The Cold Six Thousand (28 page)

Mr. Hoover tracked Bobby’s moves—Bobby the lame-duck AG. Bobby
should
step down. Nick Katzenbach
should
succeed.

Fed heat
might
descend then. Fed heat
might
hit Vegas. Mr. Hoover
might
warn him. The Boys
might
say yes—hire those skim men—Wayne Senior
might
provide said.

He lunched with Wayne Senior—once a month—they played at respect. Wayne Senior foresaw Drac’s Vegas. Wayne Senior craved his own bite.

Let’s confer. Let’s place my Mormons near the Count. Let’s bite ol’ Drac.

Skim runs
might
work.
He
had his own skim plan. He craved yet
another
tithe source.

Money
owned
him. Money
bored
him. He had money alliances. He formed money bonds. He had one nonmoney friend.

Pete left Vegas—mid-February—Pete returned bereft.

Pete flew to Dallas. Pete flew back. Pete returned with burn scars and a cat. Littell bought the Dallas papers. Littell read back-page squibs.

There—
PROSTITUTE DIES IN CUSTODY, SUICIDE RULED
.

He called Carlos. He played dumb. Carlos brought it up. Carlos laughed. Carlos said she bit her tongue off.

That meant two down. That meant two at large—Hank K. and Arden-Jane.

Littell talked to Pete. They discussed the safe-house hits. They discussed Arden-Jane.

Pete said, “I won’t touch her.” Pete meant it. Pete looked sad and weak. He got headaches. He’d dropped weight. He worshiped his cat.

Pete wanted Monarch Cab. Pete hired a PI. The PI surveilled Eldon Peavy. Let’s stay useful. Let’s revive Tiger Kab. Let’s help the Boys out.

Pete had money alliances. Pete formed money bonds. Pete had a new cat. Pete had a kid brother. Wayne Junior
et
Pete.

Les frères de sang. Littell, un conseiller des morts
.

Everyone’s scared. Everyone saw Big D.

(Las Vegas, 2/14/64–6/29/64)

H
ate.

It moved him. It ran him. It called his shots. He stayed cool with it. He stayed justified.

He never said NIGGER. They weren’t all bad. He knew it and stayed justified. He found the bad ones. They
knew
him. Wayne Junior—he
baaaaaaad
.

He worked the Deuce. He threw hurt. He spared his hands and used his sap. He never said NIGGER. He never thought NIGGER. He never condoned the concept.

He worked double shifts. He stayed double-justified. The owner had rules. The pit boss had rules. Rules ruled the Deuce high and wide.

Wayne had rules. Wayne enforced said. Do not paw women. Do not hit women. Treat whores with respect.

He enforced his rules. He bridged race lines. He enforced his Rule of Intent. He predicted rude acts. He preempted them. He employed all due force.

He tracked THEM. He trailed THEM. He prowled West LV. He looked for Wendell Durfee. It was futile. He knew it. The HATE drew him there.

He got FEAR back. Said FEAR made him
stay
.

Wayne Junior—he baaad. He kill black folk. He whip dark boodie.

The Deuce showed the Liston-Clay fight. THEY attended. THEY shucked. THEY cheered.

He perceived intent. He enforced. He preempted. Some Muslims pushed tracts. He ejected them. He abridged their civil rights.

THEY called him “Junior.” It fit. It honored his HATE. It distinguished his HATE from Wayne Senior’s.

Sonny Liston passed through. Sonny looked Wayne up. Sonny knew Wayne’s story. Sonny said, “You did the right thing.” Sonny waxed pissed. Cassius Clay kicked his ass. Fuck all that Muslim shit.

They hit the Goose. They got blitzed. They drew a crowd. Sonny said he knew umpteen niggers. Said niggers prowled Niggerland. They’d shake the nigger trees and find Wendell Durfee.

HATE:

He stole play chips. He cruised West LV. He spread said chips around. He called it tip bait. He paid THEM for help to find HIM.

THEY took the chips. THEY
used
him. THEY spit on the chips and broke them.

It was futile. He knew it.

He bought the Dallas papers. He scanned every page. He got no news on Maynard Moore. He got no news on Wendell Durfee.

He read the papers. Sergeant A. V. Brown got sometime ink. Sergeant Brown worked Homicide.

