by James Ellroy
Wayne tried—it was easy—it was shortbread cake.
Moore was crazy. Moore was bent. Moore drank jar brew. He might push uppers. He might book bets. Bowers might be bent too. They fell out. Moore got pissed. Moore cut hisself a thumb.
Wayne hit Darktown. Wayne found Harvey Street. It was the shits—shacks and hen coops—connected dirt yards.
8819: Dead still and dark.
He parked out front. He hit his brights. He nailed the one window: No window shades/no furniture/no drapes.
Wayne got out. Wayne grabbed a flashlight. Wayne circled the shack. He cut through the backyard. He bumped furniture.
Big piles—yard-sale dimensions. Sofas and chairs—all cheap stuff.
He strafed it. His light roused a hen. She fluffed full. She made claws. She squawked.
Wayne kicked a cushion. A light hit him. A man laughed.
“It’s my property now. I got a receipt that says so.”
Wayne covered his eyes. “Did Wendell Durfee sell it to you?”
“That’s right. Him and Rochelle.”
“Did he say where they were going?”
The man coughed. “Out of your redneck jurisdiction.”
Wayne walked up. The man was fat and high yellow. He twirled his flashlight. The beam jumped.
Wayne said, “I’m not DPD.”
The man tapped his badge. “You’re that Vegas guy looking for Wendell.”
Wayne smiled. Wayne unpinned his coat. Wayne repinned his belt. The man flipped a porch switch. The yard lit up. A pit bull materialized.
Brindle flecks and muscle. Jaw power for two.
Wayne said, “Nice dog.”
The man said, “He liked Wendell, so I liked him too.”
Wayne walked up. The pit licked his hand. Wayne scratched his ears.
The man said, “I don’t always go by that rule, though.”
The pit made a fuss. The pit reared and batted his paws.
“Because I’m a policeman?”
“Because Wendell told me how your town works.”
“Wendell tried to shoot me, Mr.…”
“It’s Willis Beaudine, and Wendell tried to shoot you because you tried to shoot him. Now, tell me that Casino Council didn’t give you some recreation money when they put that bounty on Wendell.”
Wayne sat on a porch step. The pit nuzzled him.
Beaudine said, “Dogs can be fooled, just like anyone else.”
“You’re saying Wendell and Rochelle made a run for Mexico.”
Beaudine smiled. “Them and their kids. You want my guess? They’re decked out in sombreros and having a ball this very second.”
Wayne shook his head. “It’s bad for coloreds down there. The Mexicans hate them like some people in Vegas do.”
Beaudine shook his head. “Like most or all, you mean. Like that dealer guy that Wendell cut. The same guy who won’t let coloreds piss in his washroom, the same guy who beat up an old woman for selling Watchtowers out of his parking lot.”
Wayne looked around. The yard furniture trapped dirt. The yard furniture stunk.
Spilled food. Liquor. Dog fumes. Chipped wood and stuffing exposed.
Wayne stretched. His blocked ear popped. He got This Craaazy Idea.
“Can you place a long-distance call for me?”
Beaudine hiked his belt. “Sure … I guess I could.”
“The Border Patrol station at Laredo. Make it person-to-person. Ask for the watch commander.”
Beaudine hiked his belt. Wayne smiled. Beaudine snapped his belt—hard.
Craaazy—
Beaudine walked inside. Beaudine hit some lights. Beaudine dialed a phone. Wayne nuzzled the pit. The pit kissed him. The pit swiped his tongue.
Beaudine pulled the phone out. The cord twanged. Wayne grabbed the receiver.
“Captain?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Sergeant Tedrow, Las Vegas PD.”
“Oh, shit. I was hoping you’d call when we had some good news.”
“Is there bad news?”
“Yes. Your fugitive, a woman, and two children tried to cross at McAllen an hour ago, but were turned back. Your boy was intoxicated, and nobody made him in time. Lieutenant Fritsch sent us a teletype with his picture, but we didn’t make the connection until—”
Wayne hung up. Beaudine grabbed the phone. Beaudine snapped his belt—hard.
“This better be good. That was a two-dollar call.”
Wayne pulled out his wallet. Wayne forked up two bucks.
“If he tries to cross again, they’ll get him. But if he comes back here, you tell him I’ll walk him over myself.”
