Read The Cold Six Thousand Online
Authors: James Ellroy
The Cold Six Thousand (6 page)
Pete roamed. Pete checked hall routes. Pete sketched floor plans. He nursed a headache—a looong one—the fucker had legs.
Barb KNEW.
She said, “You killed him. You and Ward and those Outfit guys you work for.”
He lied. He bombed. Barb looked through him.
She said, “Let’s leave Dallas.” He said, “No.” She split to her gig.
He walked to the club. Biz was bad. Barb sang to three drag queens. She looked straight through him. He walked back alone.
He slept alone. Barb slept in the john.
Pete roamed. Pete passed Homicide. Pete stopped at room 317. Geeks cruised for looks. Geeks framed the door. A cop cracked it wide and obliged.
There’s Oswald. He looks beat-on. He’s cuffed to a chair.
The crowd closed in. The cop shut the door. Talk fired up:
I knew J.D. J.D. was
Klan
. J.D. was
not
. They got to move him soon. They sure will—to the County Jail.
Pete roamed. Pete dodged geeks with carts. Geeks sold poorboys. Geeks snarfed them. Geeks slurped ketchup.
Pete sketched hall routes. Pete took notes.
One bunco pen. One holding tank adjacent. Basement cells. A press room adjacent. Briefings/newsmen/camera crews.
Pete roamed. Pete saw Jack Ruby. Jack’s hawking pens shaped like dicks.
He saw Pete. He seized up. He freaked. He dropped his dick pens. He bent loooow and scooped up.
His pants ripped. Dig those plaid BVDs.
Maynard Moore rubbed him wrong.
His bad breath. His bad teeth. His Klan repartee.
They met at a parking lot. They sat in Guy’s car. They faced a nigger church and a blood bank. Moore brought a six-pack. Moore sucked one down. Moore tossed the can out.
Pete said, “Did you brace Ruby?”
Moore said, “Yeah, I did. And I think he knows.”
Pete slid his seat back. Moore raised his knees.
“Whoa, now. You’re crowdin’ me.”
Guy dumped his ashtray. “Let’s have the details. You can’t shut Jack up once he starts talking.”
Moore cracked beer #2. “Well, everybody—the crew, I mean—is up at Jack Zangetty’s motel in Altus, Oklahoma, where men are men and cows are scared.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Cut the travelogue.”
Moore belched. “Schlitz, breakfast of champions.”
Guy said, “Maynard, goddamnit.”
Moore giggled. “Okay, so Jack R. gets a call from his old friend Jack Z. It seems that the pilot guy and the French guy want some cooze, so Jack R. says he’ll bring some up.”
The pilot: Chuck Rogers. The French guy: the pro. Let’s observe the no-names policy.
Pete said, “Keep going.”
Moore said, “Okay, so Ruby goes up there with his buddy Hank Killiam and these girls Betty McDonald and Arden something. Betty agrees to put out, but Arden don’t, which pisses off the French guy something fierce. He slaps her, she burns him with a hot plate, then hightails. Now, Ruby don’t
know where Arden lives, and he thinks she’s got a string of aliases. And the worst part is that everybody saw the rifles and targets, and they might’ve seen a map of Dealey Plaza layin’ around.”
Guy smiled. Guy made the finger-throat sign. Pete shook his head. Pete flashed
waaaay
back.
A bomb hits. Flames whoosh. A woman’s hair ignites.
Moore belched. “Schlitz, Milwaukee’s finest beer.”
Pete said, “You’re going to clip Oswald.”
Moore gagged. Moore sprayed beer suds.
“Uuuh
-uuuuh
. Not this boy. That’s a kamikaze mission that you ain’t sendin’ me on, not when I got an extradition job and a candy-ass partner who won’t pull his weight.”
Guy dipped his seat. Guy pushed Moore back.
“You and Tippit fucked up. You owe that marker, so you have to pay it off.”