Sergeant Brown knew he killed Maynard Moore. Sergeant Brown had no proof and no body. Sergeant Brown hated him. Ditto Dwight Holly.

Holly tailed him—spot tails/odd nights. Jaunts through West LV—ten minutes per.

Show tails. Overt tails and grudge tails. Fender-to-fender.

Holly tailed him. Holly knew his Darktown biz. Holly was Fed. Holly was cosmetically pro-Negro. The snuffs fucked Holly up. The snuffs fucked Holly up with Wayne Senior.

They went back. They shared laughs in Indiana. They shared their chaste brand of HATE.

HATE lured them places. HATE lured Wayne to the ranch. He prowled the ranch cyclical. He got the urge and savored it. He picked his entry shots.

Janice leaves. Wayne Senior leaves. He watches them go and walks in. He goes to the dressing room. He smells Janice. He touches her things.

He reads Wayne Senior’s files. He reads Wayne Senior’s tracts.

The Papal Pipeline. Boat Tickets to the Congo—one-way passage on the Titanic.

The tracts went back to ’52. The tracts “probed” Little Rock. The tracts “exposed” Emmett Till. The Little Rock kids spread gonorrhea. Emmett Till raped white girls.

It was bullshit. It was chaste and cowardly HATE.

Wayne Senior lied—“I ‘diversified’ last year.” Bullshit—Wayne Senior pushed
long-term
hate.

HATE tracts. HATE comic boox. HATE primers. The HATE alphabet.

Wayne read Wayne Senior’s mail file. Mr. Hoover wrote memorandums. Dwight Holly wrote notes. They were long-term pen pals—from 1954 up.

’54 rocked. The Supreme Court banned school segregation. The Ku Klux Klan rocked anew.

Mr. Hoover rocked. Mr. Hoover deployed Dwight Holly. Holly knew Wayne Senior. Mr. Hoover loved Wayne Senior’s tracts. Mr. Hoover collected them. Mr. Hoover displayed them. Mr. Hoover rang Wayne Senior up.

They chatted. Mr. Hoover bored in:

You push hate tracts.
Someone
has to. They’re harmless and fun. They appeal to the rural right. The rural right is factional. The rural right is dumb.

You
have hate credentials.
You
can help me place plants. We place them in Klan groups. Dwight Holly to supervise. They snitch mail fraud. They scotch your tract rivals. They assist the FBI.

Wayne read file notes. Mr. Hoover wrote. Dwight Holly wrote. Klan klowns wrote komedy. They sucked up to Wayne Senior. They yahooed. They described their
koon
tretemps.

The mail file stopped dead—summer ’63. No Fed notes/no snitch notes/no kommuniqués:
Why that? Say what
?

Wayne loved the Fed notes. The Fed-speak glowed: “Felony guidelines.” “Acceptable acts to sustain informant credibility.”

Wayne loved the Klan notes. The text glistened. The Klan-speak glowed.

Wayne Senior suborned rednecks. Wayne Senior koddled them. They lived on Fed money. They bought corn liquor. They pulled “minor assaults.”

One note sizzled. Dwight Holly writes—10/8/57.

Holly praised Wayne Senior. Holly enthused: You toughed it out/you retained your kover.

10/6/57. Shaw, Mississippi. Six Kluxers grab a Negro. Said Kluxers employ a dull knife. They sever his balls. They feed their dogs in front of him. Wayne Senior observes.

Wayne read the note. Wayne read it fifty times. The note taught him this:

Wayne Senior fears you. Wayne Senior fears your HATE. It’s unmediated. It’s unexploitative. It’s unrationalized.

Wayne Senior hated petty. Wayne Senior had a rationale. Wayne Senior tried to shape
his
HATE.

Wayne Senior played him a bug tape. Wayne Senior played it over drinks. The date: 5/8/64. The place: Meridian, Mississippi.

Civil-rights workers talked—four Negro males. Said Negroes defamed
white girls. Said girls were “liberal cooze.” Said girls were “punchboards out for black stick.”

Wayne listened. Wayne replayed the tape—thirty-eight times.

Wayne Senior ran a Fed film. Wayne Senior ran it over lunch. The date: 2/19/61. The place: New York City.

A folk club/mixed dancing/dark lips and hickeys.

Wayne watched. Wayne replayed the film—forty-two times.