Beaudine hiked his belt. “Why would you take that kind of risk for Wendell?”
“Your dog likes me. Leave it at that.”
The Adolphus bar—all male at midnight. The big Jack postmortem.
Pro-Jack stools. Anti-Jack stools adjacent. Youth. Outer space. Ich bin ein Berliner.
Wayne sat between factions. Wayne heard hi-fi bullshit in stereo sound.
Cowboy trash—faux tall—big boots don’t count. They called Jack “Jack.” They took liberties—like they all fucked leprechauns in Hyannis.
Fuck them. He slept in Jack’s bed. He thrashed on Jack’s sheets.
Wayne got drunk. Wayne never got drunk. Wayne drank small-batch bond.
Shot 1 burned. Shot 2 played a picture: Lee Bowers’ thumb. Shot 3 gored his gonads. Dig these pix: Janice in halters and shorts.
Jack had hound blood. Wayne Senior said so. Martin Luther King fucked white chicks.
Shot 4—more pix:
Durfee tries to cross. The border cops lose him. Wayne fucked up. Wayne gets called home. Buddy Fritsch recruits a new man. Said man kills Wendell D.
Wayne fucked up. Fritsch fucks him for it. Fritsch fucks him off LVPD. Wayne Senior says don’t fuck my boy. The fucking ascends triumphant.
Shot 5:
The thumb/the alley chase/the crap-game snafu.
Jack put a man in orbit. Jack played chicken with Khrushchev. Jack put that shine in Ole Miss.
Maynard Moore walked in. He brought company. That Pete guy—the big guy with Jack Ruby.
Moore saw Wayne. Moore detoured up. Pete tagged along.
Moore said, “Let’s go find us that spook. My pal Pete hates spooks, don’t you, sahib?”
Pete smiled. Pete rolled his eyes. Pete goofed on dipshit Moore.
Wayne chewed ice cubes. “Fuck off. I’ll find him myself.”
Moore leaned on the bar. “Your daddy wouldn’t like that. It’d let him know the apple falls real far from the tree.”
Wayne tossed his drink. Moore caught it—hard in the eyes. Bourbon burned him—hi-test sting—triple-digit proof.
The cocksucker rubbed his eyes. The cocksucker squealed.
8
(Dallas, 11/24/63)
Pete was late. Littell voyeurized.
His room was high up. The window framed a church. A midnight mass convened.
Littell watched. A poster marked the mass—Jack K. in black borders.
Kids defaced it. Littell watched them—late this afternoon. He went to dinner later. He saw the work up close.
Jack had fangs. Jack had devil horns. Jack said, “I’m a homo!”
Mourners filed in. A breeze dumped the poster. A woman picked it up. She saw Jack’s picture. She cringed.
A car cruised by. An arm shot out. A stiff finger twirled. The woman sobbed. The woman crossed herself. The woman squeezed rosary beads.
The Statler was low-rent. The Bureau booked cheap rooms. The view compensated.
Pete was late. Pete was with the backup cop. The cop had details. The cop had a map printed up.
Littell watched the church. It diverted him. It subsumed Arden.
They talked for six hours. They skirted IT. He coded a message: I KNOW. I KNOW you KNOW. I don’t care how you KNOW. I don’t care what you DID.
She coded a message: I won’t probe your stake.
No one said, “Jack Ruby.”
They talked. They omitted. They codified.
He said he was a lawyer. He was ex-FBI. He had an ex-wife and an ex-daughter somewhere. She studied his facial scars. He told her flat-out: My best friend put them there.
Le frère Pete—un Frenchman sanglant.
She said she traveled. She said she held jobs. She said she bought and sold stocks and made money. She said she had an ex-husband. She did not state his name.
She impressed him. She knew it. He coded a response: You’re a pro. You dissemble. I don’t care.
She knew Jack Ruby. She used the word “roust.” He skirted it. He offered advice. He told her to find a motel.
She said she would. He gave her his hotel number. Please call me. Please do it soon.
He wanted to touch her. He didn’t. She touched his arm once. He left her. He drove to the Bureau.
The office was empty—no agents about—Mr. Hoover made sure. He rifled drawers. He found the Tippit file.
