The Cold Six Thousand (14 page)
Read The Cold Six Thousand Online
Authors: James Ellroy
Eversall smelled—sweat and bay rum. His breath reeked of peanuts and gin.
Littell said, “Did Carlos explain?”
Eversall shook his head. His neck muscles bobbed.
“Answer me. I want to hear your voice.”
Eversall squirmed. His high shoe hit the dash.
“I never talk to Carlos. I get calls from this Cajun-type guy.”
He said it slow. He blinked in time. He blinked and ducked from the light. Littell grabbed his tie. Littell jerked it. Littell pulled him back in the light.
“You’re going to wear a wire and talk to Bobby. I want to know what he thinks about the assassination.”
Eversall blinked. Eversall st-st-stuttered.
Littell jerked his tie. “I read a piece in the
Post
. Bobby’s throwing a Christmas party, and he’s inviting some people from Justice.”
Eversall blinked. Eversall st-st-stuttered. He tried to talk. He popped
p
’s and
l
’s. He tried to say “Please.”
“I’ve prepared a script. You tell Bobby that you don’t like the proximity to the hearings, and you offer to help. If Bobby gets angry, you be that much more persistent.”
Eversall blinked. Eversall st-st-stuttered. He tried to talk. He popped
p
’s and
l
’s. He bounced
b
’s for “Bobby.”
Littell smelled his piss. Littell saw the stain. Littell rolled the windows down.
He had spare time. The pay phone was close. He cracked all the windows and aired the car out.
Trains rolled in. Women fetched their husbands. A hailstorm hit. It chipped his windshield. He tuned in the radio news.
Mr. Hoover addressed the Boy Scouts. Jack Ruby sulked in his cell. Trouble in Saigon. Bobby Kennedy bereft.
Bobby loved hard. Bobby mourned hard.
He
used to.
Late ’58:
He worked the Chicago Office. Bobby worked the McClellan Committee. Kemper Boyd worked
for
Bobby. Kemper Boyd worked
against
him. Mr. Hoover deployed Kemper wide.
Mr. Hoover hated Bobby. Bobby chased the Mob. Mr. Hoover said the Mob did not exist. Bobby humbled Mr. Hoover. Bobby disproved his lie.
Mr. Hoover liked Kemper Boyd. Boyd liked his friend Ward. Boyd got Ward a choice Bureau job:
The Top Hoodlum Program—Mr. Hoover’s late retraction—Mr. Hoover’s late nod to the Mob. Call it a half-measure. Call it a publicity shuck.
He worked the THP. He fucked up. Mr. Hoover kicked him back to the Red Squad. Boyd stepped up then. Boyd stepped up for Bobby. Boyd offered friend Ward a
real
job.
Covert work—unpaid.
He took the job. He culled anti-Mob data. He leaked it to Boyd. Boyd leaked it to Bobby.
He never met Bobby. Bobby called him the Phantom. Bobby logged a persistent rumor. Bobby passed it on to Kemper Boyd.
The Teamsters kept a
private
set of pension-fund books. The “real” books hid one billion dollars.
He
chased the “real” books. He traced them to a man named Jules Schiffrin. He stole the “real” books—late in ’60.
Schiffrin discovered the theft. Schiffrin had a heart attack. Schiffrin died that night. Littell hid the books. Said books were coded. Littell decoded one entry fast.
The code rebuked a royal clan. The code proved that Joe Kennedy was mobbed-up tight.
Joe fed the fund. Joe gorged it. Joe invested 49 million dollars. It was laundered. It was lent. It suborned politicians. It financed labor rackets.
The base sum stayed in the fund. The money notched compound interest. The money greeeeeeew.
Joe let it ride. The Teamsters held his assets. Littell did not tell Bobby. Littell did not assault his dad.
He kept the books. He ignored his Red Squad work. He befriended a name leftist. Mr. Hoover found out. Mr. Hoover fired him.
Jack Kennedy was elected. Jack made Bobby his AG. Bobby got Boyd work at Justice.
Boyd interceded. Boyd braced Bobby—employ the Phantom, please.
Mr. Hoover interceded. Mr. Hoover braced Bobby—don’t employ Ward J. Littell. He’s a drunk. He’s a sob sister. He’s a Communist.
Bobby kowtowed. Bobby cut the Phantom off. The Phantom kept the “real” books. The Phantom quit booze. The Phantom lawyered freelance. The Phantom cracked the fund-book code.
He tracked a billion dollars. He tracked intakes and transfers. He studied and extrapolated and
knew:
The funds could be diverted. The funds could be deployed legally.
He hoarded the knowledge. He hid the books. He inked up a duplicate set. He hated Bobby now. He hated Jack K. by extension.
