrote. No contact since Sparta. No contact post-boat trip. No contact post-coronary.
The crowd yelled. Pete looked around. Pete saw a pay phone. It was streetside. It was away from the noise. It was away from Bobby.
He pushed over. People stepped aside. People saw his cane. He made the booth. He caught his breath. He fed quarters in.
He got an operator. She patched the Cavern. He got the switchboard. He shagged his messages.
No message from Barb. One message from Wayne: Call me/Lake Tahoe/urgent/this number direct.
Pete dropped quarters. Pete got an operator. She patched Tahoe direct. Pete heard two rings. Pete heard Wayne:
“Hello?”
“It’s me. Where the hell have—”
“Littell’s on to the hit. Grab him and bring him here. And tell Barb go someplace safe.”
117
(San Diego, 6/3/68)
Bobby soared.
He jabbed the air. He tossed his hair. He praised Dr. King. He co-opted him. He out-orated him. He made his praise sing.
It all worked. It all sang—the sunburn/the bray/the rolled sleeves.
The crowd soared. The crowd roared. The crowd cheered in sync. Two thousand people/crowd ropes up/parking-lot streams.
Littell watched. Littell willed Bobby: Please look at me.
See me. Don’t fear me. I won’t hurt you again. I’m a pilgrim. I fear for you. My fear’s justified.
Bobby stood on a flatbed. The tailgate shook and dipped. Aides stood below him. Aides steadied him.
Look over. Look down. See me.
His fear boiled over. It popped two weeks back. His fear stretched and peaked. He linked fear dots. He plumbed fear lines. He read fear hieroglyphs.
The news pic/the El Encanto/suite 301. The Sam line: “Box of goodies.” The Carlos line: Pete’s “small favor.” Fear connections/hieroglyphs/puzzle chips.
It got bad. It ate him up. It ruined his sleep. He split Vegas. He flew to D.C. He called Paul Horvitz.
Paul hung up. He called Mr. Hoover. He called Dwight Holly. They hung up. He drove to the Bureau. Door guards ejected him.
He flew to Oregon. He approached campaign staffers. Staff guards restrained him. He saw his name on a list—all “Known Enemies.”
He told the guards I sense things. He said please talk to me. They said no. They manhandled him. They ejected him.
Chips dovetailed. He sensed things. Mr. Hoover knows—just like he knew about Jack.
He flew to Santa Barbara. He got a hotel room. He staked out the El Encanto. He watched 301. He followed wires. He found the listening post.
Suite 208/fifty yards up/manned twenty-four hours per day.
He staked it out. He wore disguises. He worked six days and nights. He waited. The post stayed manned—all day/all night.
He went schizzy. He gave up sleep—six days/six nights. He lost weight. He saw goblins. Spots torqued his eyes.
It rained on day 7. One agent stayed on-post.
Luck:
Said agent goes off-post. Said agent visits suite 63. Said agent has a prostitute.
Littell hit 208. Littell picked the door lock. Littell locked himself in. Littell tossed the post.
He found a transcript log. He found a routing log. He found transcripts stacked. He skimmed back through mid-March. He saw:
March 15/16. Two three-way talks transcribed. Bobby plus Paul Horvitz. One man un-ID’d. Bobby’s voluble. Bobby’s effusive. Bobby talks anti-Mob.
He skimmed the routing log. He hit 3/20. He saw tape copies routed. The tapes for March 15/16. Said tapes routed to the Boys.
To Carlos. To Moe D. To John Rosselli. To Santo and Sam G.
That was this morning. That was twelve hours back.
He tracked Bobby’s schedule. He drove south. He hit San Diego. He called the Bureau office. The ASAC hung up. He called SDPD. He told his story. A sergeant blew up.
The sergeant yelled at him. The sergeant said, “You’re on a list.” The sergeant hung up.
He drove to the rally. He got there early. He saw sound men set up. He braced them. He braced staffers. He got the bum’s rush. He left. He came back. The crowd ate him up.
Littell watched Bobby. Littell waved his hands. Look at me please. Bobby soared. Bobby waved. Bobby loved up the crowd. Bobby spread contact thin.
Littell waved his hands. Something jabbed him—a needle/a pin/a stick. He went woozy—BOOM like that—he saw Fred Otash thiiiiiinnn.
118
(Las Vegas, 6/4/68)
Wild Janice—frail now.
More gray hair. More black eclipsed. More lines and hollows.
Wayne walked in. Janice shut the door. Wayne embraced her. He felt ribs. He felt hollows. He felt her curves slack.
Janice stepped back. Wayne took her hands.
“You look pretty good, considering.”
“I wasn’t going to put on all that powder. I’m not dead yet.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“Let me indulge myself. You’re my first date since Ward deserted me.”
Wayne smiled. “You were my first date, ever.”
Janice smiled. “Are you talking about the Peru Cotillion of 1949 or the one time we did it?”
Wayne squeezed her hands. “We never got a second shot.”
Janice laughed. “You weren’t looking for one. It was just your way to cut loose of your father.”
“I regret that. That part of it, I mean.”
“You mean it was good, but you regret the timing and your motive.”
“I regret what it cost you.”
Janice squeezed his hands. “You’re leading up to something.”
Wayne blushed. Shit—you still do that.
“I was hoping there’d be one more time.”
“You can’t mean it. With me like this?”
“You never get things
right the first time.”
It went soft. It went slow. It went like he wanted. It went like he planned.
Her body showed the hurt. Sharp bones over skin. Gray tones over white. Her breath tasted bitter. He liked her old taste—Salem Menthols and gin.
They rolled. Her bones scraped him. They touched and kissed long. Her breasts fell. He liked it. Her breasts used to stand.
She still had strength. She pushed him. She clutched and grabbed. They rolled. He tasted her. She tasted him.
She tasted sick. It stunned him. The taste settled in. He tasted her inside. He kissed her new scars. Her breath fluttered thin.
He got her close. She pulled back. She guided him in. He reached over. He turned on the bed lamp. The beam settled in.
It caught her face. It bounced off her gray hair. It caught her eyes flush.
They moved together. They got close and held. They locked their eyes up. They moved. They peaked close together. They let their eyes shut.
Janice played the radio. KVGS—all lounge stuff.
They hit some Barb songs. They laughed and rolled. They kicked the sheets up. Wayne dimmed the volume. The Bondsmen purred. Barb sang “Twilight Time.”
Janice said, “You love her. Ward told me.”
“I outgrew her. She grew up and messed with my crush.” Barb segued upbeat—“Chanson d’Amour.” Janice dimmed the volume. Barb blew a high note. The Bondsmen cued her back up.
“I ran into her, about two years ago. We had a few drinks and discussed certain men.”
Wayne smiled. “I wish I could have been there.”
“You were.”
“That’s all you’re saying?”
Janice zipped her lips. “Yes.”
Barb segued dreamy—Jimmy Rogers’ “Secretly.”
Janice said, “I love that song. It reminds me of the man I was with then.”
“Was it my father?”
“No.”
“Did he find out?”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
Janice touched his lips. “Be still. I want to listen.”
Barb sang. Her voice held. She segued. She went upbeat. Reverb killed the mood.
Wayne killed the volume. Wayne rolled close to Janice. He kissed her. He touched her hair. He got her eyes close up.