Pete was late. Littell skimmed the file. It rambled and digressed.
Dallas PD was far right: Klan kliques and John Birch. Diverse splinter groups: The NSRP/the Minutemen/the Thunderbolt Legion.
Tippit was “klanned up.” Tippit joined the Klarion Klan Koalition for the New Konfederacy. The DPD boss was Maynard D. Moore. Moore was an FBI snitch. Moore’s handler was Wayne Tedrow Sr.
Tedrow Senior: “Pamphleteer”/“Fund Raiser”/“Entrepreneur”/“Extensive Las Vegas holdings.”
Unique stats—familiar—Mr. Hoover’s “Führer manqué.”
Littell skimmed up. Littell logged stats. Tedrow Senior ran eclectic.
He raised right-wing cash. He might know Guy B. Guy scrounged right-wing funds. Some fat cats greased the hit fund.
Littell skimmed down. Littell logged stats. Littell logged a possible connection.
Guy’s backup cop—friend of J. D. Tippit—odds on Maynard D. Moore.
Odds on: Mr. Hoover knew it. Mr. Hoover guessed the connection.
Littell skimmed up. Tedrow Senior’s CV expanded.
All-Mormon staff. Ties at Nellis AFB. Tight with the Gaming Control Board. One son: a Vegas policeman.
Senior withheld data from Junior. Junior worked the intel squad. Junior kept board files. Junior withheld data from Senior. Senior “assisted” Mr. Hoover. Senior “dispensed propaganda.”
Per: Martin Luther King/the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.
Littell skimmed pages. Littell took notes. Howard Hughes loved Mormons. They had “germ-free” blood. Tedrow Senior was Mormon. Tedrow Senior had Mormon connections.
Littell rubbed his eyes. The doorbell rang. He got up and opened the door.
Pete walked in. Pete grabbed the desk chair. Pete sprawled out tall.
Littell shut the door. “How bad?”
Pete said, “Bad. The map looks good, but he won’t pop Oswald. He’s crazy, but I can’t fault him for brains.”
Littell rubbed his eyes. “Maynard Moore, right? That’s his name.”
Pete yawned. “Guy’s slipping. He usually plays his names closer than that.”
Littell shook his head. “Mr. Hoover made him. He had a file on Tippit. He assumed that Moore had to be somewhere close.”
“That’s your interpretation, right? Hoover didn’t get that specific.”
“He never does.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “How scared are you?”
“It comes and goes, and I wouldn’t mind some good news.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “Rogers made it down to Juarez. The pro got down, but the Border Patrol detained him and ran a passport check. Guy said he’s a French national.”
Littell said, “Guy’s talking too much.”
“He’s scared. He knows Carlos is thinking, ‘If I went with Pete and Ward’s crew, none of this shit would have happened.’ ”
Littell cleaned his glasses. “Where is he?”
“He drove back to New Orleans. His nerves are shot, and he’s popping digitalis like a fucking junkie. All this shit is on him, and he knows it.”
Littell said, “And?”
Pete cracked a window. Cold air blew in.
“And what?”
“There’s more. Guy wouldn’t be going back unless he had an excuse to hand Carlos.”
Pete flicked his cigarette out. “Jack Ruby knows. He brought one of his flunkies and some women up to the safe house. They saw the targets and guns. Guy’s saying we should clip them. I think he’ll tell Carlos that, so he can buy his way out of the shit.”
Littell coughed. His pulse zoomed. He held his breath.
“We can’t take out four people that close to the hit. It’s too obvious.”
Pete laughed. “Shit, Ward, say it. I’ve got no balls for clipping civilians, so why should you?”
Littell smiled. “Ruby aside.”
Pete shrugged. “Jack’s no skin off my ass either way.”
“The women, then. That’s what we’re talking about.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “I’m not negotiating on that. I already warned one of them off, but I couldn’t find the other one.”
“Give me their names.”
“Betty McDonald and Arden something.”
Littell touched his tie. Littell scratched his neck. Littell made his hands quash his nerves.
He twitched. He swallowed. He gulped. The room was cold. He shut the window.
“Oswald.”
“Yeah. If he goes, this all disappears.”
“When are they moving him?”
“Eleven-thirty. If he hasn’t named Guy’s cutout by then, we can put the skids to all this.”