Moore cracked beer #3. “Uuuh-uuuuh. I’m not flushin’ my life down the shitter ’cause I owe some eye-talians a few dollars that they won’t even miss.”
Pete smiled. “It’s all right, Maynard. You just find out when they’re moving him. We’ll do the rest.”
Moore burped. “I’ll do that. That’s a job that won’t interfere with the other affairs I got goin’.”
Pete reached back. Pete popped the rear hatch. Moore climbed out. Moore stretched. Moore waved bye-bye.
Guy said, “Peckerwood trash.”
Moore shagged his 409. Moore laid rubber large.
Pete said, “I’ll kill him.”
Betty McDonald lived in Oak Cliff—Shitsville, U.S.A.
Pete called DPD. Pete played cop. Pete got her rap sheet: Four prosty beefs/one hot-check caper/one dope bounce.
He tapped out on “Arden.” He had no last name.
He went by the Moonbeam Lounge. Carlos owned points. Joe Campisi ran the on-site handbook.
Joe owned the DPD. Cops placed bets. Cops lost. Cops made Joe’s collections. Joe shylocked large—vig plus 20%.
Pete schmoozed with Joe. Pete borrowed ten cold. Pete tagged it a margin risk. Nobody said clip them. Nobody said scare them off. Nobody said shit. Guy wasn’t Outfit. Guy’s wishes meant shit.
Joe supplied a calzone. Pete ate on the freeway. The cheese fucked up his teeth.
He got off. He toured Oak Cliff. He found the address: A shotgun shack/dingy/three small rooms tops.
He parked. He dropped five G’s in the calzone box. He schlepped it on up. He knocked on the door. He waited. He checked for eyewits.
Nobody home—zero eyewits.
He got out his comb. He flexed the tines. He picked the lock clean. He walked in and closed the door slow.
The front room smelled—maryjane and cabbage—window light squared him away.
Front room/kitchen/bedroom. Three rooms in a row.
He walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge. A cat rubbed his legs. He tossed him some fish. The cat scarfed it up. Pete scarfed some Cheez Whiz.
He toured the pad. The cat followed him. He paced the front room. He pulled the drapes. He pulled up a chair and sat by the door.
The cat hopped in his lap. The cat clawed the calzone box. The room was cold. The chair was soft. The walls torqued him back.
Memory Lane. L.A.—12/14/49.
He’s a cop. He breaks County strikes. He works
goooood
sidelines. He pulls shakedowns. He extorts queers. He raids the Swish Alps.
He’s a card-game guard. He’s a scrape procurer. He’s Quebecois French. He fought the war. He got green-card Americanized.
Late ’48—his brother Frank hits L.A.
Frank was a doctor. Frank had bad habits. Frank made bad friends. Frank whored. Frank gambled. Frank lost money.
Frank did scrapes. Frank scraped Rita Hayworth. Frank was Abortionist to the Stars. Frank played cards. Frank lost money. Frank dug Mickey Cohen’s regular game.
Frank partied with scrape folks. Frank met Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer. Ruth did scrapes. Ruth loved her son Huey. Huey did heists.
Huey robbed Mickey’s game. Huey’s face mask slipped. The players ID’d him. Pete had the flu. Pete took the night off. Mickey told Pete to kill Huey.
Huey laid low. Pete found his pad: An ex-brothel in El Segundo.
Pete torched the pad. Pete stood in the backyard. Pete watched the house flames. Four shapes ran out. Pete shot them. Pete let them scream and burn.
It was dark. Their hair plumed. Smoke blitzed their faces. The papers played it up—
FOUR DEAD IN BEACH TORCH
—the papers ID’d the vics:
Ruth. Huey. Huey’s girlfriend.
And:
One Canuck doctor—François Bondurant.
Someone called their dad. Someone snitched Pete off. His dad called him. His dad begged: Say NO. Say it wasn’t YOU.
