Read The Cold Six Thousand Online
Authors: James Ellroy
The Cold Six Thousand (66 page)
The crowd yocked. Pete smoked. A geek tapped his arm. Pete turned around. Pete saw Dwight Holly.
They hit Pete’s office. They stood by the wet bar. They crowded each other. They stood in tight.
Pete said, “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, as in ’64. Your boy Wayne killed three shines.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “And you made out.”
Dwight shrugged. “Wayne fucked me up, but you and Littell set it straight. Now, ask me if I came to say thanks.”
Pete poured a scotch. “You were in town, so you thought you’d drop by.”
“Not quite. I’m in town to see Littell, which I’d prefer you keep to yourself.”
Pete sipped scotch. Dwight tapped his chest.
“How’s your ticker?”
“It’s fine.”
“You shouldn’t be smoking.”
“You shouldn’t be jerking my chain.”
Dwight laughed. Dwight poured a scotch.
“How’d you like to help me entrap a Commie sympathizer?”
“You and Mr. Hoover?”
“I won’t say yes or no to that. Silence implies consent, so draw your own conclusions.”
Pete said, “Lay it out. The money first.”
Dwight swirled scotch. “Twenty grand for you. Ten each for your bait, your backup, and your bug man.”
Pete laughed. “Ward’s a good bug man.”
“Ward’s a prince of a bug man, but I’d prefer Freddy Turentine, and I’d prefer that Ward be kept in the dark about this.”
Pete grabbed an ashtray. Pete stubbed his cigarette.
“Give me one good reason why I should fuck Ward over to help you.”
Dwight undid his necktie. “One, all this shit is tangential to Ward. Two, it’s a high-line gig that you won’t be able to resist. Three, you’re in the Life for life, you’ll fuck up sooner or later, and Mr. Hoover will intercede for you, no questions asked.”
Pete sipped scotch. Pete rolled his neck. Pete tapped his head on the wall.
“Who?”
“Bayard Rustin, male Negro, age fifty-four. Civil-rights agitator with a
yen for young white boys. He’s horny, he’s impetuous, he’s as Red as they get.”
Pete tapped his head. “When?”
“Next month, in L.A. There’s an SCLC fund-raiser at the Beverly Hilton.”
“That’s cutting it close.”
Dwight shrugged. “The bait’s the only holdup. Do you think you—”
“I’ve got the bait. He’s young, he’s queer, he’s attractive. He’s got some potential cop shit hanging over him, which—”
“Which Mr. Hoover will frost out, no questions asked.”
Pete tapped his head. Pete tapped it hard. Pete sparked a headache.
“I want Fred Otash on backup.”
“Agreed.”
“Plus Freddy Turentine and ten grand for expenses.”
“Agreed.”
Pete’s stomach growled. The scotch fucked with it. Pete thought Cheeseburger.
Dwight smiled. “You bit fast. I thought I’d have to work you.”
“My wife left me. I’ve got time to kill.”
Otash said, “Sal scores tonight. I’ll lay you six to one.”
Car surveillance—Fred O.’s car—the seats pushed way back. Fred O.’s farts and Fred O.’s cologne.
They watched the street. They watched Sal’s car. They watched the Klondike Bar. Pete lit a cigarette. Pete had gas. Pete snarfed two cheeseburgers late.
“Of course he’ll score. He’s a half-assed movie star.”
He flew straight out. He called Otash. He briefed him. They checked Sal’s pad. Sal was gone. They checked Sal’s known haunts: The 4-Star/the Rumpus Room/Biff’s Bayou.
Shit—no Sal car/no Sal.
They checked the Gold Cup. They checked Arthur J’s. They checked the Klondike—8th and LaBrea.
Tilt—
Pete said, “You’re sure he won’t rabbit?”
“On
Dom
? Sure I’m sure.”
“Tell me why.”
“Because I’m his new daddy. Because I’m the guy he has coffee with every morning. Because I’m the guy who dumped Dom and his fucking car down a lime pit in the fucking Angeles Forest.”
Pete chained cigarettes. “The Vegas end’s good. No cops so far.”
“Dom was a fly-by-night. You think his pimp boyfriend will file a missing-persons report?”
Sal walked out. Sal had a date. Sal hung on some hunky young quiff.
Otash hit the horn. Pete hit the lights. Sal blinked. Sal saw the car. Sal stalled the quiff and walked over.
Pete rolled his window down. Sal leaned on the ledge.
“Shit. It’s a life sentence with you guys.”
Pete flashed a snapshot reminder. Streetlight hit Donkey Dom’s thumb. Sal blinked. Sal gulped. Sal vibed sick.
Pete said, “You like dark stuff, right? You get the urge once in a while.”
Sal weaved a hand—dark meat/comme
ci comme ça
.
Otash said, “We’re fixing you up.”
Pete said, “He’s a nice guy. You’ll thank us.”
Otash said, “He’s cute. He looks like Billy Eckstine.”
Pete said, “He’s a Communist.”
(Las Vegas, 12/2/66)
T
our time:
The DI sub-penthouse. Big Drac’s sub-lair. Littell as tour guide. Dwight Holly as tourist.
Look:
There’s the blood pumps. There’s the drips. There’s the freezers. There’s the candy. There’s the pizza. There’s the ice cream. There’s the codeine. There’s the meth. There’s the Dilaudid.
Dwight loves it. Dwight yuks. Dwight offends Mormons. Said Mormons scowl at said Fed.
Big Drac’s incursion—now one week in.
The legislature waives anti-trust laws. The legislature delivers—go, Drac!
Buy the DI. Buy the Frontier. Buy the Sands. Buy big! Buy
laissez-faire!
Buy the Castaways. Gorge yourself. Buy the Silver Slipper.
Littell cracked windows. Dwight looked out. Dwight saw nuts with signs: “We love H.H.!”/“Wave to us!”/“Hughes in ’68!”
Dwight laughed. Dwight tapped his watch—real business now.
They walked. They trekked hallways. They bagged a storeroom. File boxes hemmed them in.
Littell pulled his list out. Moe prepped it last night.
“Skim couriers. Easy litigations by any and all standards.”
Dwight faked a yawn. “Expendable, buffered, non-Mormon couriers that divert heat from Dracula and ingratiate you with Mr. Hoover.”
Littell bowed. “I won’t dispute it.”
“Why should you? You know we’re grateful, and you know we’ll prosecute.”
Littell creased the list. Dwight grabbed it. Dwight dropped it in his briefcase.
“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.
