The Cold Six Thousand (20 page)

He slept. He got two hours tops. He woke up woozy. Lynette was gone. Nothing happened in Dallas.

He fixed toast. He drank coffee. He went back out. He parked behind Hinton’s house. He scoped the backyard.

The alley was packed—construction work next door. His shit car fit right in.

He scoped the driveway. Right there per always—Hinton’s van and Deb Hinton’s Impala. Clock the tail in: 9:14 a.m.

Wayne watched the house. Wayne yawned and scratched. Wayne pissed out his a.m. coffee. The workers hung drywall—six men with power tools—saws buzzed and jackhammers bit.

10:24:

Deb Hinton walks out. Deb Hinton splits. Deb’s Impala knocks and pings.

12:08:

The workers break. They hit their cars. They grab lunch pails and sacks.

2:19:

Duane Hinton walks out.

He walks through the backyard. He lugs some clothes. He wore said clothes last night. He walks to the fence. He feeds the incinerator. He lights a match.

GOD FUCK JESUS CHRIST.

Wayne drove to Owens and “H.” Wayne parked by Woody’s Club.

He popped his trunk. He grabbed a pry bar. He circled the block—the street was dead—no wits out and about.

He walked through the lot. He knocked on the trailer. He looked around—still no wits out.

He leaned on the pry bar. He snapped the lock. He walked in. He smelled blood. He slammed the door shut.

He tapped the walls. He tripped a switch. He got overhead light.

She was dead. On the floor/stage-one rigor/maggots on call. Contusions/head wounds/shattered cheeks.

Hinton gagged her. Hinton wedged a handball in her mouth.

Ear blood. Socket blood. One eyeball gone. Buckshot on the floor. Buckshot in her blood.

Hinton wore sap gloves. The palm fabric broke. The buckshot flew.

Wayne caught his breath. Wayne tracked blood trails. Wayne read splash marks.

He slid on a rug. He stepped on the eyeball.

Eight assaults. One beating snuff.

He
heard
it. He thought it was fuck #2. It was Murder One. It vibed Manslaughter Two. Hinton was white. Hinton had pull. Hinton killed a
colored
whore.

Wayne drove back. Wayne thought it all through. The gist cohered.

The assault vics pressed charges. They said the assault man took pix.
He
saw flashbulbs pop.
He
knew the MO. He was fried to exhaustion. The gist flew by him.

He
fucked up.
He
owed the whore. The cost meant shit.

Wayne parked in the alley. Wayne watched the house. Workmen yelled. Saws buzzed. Jackhammers bit.

Wayne pissed. Wayne missed his can. Wayne sprayed the seat.

Time whizzed. He watched the house. He watched the driveway. Time cranked. Dusk hit. The workmen split.

They grabbed their cars. They cut tracks. They blew horn-honk farewells. Wayne waited. Time labored and lulled.

6:19 p.m.:

The Hintons walk out. They schlep golf bags. Odds on night golf. The range down Sahara.

They take off. They take Deb’s Impala. Duane’s van stays put.

Wayne clocked down two minutes. Wayne got some nerve up. Wayne got out and stretched.

He walked up. He braced the fence. He vaulted it. He came down hard. He scraped his hands and brushed them off.

He ran to the porch. The door looked weak. The latch wiggled. He shook the door. He forced some slack. He snapped the latch off.

He opened the door. He hit a laundry room. Washer/dryer/clothesline. Window light from inside—and one connecting door.

Wayne stepped inside. Wayne shut the door. Loose floor planks popped up. Wayne stubbed his feet.

He braced the inside door. He jiggled the knob. Bingo—unlocked.

He hit the kitchen. He checked his watch.
Give it twenty minutes tops
.

6:23:

The kitchen drawers—nothing hot—flatware and Green Stamps.

6:27:

The living room—nothing hot—blond wood to excess.

6:31:

The den—nothing hot—skeet guns and bookshelves.

6:34:

Hinton’s office—go slow here—it’s a logical spot.

File shelves/ledgers/a pegged key ring. No wall safe/one wall pic—Hinton and Lawrence Welk.

6:39:

The bedroom—nothing hot—more blond wood excess. No wall safe/no floor safe/no loose panel strips.

6:46:

The basement—go slow here—it’s a logical spot.

