The Cold Six Thousand (13 page)

Arden was a bookkeeper. Arden claimed credentials. Arden went to school in DeKalb, Mississippi. Let’s upgrade her—Tulane, ’49—let’s give her an accounting degree.

He was due in New Orleans. He could visit Tulane. He could skim old catalogs. He could learn the academic terrain. He could forge a transcript.
He could solicit Mr. Hoover. Local agents knew Tulane. A man could plant the goods.

Littell lined six sheets—standard college forms. He worked fast. He blotted. He smudged. He smeared.

Arden was safe. He stashed her in Balboa—due south of L.A.

A hotel hideaway—paid for by Hughes Tool. Tool Co. ignored his expenses—per Mr. Hughes’ edict.

He swapped notes with Mr. Hughes. They spoke on the phone. They never officially met. He snuck into Drac’s lair—one time only—the assassination a.m.

There’s Drac:

He’s sucking IV blood. He’s shooting dope in his dick. He’s tall. He’s thin. His nails curl back.

Mormons guarded him. Mormons cleaned his spikes. Mormons fed him blood. Mormons swabbed his injection tracks.

Drac stayed in his room. Drac
owned
his room. The hotel endured him—call it squatter’s rights—Beverly Hills–style.

Littell spread photos out. Arden—three ways. One passport-DL shot/two keepsakes.

They made love in Balboa. A window blew open. Some kids heard them. The kids laughed. Their dog carried on.

Arden had sharp hips. He was bone-thin. They bumped and scraped and blundered into a fit.

Arden touched up her gray hair. Arden’s pulse ran quick. She’d had scarlet fever as a kid. She’d had one abortion.

She was running. He caught her. Her run predated the hit.

Littell studied the photos. Littell studied
her
.

She had one brown eye. She had one hazel eye. Her left breast was smaller than her right. He bought her a cashmere sweater. It stretched snug on one side.

Jimmy Hoffa said, “I’m going
down
? After the fucking coup we just pulled?”

Littell went ssshhh. Hoffa shut up. Littell tossed the room. He checked the lamps. He checked the rugs. He checked under the desk.

“Ward, you worry too much. I got a fucking guard outside my office twenty-four hours a day.”

Littell checked the window. Window mounts
worked
. Suction cups could be rigged to glass.

“Ward, Jesus fucking—”

No mounts/no glass plates/no cups.

Hoffa stretched out. Hoffa yawned. Hoffa dipped his chair and dropped his feet on his desk.

Littell sat on the edge. “You’ll probably be convicted. The appeal process will buy you at least—”

“That cunt-lapping homo Bobby F-for-Faggot—”

“—but jury tampering is not an offense that falls under Federal sentencing guidelines, which means a discretionary decree, which—”

“—means Bobby F-for-Fuckface Kennedy wins and James R-for-Ridiculous Hoffa goes to the fucking shithouse for five or six fucking years.”

Littell smiled. “That’s my summary, yes.”

Hoffa picked his nose. “There’s more. ‘That’s my summary’ is no kind of summary that’s worth a fucking shit.”

Littell crossed his legs. “You’ll stay out on appeals for two or three years. I’m developing a long-range strategy to legitimize Pension Fund money and divert and launder it through foreign sources, which should kick into high gear around the time you get out. I’m meeting the Boys in Vegas next month to discuss it. I can’t emphasize how important this may prove to be.”

Hoffa picked his teeth. “And in the fucking meantime?”

“In the meantime, we have to worry about those other grand juries that Bobby’s impaneled.”

Hoffa blew his nose. “That cunt-lapping cocksucker. After what we did to fuck—”

“We need to know what Bobby thinks about the hit. Mr. Hoover wants to know, too.”

Hoffa cleaned his ears. Hoffa shined on Littell. He gouged. He went in deep. He jabbed a pen. He prospected for wax.

He said, “Carlos has a lawyer at Justice.”

New Orleans was hot. The air hung wet and ripe.

Carlos owned a motel—twelve rooms and one office. Carlos made people wait.

Littell waited. The office smelled—chicory and bug spray. Carlos left a bottle out—Hennessy X.O—Carlos doubted his will to abstain.

He got off the plane. He drove to Tulane. He went through catalogs. He compiled a list of GI Bill classes.

He called Mr. Hoover. He asked his favor. Mr. Hoover agreed. Yes, I’ll do it—I’ll plant your paper.

The air cooler died. Littell dumped his jacket. Littell undid his tie. Carlos walked in. Carlos slapped the wall unit. Cold air blew high.

“
Come va, Ward
?”

Littell kissed his ring. “
Bene, padrone
.”

Carlos sat on the desk. “You love that shit, and you’re not even Italian.”