Pete stammered. Pete tried. Pete failed. His parents grieved. His parents sucked tailpipe fumes. His parents decomped in their car.
The cat fell asleep. Pete stroked him. Time schizzed. He dug on the dark.
He dozed. He stirred. He heard something. The door opened. Light shot straight in.
Pete jumped up. The cat tumbled. The calzone box flew.
There’s Betty Mac.
She’s got blond hair. She’s got curves. She’s got harlequin shades.
She saw Pete. She yelled. Pete grabbed her. Pete kicked the door shut.
She scratched. She yelled. She clawed his neck. He covered her mouth. She drew her lips back. She bit him.
He stumbled. He kicked the calzone box. He tripped a wall switch. A light went on. The cash fell out.
Betty looked down. Betty saw the money. Pete let his hand go. Pete rubbed his bite wound.
“There, Jesus Christ. Just get out before someone hurts you.”
She eased up. He eased up. She turned around. She saw his face.
Pete hit the wall switch. The room light died. They stood close. They caught their breath. They leaned on the door.
Pete said, “Arden?”
Betty coughed—a smoker’s hack—Pete smelled her last reefer.
“I’m not going to hurt her. Come on, you know what we’ve got—”
She touched his lips. “Don’t say it. Don’t put a name—”
“Then tell me where—”
“Arden Burke. I think she’s at the Glenwood Apartments.”
Pete brushed by her. Her hair caught his face. Her perfume stuck to his clothes. He got outside. His hand throbbed. The sun killed his eyes.
Traffic was bad. Pete knew why.
Dealey Plaza was close. Let’s take the kids. Let’s dig on history and hot dogs.
He split Oak Cliff. He found Arden’s building. It ran forty units plus. He parked outside. He checked access routes. The courtyard ruled B&Es out.
He checked the mail slots—no Arden
Burke
listed—Arden
Smith
in 2-D.
Pete toured the courtyard. Pete scanned doorplates: 2-A/B/C—
Stop right—
He made the suit. He made the build. He made the thin hair. He stepped back. He crouched. He
looked
.
Right there—
Ward Littell and a tall woman. Talking close and closing out the world.
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 11/23/63. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Ward J. Littell.
JEH: Mr. Littell?
WJL: Good afternoon, Sir. How are you?
JEH: Forgo the amenities and tell me about Dallas. The metaphysical dimensions of this alleged tragedy do not interest me. Get to the point.
WJL: I would call things encouraging, Sir. There has been a minimum of talk about a conspiracy, and a very strong consensus seems to have settled in, despite some ambiguous statements from the witnesses. I’ve spent a good deal of time at the PD, and I’ve been told that President Johnson has called both Chief Curry and the DA personally, and has expressed his wish that the consensus be confirmed.
JEH: Lyndon Johnson is a blunt and persuasive man, and he speaks a language those cowpokes understand. Now, continuing with the witnesses.
WJL: I would say that the contradictory ones could be intimidated, discredited and successfully debriefed.
JEH: You’ve read the witness logs, observed the interviews and have been through the inevitable glut of lunatic phone tips. Is that correct?
WJL: Yes, Sir. The phone tips were especially fanciful and vindictive. John Kennedy had engendered a good deal of resentment in Dallas.
JEH: Yes, and entirely justified. Continuing with the witnesses. Have you conducted any interviews yourself?
WJL: No, Sir.
JEH: You’ve turned up no witnesses with especially provocative stories?
WJL: No, Sir. What we have is an alternative consensus pertaining to the number of shots and their trajectories. It’s a confusing text, Sir. I don’t think it will stand up to the official version.
JEH: How would you rate the investigation to date?
WJL: As incompetent.
JEH: And how would you define it?
WJL: As chaotic.
JEH: How would you assess the efforts to protect Mr. Oswald?
WJL: As shoddy.
JEH: Does that disturb you?
WJL: No.