Power tools/a workbench/
Playboy
magazines. A closet—locked up. That key ring—remember—keys on a peg.

Wayne ran upstairs. Wayne grabbed the ring. Wayne ran downstairs. Wayne jabbed keys at the lock.

6:52:

Key #9 works. The door pops. The closet unlocks.

He saw one box. That’s it, no more. Let’s inventory it.

Handcuffs. Handballs. Friction tape. Sap gloves. A Polaroid camera. Six rolls of film. Fourteen snapshots:

Negro whores gagged and stomped—eight certified victims plus six.

Plus:

Unused
film. One roll. Twelve exposures. Twelve potential shots.

Wayne emptied the box. Wayne cleared floor space. Wayne spread the shit out. Shoot it fast. Put it back.
Display it like you found it
.

He loaded the camera. He shot twelve exposures. They developed and popped out.

Instant prints—Polaroid color.

He grouped Hinton’s pix—four separate shots—he got in tight. He got the handball gags. He got the contusions. He got the smashed teeth and the blood.

(Las Vegas,1/14/64)

N
igger Heaven: Four spooks/four capsules/one spike.

They usurped the carport. They flanked an old Merc. They laid out red devils. They dumped out the goo.

They spritzed it. They cooked it. They fed the spike. They tied up. They geezed. They dipped. They nodded. They swayed.

All riiiiiiiiiiiight.

Pete watched. Pete yawned. Pete scratched his ass. Stakeout night #6—the dawn shift—hijinx at five fucking a.m.

He parked at Truman and “J.” He lounged low. He dug on the view.

That coon called and tipped him. He said Wendell be back. He said Wendell gots a gun. He said Curtis and Leroy—they baaad. They be pushin’ white horse.

Check the carport. Check the Evergreen Project. Dope fiends meet there. Dice fiends too. Wendell the dice fiend soo-preem. Look for Curtis and Leroy—two fat boys—they gots big conk hairdos.

Pete popped aspirin. His headache dipped south. Six nights. Shit surveillance. Headaches and coon food. Grime on his car.

The plan:

Clip Curtis and Leroy. Appease the Boys and play civic booster. Clip Wendell Durfee. Indebt Wayne Junior thus.

You owe me, Wayne. Let’s see your files.

Six nights. No luck. Six nights slumming. Six nights lounging low.

Pete watched the carport. Pete yawned. Pete stretched. Pete grew Matterhorn-size hemorrhoids.

The dope fiends swaaayed.

They fumbled Kools. They lit matches. They burned their hands. They lit filter tips.

Pete yawned. Pete dozed. Pete chained cigarettes. Whoa, what’s—

Two shines cut over “J.” Fat boys with big conks—big spray-can hair.

Wait—two
more
shines—full-scale shine alert.

They cut over Truman and “K.” They met the conk guys. They launched some jive.

One guy schlepped a blanket. One guy schlepped dice. The dice guy schmoozed the conk guys. He called them “Leroy” and “Cur-ti.”

The duos teamed up. The duos cruised the carport. The dope guys went oh shit. The conk guys evicted them. The dope guys weaved south. The conk guys threw down the blanket.

Leroy brought breakfast—T-Bird and Tokay. Cur-ti rolled. Green dice twirled. Cur-ti crapped out. Leroy rolled snake eyes.

Pete watched. The jigs whooped. The jigs shucked. The jigs stepped high.

A prowl car drove by. The cops scoped the game. The jigs paid them never-no-mind. Said prowl car split. Said cops yawned—fuck these dumb shines.

Leroy crapped out. Cur-ti exulted. The dice guys drank wine.

A new jig crossed “J.” Pete made him quicksville—Wendell (NMI) Durfee.

Check his pimp threads. Check his hair net. Check that gun bulge by his balls.

Durfee joined the game. The jive multiplied. Durfee rolled. Durfee did the Wah-Watusi. Durfee slurped wine.

That prowl car reprised. That prowl car dipped by. The cops looked revitalized. Said car hovered. Said car idled. The radio squawked.

The spooks froze. The spooks went nonchalant. The cops re-revitalized. The spooks went telepathic—we sees de ofay oppressor—the spooks up and ran.

They split up. They hauled. They dispersed cluster-style. They jammed down “J” and “K.”

The cops froze. The blanket guys hauled. They dumped their jugs. They moved east. They
hauled
.