“
Stavo perdiventare un prete, Signor Marcello. Aurei potuto il tuo confessore.
”

Carlos cracked the bottle. “Say the last part in English. Your Italian’s better than mine.”

Littell smiled. “I could have been your confessor.”

Carlos poured two fingers. “You’d be out of a job. I never do anything to piss God off.”

Littell smiled. Carlos offered the bottle. Littell shook his head.

Carlos lit a cigar. “So?”

Littell coughed. “We’re fine. The commission’s a whitewash, and I wrote the narrative brief that they’ll work off. It played the way I expected.”

“Despite some fuck-ups.”

“Guy Banister’s. Not Pete’s or mine.”

Carlos shrugged. “Guy’s a capable guy, on the whole.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You wanted your crew to go in.”

Littell coughed. “I don’t want to argue the point.”

“The fuck you don’t. You’re a lawyer.”

The wall unit died. Carlos slapped it. Cold air blew wide.

Littell said, “The meeting is set for the fourth.”

Carlos laughed. “Moe Dalitz is calling it ‘the Summit.’ ”

“That’s appropriate. Especially if we still have your vote for Pete’s business.”

“Pete’s
potential
business? Yeah, sure.”

“You don’t sound too optimistic.”

Carlos flicked ash. “Narcotics is a tough sell. Nobody wants to put Vegas in the shitter.”

“Vegas
is
the shitter.”

“No, Mr. I-Was-Almost-a-Priest, it’s your fucking salvation. It’s your debt to pay off, and without that debt you’d be in the shitter with your friend Kemper Boyd.”

Littell coughed. The smoke was bad. The wall unit swirled it.

Carlos said, “So?”

“So, I have a plan for the Pension Fund books. It’s long-range, and it derives from your plans for Mr. Hughes.”

“You mean
our
plans.”

Littell coughed. “Yes, ours.”

Carlos shrugged—I’m bored for now—Carlos held up a file.

“Jimmy said you need a guy next to Bobby.”

Littell grabbed the file. Littell skimmed the top page—one Shreveport PD rap sheet/one note.

8/12/54: Doug Eversall drives home. Doug Eversall hits three kids. He’s drunk. The kids die. Doug’s DA pal buries it.

For
his
pal: Carlos Marcello.

Doug Eversall is a lawyer. Doug Eversall works at Justice. Bobby likes Doug. Bobby hates drunks and loves kids. Bobby doesn’t know Doug’s a kid-killer.

Carlos said, “You’ll like Doug. He’s on the wagon, like you.”

Littell grabbed his briefcase and stood up. Carlos said, “Not yet.”

The smoke was bad. It punched up the booze fumes. Littell almost drooled.

“We got some loose ends, Ward. Ruby bothers me, and I think we should send him a message.”

Littell coughed. Here it com—

“Guy said you know the story. You know, all that grief at Jack Zangetty’s motel.”

Chills now—steam off dry ice.

“I know the story, yes. I know what Guy wants you to do, and I’m against it. It’s unnecessary, it’s too conspicuous, it’s too close to Ruby’s arrest.”

Carlos shook his head. “They go. Tell Pete to take care of it.”

Dizzy—weightless now.

“This is all on Banister.
He
let them go to the safe house.
He
screwed up on Tippit and Oswald.
He’s
the drunk who’ll be bragging to every right-wing shithead on God’s green earth.”

Carlos shook his head. Carlos waved four fingers.

“Zangetty, Hank Killiam, that Arden cunt, and Betty McDonald. Tell Pete I don’t expect a big delay.”

(Las Vegas, 12/13/63)

T
he Dallas paper ran it—page 6 news
—NO LEADS ON MISSING POLICEMAN
.

Wayne sat in Sills’ Tip-Top. Wayne hogged a window booth. He held his gun—locked & cocked—the paper covered it.

The paper loved Maynard Moore. Moore got more ink than Jack Ruby.
FAN MAIL FOR ASSASSIN’S SLAYER. CHIEF LAUDS MISSING OFFICER. NEGRO SOUGHT IN BAFFLING DISAPPEARANCE
.

Wayne counted down. He had eighteen days in now. The Warren probe/the “Lone Gunman”/no news as good news.

He still worried Dallas. He still skipped meals. He still pissed every six seconds.

Pete walked in. Pete showed up punctual. He saw Wayne. He sat down. He smiled.

He checked Wayne’s lap. He peeked and goofed. He saw the paper.

He said, “Aww, come on.”

Wayne reholstered. Wayne fumbled his gun. Wayne banged the table. A waitress saw it. Wayne blushed red. Pete cracked his knuckles.