JEH: The Attorney General has requested periodic updates. What do you suggest that I tell him?
WJL: That a fatuous young psychopath killed his brother, and that he acted alone.
JEH: The Dark Prince is no cretin. He must suspect the factions that most insiders would.
WJL: Yes, Sir. And I’m sure he feels complicitous.
JEH: I hear an unseemly tug of compassion in your voice, Mr. Littell. I will not comment on your protractedly complex relationship with Robert F. Kennedy.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I cannot help but think of your blowhard client, James Riddle Hoffa. The Prince is his bête noire.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I’m sure Mr. Hoffa would like to know what the Prince really thinks of this gaudy homicide.
WJL: I would like to know myself, Sir.
JEH: I cannot help but think of your brutish client, Carlos Marcello. I suspect that he would enjoy access to Bobby’s troubled thoughts.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: It would be nice to have a source close to the Prince.
WJL: I’ll see what I can do.
JEH: Mr. Hoffa gloats in an unseemly manner. He told the New York Times, quote, Bobby Kennedy is just another lawyer now, unquote. It’s a felicitous sentiment, but I think there are those in the Italian aggregation who would appreciate more discretion on Mr. Hoffa’s part.
WJL: I’ll advise him to shut his mouth, Sir.
JEH: On a related topic. Did you know that the Bureau has a file on Jefferson Davis Tippit?
WJL: No, Sir.
JEH: The man belonged to the Ku Klux Klan, National States’; Rights Party, National Renaissance Party and a dubious new splinter group called the Thunderbolt Legion. He was a close associate
of a Dallas PD officer named Maynard Delbert Moore, a man of similar ideological beliefs and a reportedly puerile demeanor.
WJL: Did you get your information from a DPD source, Sir?
JEH: No. I have a correspondent in Nevada. He’s a conservative pamphleteer and mail-order solicitor with very deep and diverse connections on the right flank.
WJL: A Mormon, Sir?
JEH: Yes. All the Nevadan führer manqués are Mormons, and this man is arguably the most gifted.
WJL: He sounds interesting, Sir.
JEH: You’re leading me, Mr. Littell. I know full well that Howard Hughes wets his pants for Mormons and has two greedy eyes on Las Vegas. I’ll always share a discreet amount of information with you, if you broach the request in a manner that does not insult my intelligence.
WJL: I’m sorry, Sir. You understood my design, and the man does sound interesting.
JEH: He’s quite useful and diversified. For example, he runs a hate-tract press covertly. He’s planted a number of his subscribers as informants in Klan groups that the Bureau has targeted for mail-fraud indictments. He helps eliminate his hate-mail competition in that manner.
WJL: And he knew the late Officer Tippit.
JEH: Knew or knew of. Judged or did not judge as ideologically unsound and outré. I’m always amusingly surprised by who knows who in which overall contexts. For example, the Dallas SAC told me that a former Bureau man named Guy Williams Banister is in town this weekend. Another agent told me, independently, that he’s seen your friend Pierre Bondurant. Imaginative people might point to this confluence and try to link men like that to your mutual chum Carlos Marcello and his hatred of the Royal Family, but I am not disposed to such flights of fancy.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Your tone tells me that you wish to ask a favor. For Mr. Hughes, perhaps?
WJL: Yes, Sir. I’d like to see the main Bureau file on the Las Vegas hotel-casino owners, along with the files on the Nevada Gaming Commission, Gaming Control Board, and the Clark County Liquor Board.
JEH: The answer is yes. Quid pro quo?
WJL: Certainly, Sir.
JEH: I would like to forestall potential talk on Mr. Tippit. If the Dallas Office has a separate file on him, I would like it to disappear before my less trusted colleagues get an urge to take the information public.
WJL: I’ll take care of it tonight, Sir.
JEH: Do you think the single-gunman consensus will hold?
WJL: I’ll do everything I can to insure it.
JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell.
WJL: Good day, Sir.