The cops unfroze. The cops punched the gas. The cops laid tread and pursued. Durfee ran west. Long legs and low weight. Fat Cur-ti and Leroy pursued.

Pete punched the gas. Pete punched too hard. The pedal slipped. The engine kicked and died.

Pete got out. Pete ran. Durfee ran. Durfee outran his fat pals. The conksters waddled and huffed.

They cut down an alley—trash heaps on gravel—shacks on both sides. Durfee slid. Durfee stumbled. Durfee ripped his pants. Durfee’s gun fell out.

Pete slid. Pete stumbled. Pete’s belt snapped. Pete’s gun fell out.

He gained ground. He stopped. He grabbed Durfee’s gun. He lost ground. He gravel-slid.

A siren nudged his ass—loud and full-tilt.

Durfee hopped a fence. The conksters swung over. The prowl car swerved. It fishtailed. It brodied up. It blocked Pete off.

He dropped the gun. He raised his hands. He smiled subservient. The cops got out. The cops pulled saps. The cops raised Ithaca pumps.

They booked him—407 PC.—Clark County Sheriff’s.

They dumped him in a sweat room. They cuffed him to a chair. Two dicks worked on him—phone books and verbal shit.

We traced that gun. It’s hot. You’re a heist man. I found the gun—fuck you.

Bullshit. Why you down here? Tell us your biz.

I crave chitlins. I crave pork rinds. I crave dark trim. Bullshit. Tell us your—

I’m a civil-rights worker. We shall over—

They swung their phone books—fat ones—L.A. directories. You’re a heist man. You rob crap games. You tried to rob those coons.

You’re wrong—I crave collard greens.

They whopped his ribs. They whopped his knees. They aired it out good. They torqued his cuffs two ratchets up. They let him stew.

His wrists went numb. His arms went numb. He held a class-A piss.

He ran options:

Don’t call Littell. Don’t call the Boys. Don’t look
très
dumb. Don’t call Barb—don’t scare her.

His back went numb. His chest went numb. He pissed in his pants. He dug in. He dredged some juice. He snapped the cuff chain. He moved his arms and rewired his blood.

The dicks walked back in. They saw the snapped chain. One geek whistled and clapped.

Pete said, “Call Wayne Tedrow. He’s on LVPD.”

Wayne Junior showed up. The dicks left them alone. Wayne Junior took off his cuffs.

“They said you tried to take down a dice game.”

Pete rubbed his wrists. “Do you believe that?”

Wayne Junior frowned—diva with a grievance. Wayne Junior tucked his head up his ass.

Pete stood up. Some blood rewired. His eardrums popped.

“Have they got a seventy-two-hour detention law here?”

“Yeah, release or arraign.”

“I’ll ride it out, then. I’ve been there before.”

“What do you
want
? You want a favor? You want me to quit coming to your wife’s shows?”

Pete jiggled his arms. Some numbness went.

“Durfee’s here. He’s hanging out with two guys named Curtis and Leroy. I saw them around those shacks on Truman and ‘J.’ ”

Wayne Junior flushed—blood to his brows—blood-circuit overload.

Pete said, “Kill him. I think he came here to kill you.”

(Washington, D.C., 1/14/64)

W
hite House pickets:

Civil Rights and Ban the Bomb. Young kids on the Left.

They marched. They chanted. Their shouts overlapped. It was cold. They wore overcoats. They wore Cossack hats.

Bayard Rustin was late. Littell waited. Littell sat in Lafayette Park.

Relief pickets chatted. Shop talk swirled. LBJ and Castro. The Goldwater threat.

The groups shared coffee. Lefty girls brought snacks. Littell looked around—no Bayard Rustin yet.

He knew Rustin’s face. Mr. Hoover supplied pix. He met the SCLC plant. They talked last night.

Lyle Holly—ex-Chicago PD.

Lyle worked the Red Squad. Lyle studied the Left. Lyle talked Left and
thought
Right. They shared similar credentials. They shared the same disjuncture. Lyle cracked racial jokes. Lyle said he loved Dr. King.

He knew Lyle’s brother. They worked the St. Louis Office—’48 to ’50.

Dwight H. was Far Right. Dwight worked kovert Klan jobs. Dwight fit
right
in. The Hollys were Hoosiers. The Hollys had Klan ties. Daddy Holly was a Grand Dragon.