“I watched you clean up. You did a good job, but I wish you’d thought the nigger through.”

Wayne felt piss pressure. Wayne clenched up downstairs.

“You’re comped at the Stardust. That means the Chicago guys brought you in.”

“Keep going.”

“You think I owe you for that weekend.”

Pete cracked his thumbs. “I want to see your gaming board files.”

Wayne said, “No.”

Pete grabbed a fork. Pete twirled it. Pete squeezed it and bent it in two. The waitress saw it. The waitress freaked.

She went oooh. She dropped a tray. She made a mess.

“I could go around you. Buddy Fritsch is supposed to be nice.”

Wayne looked out the window. Wayne saw a two-car crash.

Pete said, “Fucking tailgaters. I always wrote up guys like—”

“I’ve got the files stashed, and there’s no carbons. It’s an old fail-safe policy. If you go to Buddy, I’ll have my father intercede. Buddy’s afraid of him.”

Pete cracked his knuckles. “That’s all I get for Dallas?”

“Nothing happened in Dallas. Don’t you watch the news?”

Pete walked out. Wayne felt piss pressure. Wayne ran to the can.

(Las Vegas, 12/13/63)

O
ne more headache/one more headache drink/one more lounge.

The Moon Room at the Stardust—low lights and moon maids in tights.

Pete sipped scotch. A moon maid fed him peanuts. Ward left him a message. A desk clerk relayed it. Wait for a Bible code—I’ll Western Union it in.

Wayne Junior said no. Nos hurt. Nos fucked with him.

A moon maid dipped by—a faux redhead—dark roots and dark tan. Fuck faux redheads. Real redheads burned.

He got Barb a gig—three days ago—Sam G. pulled strings. Dig it: Barb & the Bail Bondsmen.

Permanent work—4 shows/6 nites—the Sultan’s Lounge at the Sahara. Barb was rehearsing. She said the Twist was out. She said the go-go beat was in.

Nigger music. The Swim/the Fish/the Watusi. White stiffs take note.

He shitcanned Barb’s ex. He shitcanned his combo. Dick Contino came through. Dick scored Barb a trio—sax/trumpet/drums—three long-term lounge denizens.

Fags. Beefcake types. USDA-certified swish.

Pete cowed them. Pete warned them. Sam G. spread the word: Barb B. was verboten. Approach once and suffer. Approach twice and die.

Barb dug Vegas. Hotel suites and nightlife. No Presidential motorcades.

West LV looked good. West LV looked contained and vice-ready.

Vice zones worked. He hit Pearl in ’42. The SPs shut down some roads
and cordoned the clap. White horse would work. The niggers craved it. They’d geez up. They’d stay home. They’d soil their own rug.

A moon maid slid by—a faux blonde—dark roots and Miss Clairol. She fed him some peanuts. She dropped off Ward’s note.

Pete killed his drink. Pete went up to the suite. Pete got out the Gideon book. The code spanned the whole text—chapter and verse—Exodus to First John.

He worked off a scratch pad—numbers to letters—letters to words.

There:

“CM’s orders. Elim. 4 from motel/safe house. Call tomorrow night, 10:30 EST. Pay phone in Silver Spring, Md.: BL4-9883.”

(Silver Spring, 12/14/63)

P
erfect:

The off ramp / the road / the train station / the tracks / the platform / the phone.

A freeway adjacent. Off-ramp access. Parking-lot view. Late commuters passing through—milk runs from D.C.

Littell sat in his car. Littell watched the ramp—hold for a powder-blue Ford. Carlos described Eversall. He’s a tall guy. He’s got one high shoe.

9:26 p.m.

The express blew by. Cars parked and split. The local should stop at 10:00.

Littell studied his script. It stressed Eversall’s time in New Orleans. It stressed Lee Oswald’s time there. It stressed the ’63 racket hearings. It stressed Bobby’s star role.

Mob panic ensues. Two months pass. JFK dies. Eversall links the dots. Eversall sees collusion.

Littell checked his watch—9:30 sharp—hold for the man with the high shoe.

A blue Ford pulled in. Littell flashed his lights. Littell strafed the windshield and grille. The Ford braked and stopped. A tall man got out. Said man swayed on a high shoe.

Littell hit his brights. Eversall blinked and tripped. He caught himself. His bad leg buckled. His briefcase balanced him.

Littell killed his brights. Littell popped the passenger door. Eversall limped up—briefcase as ballast—Eversall fell on the seat.

Littell shut the door. Littell hit the roof light. It haloed Eversall.

Littell frisked him.

He grabbed his crotch. He pulled his shirt up. He pulled down his socks. He opened his briefcase. He went through his files. He dropped the script in.