Littell coughed. “I’ve arranged for a private interview. The ASAC said he hasn’t talked, but I want to make sure.”
Pete shook his head. “Bullshit. You want to get close to him. You want to run some kind of fucking absolution number on him, so you can do a number on yourself later.”
In nomine patris, et filii et spiritus sancti, Amen.
“It’s nice to have someone who knows you.”
Pete laughed. “I wasn’t doubting you. I just want to work this fucking thing out.”
Littell said, “Moore. There’s no way he—”
“No. He knows too much, drinks too much and talks too much. After Oswald goes, he goes, and we draw the line at that.”
Littell checked his watch. Shit—1:40 a.m.
“He’s a policeman. He could get into the basement.”
“No. He’s too crazy. He’s working an extradition gig with a Vegas cop, and he gets in the guy’s face in the worst possible way. He’s not what we want.”
Littell rubbed his eyes. “What was the man’s name? The cop, I mean.”
“Wayne something. Why?”
“Tedrow?”
Pete said, “Yeah, and why do you care? He’s got nothing to do with any of this, and the fucking clock is ticking.”
Littell checked his watch. Carlos bought it for him. A gold Rolex/pure ostentat—
“Ward, are you in a fucking trance?”
Littell said, “Jack Ruby.”
Pete rocked his chair back. The legs squeaked.
Littell said, “He’s insane. He’s afraid of us. He’s afraid of the Outfit. He’s got seven brothers and sisters that we can threaten.”
Pete smiled. “The cops know he’s crazy. He carries a gun. He’s been all over the building all weekend, and he’s been saying somebody should shoot that Commie. Ten dozen fucking newsmen have heard him.”
Littell said, “He’s got tax troubles.”
“Who told you that?”
“I don’t want to say.”
A breeze kicked up. The windowpanes creaked.
Pete said, “And?”
“And what?”
“There’s more. I want to know why you’ll risk it, with a fucking psycho who knows both our names.”
Cherchez la femme, Pierre.
“It’s a message. It tells ever
yone who went to that safe house to run.”
9
(Dallas, 11/24/63)
Barb walked in. She wore his raincoat. The sleeves drooped. The shoulders sagged. The hem brushed her feet.
Pete blocked the bathroom. Barb said, “Shit.”
Pete checked her ring hand. Pete saw her wedding ring.
She held it up. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just getting used to it.”
Pete carried his ring. It came too small—fucking pygmy-size.
“I’ll get used to it when I get mine fitted.”
Barb shook her head. “Used to it. What you did.”
Pete snared his ring. Pete tried to squeeze his finger in. Pete jabbed at the hole.
“Say something nice, all right? Tell me how the late show went.”
Barb dumped his coat. “It went fine. The Twist is dead, but Dallas doesn’t know it.”
Pete stretched. His shirt gapped. Barb saw his piece.
“You’re going out.”
“I won’t be that long. I’m just wondering where you’ll be when I get back.”
“I’m wondering who else knows. I know, so there has to be others.”
His headache revived. His headache paved new ground.
“Everyone who knows has a stake. It’s what you call an open secret.”
Barb said, “I’m scared.”
“Don’t think about it. I know how these things work.”
“You don’t know that. There’s never been anything like this.”
Pete said, “It’ll be all right.”
Barb said, “Bullshit.”
Ward was late. Pete watched the Carousel Club.
He stood two doors down. Jack Ruby shooed cops and whores out. They paired off. They piled in cars. The whores jiggled keys.
Jack closed up the club. Jack cleaned his ears with a pencil. Jack kicked a turd in the street.
Jack went back inside. Jack talked to his dogs. Jack talked very loud.
It was cold. It was windy. Motorcade debris swirled: Matchbooks/confetti/Jack & Jackie signs.
Ward was late. Ward might be with “Arden.”
He left Ward’s room. He heard the phone ring. Ward made him run. He saw Ward and Arden. They didn’t see him. He told Ward the safe-house tale.
He said, “Arden.” Ward schizzed. He called Ward on Ruby. Ward played it oblique.
Fuck it—for now.
Jack’s dogs yapped. Jack baby-talked Yiddish. The noise carried outside. A Fed sled pulled up. Ward got out. His coat pockets bulged.