Boyd was fixed on Cuba. Carlos M. ditto. Carlos financed exile groups. The Boys wanted to oust Fidel Castro. The Boys wanted to reclaim their Cuban hotels.
Boyd worked for Bobby. Boyd worked for the CIA. Bobby hated Carlos. Bobby deported Carlos. The Phantom knew deportation law.
Boyd set him up with Carlos. The Phantom became a Mob lawyer. It felt morally and hatefully correct.
Carlos set him up with Jimmy Hoffa. Mr. Hoover reappeared.
Mr. Hoover made nice. Mr. Hoover praised his comeback. Mr. Hoover set him up with Mr. Hughes. Mr. Hoover shared his Bobby-Jack hate.
He worked for Carlos and Jimmy. He planned the Hughes-Vegas deal. Bobby attacked the Mob. Jack dropped the Cuban cause. Jack curtailed the hothead exiles.
Pete and Boyd stole some dope. Things went blooey. The Boys got very mad.
He braced Carlos. He said let’s kill Jack. He said let’s nullify Bobby. Carlos said yes. Carlos vouched the plan. Carlos brought Pete and Boyd in.
Carlos fucked them. Carlos opted for Guy B. Carlos sent Guy to Dallas.
A late bill came due. Late fees accrued. He had the “real” books. He had the data. He had them unsuspected and clean.
He was wrong. Carlos
knew
he had them. Carlos saw him ascend. Carlos called in the bill due.
Carlos said
you’re
going to sell Hughes Las Vegas—and
we’re
going to fuck him.
You
know the books.
You
cracked the code.
You
have money plans.
That
money. Plus the
Hughes
money. Equals
our
money—juiced by
your
long-range strategy.
He returned the books. He kept the dupes. His theft was near-open goods. Carlos knew. Carlos told Sam G. Sam told Johnny Rosselli.
Santo knew. Moe Dalitz knew. No one told Jimmy. Jimmy was crazy. Jimmy was shortsighted. Jimmy would kill him.
Littell skimmed newscasts. Littell got crossband blips: LBJ/Kool Menthol/Dr. King and Bobby.
He met Bobby—three days pre-Dallas—he mis-ID’d himself. He said I’m just a lawyer. He said I have a tape. Bobby gave him ten minutes of time.
He played his tape. A hood indicted Joe Kennedy.
For: Pension Fund fraud/collusion/long-term racketeering.
Bobby called his father’s bank. The manager confirmed details. Bobby brushed tears back. Bobby raged and grieved. It felt all good then. It felt all hateful now.
The news signed off. A deejay signed on. Mr. Tunes—comin’ at ya.
The phone rang.
Littell ran. Littell slid on hailstones. Littell grabbed the receiver.
Pete said, “Junior won’t play. The fucking kid stalemated me.”
“I’ll talk to Sam. We’ll make a different app—”
“I’ll clip Zangetty and Killiam. That’s it. I won’t clip the women.”
The booth was hot. The windows fogged. The storm produced steam.
“I agree. We’ll have to finesse Carlos.”
Pete laughed. “Don’t shit me. You know it’s more than that.”
“What are you saying?”
Pete said, “I know about Arden.”
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 12/19/63. Verbatim telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at Mr. Hughes’ request. Copies to: Permanent File/Fiscal ’63 File/Security File.” Speaking: Howard R. Hughes, Ward J. Littell.
HH: Is that you, Ward?
WJL: It’s me.
HH: I had a premonition last night. Do you want to hear about it?
WJL: Certainly.
HH: I know that tone. Mollify the boss so he’ll get back to business.
(WJL laughs.)
HH: Here’s my premonition. You’re going to tell me that it will take years to divest my TWA stock, so I should mind my p’s and q’s and put the whole thing out of mind.
WJL: Your premonition was accurate.
HH: That’s all you have to say? You’re letting me off that easy?
WJL: I could describe the legal processes involved in divesting half a billion dollars’ worth of stock and tell you how much you’ve impeded the progress by dodging various subpoenas.
HH: You’re feeling your oats today. I’m not up to sparring with you.
WJL: I’m not sparring, Mr. Hughes. I’m observing.
HH: And your latest estimate is?
WJL: We’re two years away from a judgment. The appeals process will extend for at least nine to fourteen months. You should discuss the details with your other attorneys and move things along by pre-submitting your depositions.
HH: You’re my favorite attorney.
WJL: Thank you.
HH: Only Mormons and FBI men have clean blood.
WJL: I’m not much of an expert on blood, Sir.
HH: I am. You know the law, and I know aerodynamics, blood and germs.
WJL: We’re expert in our separate fields, Sir.
HH: I know business strategy as well. I have the assets to purchase Las Vegas now, but I prefer to wait and make the purchase with my stock windfall.
WJL: That’s a prudent strategy, Sir. But I should point out a few things.
HH: Point, then. I’m listening.
WJL: One, you are not going to purchase the city of Las Vegas or Clark County, Nevada. Two, you are going to attempt to purchase numerous hotel-casinos, the acquisition of which violates numerous state and federal antitrust statutes. Three, you cannot make those purchases now. You would need to deplete the cash flow necessary to operate Hughes Tool to do it, and you have yet to ingratiate yourself with the Nevada State Legislature and the right people in Clark County. Four, that is my job—and it will take time. Five, I want to wait and follow some other hotel-chain developments through the court process and collate the antitrust rulings and precedents.
HH: Jesus, that was some speech. You’re a long-winded guy.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
HH: You didn’t mention your Mafia pals.
WJL: Sir?
HH: I talked to Mr. Hoover. He said you’ve got those guys in your pocket. What’s that guy’s name in New Orleans?
WJL: Carlos Marcello?
HH: Marcello, right. Mr. Hoover said he eats out of your hand. He said, “When the time’s right, Littell will jew those dagos down and get you your hotels at rock-bottom prices.”
WJL: I’ll certainly try.
HH: You’ll do better than that.
WJL: I’ll try, Sir.
HH: We’ve got to devise a germ policy.
WJL: Sir?
HH: At my hotels. No germs, no Negroes. Negroes are well-known germ conduits. They’ll infect my slot machines.
WJL: I’ll look into it, Sir.
HH: My solution is mass sedation. I’ve been reading chemistry books. Certain narcotic substances possess germ-killing characteristics. We could sedate the Negroes, lower their white-blood count and keep them out of my hotels.
WJL: Mass sedation would require certain sanctions that we might not get.
HH: You’re not convinced. I can tell by your voice.
WJL: I’ll give it some thought.
HH: Think about this. Lee Oswald was a germ conduit and a
deadly-disease transmitter. He didn’t need a rifle. He could have breathed on Kennedy and killed him.
WJL: It’s an interesting theory, Sir.
HH: Only Mormons and FBI men have clean blood.
WJL: You’ve got quite a few Mormons in Nevada. There’s a man named Wayne Tedrow Senior that I may approach on your behalf.
HH: I’ve got some good Mormons here. They set me up with Fred Otash.
WJL: I’ve heard of him.
HH: He’s the “Private Eye to the Stars.” He’s been running a string of Howard Hughes look-alikes all over L.A., like Pete Bondurant used to. Those subpoena servers follow them around like robots.
WJL: Again, Sir. Dodging subpoenas only prolongs the whole process.
HH: Ward, you’re a goddamn killjoy.
(WJL laughs.)
HH: Freddy’s Lebanese. Those people have high white-cell counts. I like him, but he’s no Pete.
WJL: Pete’s working with me in Las Vegas.
HH: Good. Frenchmen have low white-cell counts. I read it in the
National Geographic.
WJL: He’ll be pleased to hear it.
HH: Good. Tell him I said hello, and tell him to procure me some medicine. He’ll know what I mean. Tell him my Mormons have been bringing me inferior goods.
WJL: I’ll tell him.
HH: Let me make one thing clear before I hang up.
WJL: Sir?
HH: I want to buy Las Vegas.
WJL: You’ve made yourself clear.
HH: The desert air kills germs.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
(Las Vegas, 12/23/63)
T
he Party—a Vegas perennial—Wayne Senior’s Christmas bash.
A fag redid the ranch house. He added ice sculptures and snow-flocked walls. He hired elves and nymphs.
The elves were wetbacks. They slung hors d’oeuvres. They wore mock-rag coats. The nymphs whored at the Dunes. They served cleavage and drinks.
The fag brought a bandstand. The fag added a dance floor. The fag hired a bumfuck quartet.
Barb & the Bail Bondsmen—a singer and three swish ex-cons.
Wayne circulated. The combo bugged him. He popped the trumpet for flim-flam. He popped the sax for stat rape.
The singer compensated—red hair and wild legs.
Lynette circulated. The crowd meshed. Cops and Vegas trash. Mormons and Nellis brass.
Wayne Senior circulated. Janice danced solo. A crowd watched her. Janice shimmied. Janice swayed. Janice dipped loooow.
Wayne Senior walked up. Wayne Senior twirled his walking stick. A Nellis one-star grabbed it.
He cued the combo. Barb tapped a beat. The combo vamped. Barb palmed maracas.
The one-star knelt. The one-star dropped the stick looooow.