HATE:

He watched THEM. He found THEM. He nailed THEM in crowds. HATE moved him. HATE rejoined him with Wayne Senior.

They talked. Shit densified. Shit cohered and dispersed. Janice talked to him. Janice studied him. Janice touched him more. She dressed for him. She cut her hair. She wore a Lynette do.

Lynette lost him. She knew it. She knew Dallas cut her loose. He ran from her. He hid out. He carried sex in his head.

Janice and Barb. Snapshots from the ranch. Postcards from the lounge.

His house fucked with him. Wendell Durfee kicked the door in. Lynette died there.

He dumped the bed. He stripped the paint. He peeled the bloodstains. It wasn’t enough.

He sold the house. He took a loss. He indulged a spree. He hit the Dunes and shot dice.

He won sixty grand. He rolled all night. He blew the whole stake. Moe Dalitz watched him. Moe bought him morning pancakes.

He moved to Wayne Senior’s guest house. He installed a phone. He logged bullshit tips and built a tip file.

He dug his two rooms. He dug on his view. Janice strolled. Janice changed clothes. Janice chipped balls out her window.

He lived in the guest house. He played at the Sultan’s Lounge. He met Pete there. They watched Barb and socialized.

Pete introduced him. He blushed. They hit the Sands. They sipped frosty mai tais. They talked. Barb got tipsy and riffed on sex extortion. Barb said, “I worked JFK.”

She stopped—looks traveled—looks dispersed wiiiiiide. Barb knew about Dallas. The looks said, “We all do.”

That was March. Pete and Barb were back from Mexico. Pete and Barb were tan.

They flew to Acapulco. They flew back weird. Pete was thin. Barb was thin. Pete had lip scars. They had a cat—a stripedy tom—they loved his scraggly ass.

Wayne called Ward Littell. Wayne said, “What’s up with Pete?” Wayne dropped Pete’s “kid brother” line. Ward explained it all:

Pete killed his brother. Pete botched a hit. Pete killed François B. accidental. That was ’49. Wayne was fifteen then. Wayne lived in Peru, Indiana.

Pete got phone calls. Pete left Vegas. Wayne met Barb for lunch. They talked. They hashed neutral topics. They eschewed Pete’s work. They talked up Barb’s sister in Wisconsin. They talked up her Bob’s Big Boy franchise. They talked up Barb’s lowlife ex.

Barb teased him. Barb saw him with Janice. He copped to his sixteen-year crush.

Pete trusted him. Pete gauged his Barb crush. Pete tagged it kid stuff. Barb was great. Barb made him laugh. Barb pulled his eyes off of THEM.

He pressed Pete—find me
real
work—Pete dodged his requests. He pressed Pete on Dallas—give me more details—Pete dodged his full press.

He said, “Why are you so fucked up and stoked on a cat?”

Pete said, “Shut up.” Pete said, “Smile more and hate less.”

(Dallas/Las Vegas/Acapulco/New Orleans/
Houston/Pensacola/Los Angeles,
2/14/64–6/29/64)

H
e found the cat. He relocated him. The cat dug Vegas. The cat dug the Stardust Hotel.

The cat dug their suite. The cat dug room-service chow. Barb fucking shit. Who fucking body-snatched you?

You flew off. You flew back. You came home undone. You don’t eat right. You don’t sleep right. You
shudder
.

He did all that. He chain-smoked too. He gnashed his teeth. He drank himself to sleep. He reran one nightmare:

Saipan, ’43. Japs. Roads rigged with slice cords. Jeeps pass by. The cords hit. Heads topple clean.

He got headaches. He popped scotch. He popped aspirin. Bedtime scared him. He read books. He watched TV. He messed with the cat. His arms pinged. He pissed more. His feet got numbed up.

He fought it. He flew to New Orleans. He rigged a slice cord. He staked Carlos out. He thought it through. He ran Yes and No lists. The Nos won in a walk.

Don’t do it. The Boys would kill Barb—just for a start.

They’d kill Barb’s mother. They’d kill Barb’s sister. They’d kill the clan Lindscott worldwide.

He flew back to Vegas. He found a cat-sitter. Barb took a week off. They flew to Acapulco. They got a cliffside suite. They watched spics dive for tourist chump change.

He carved some nerve. He sat Barb down. He told her EVERYTHING.

François and Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer. Each and every paid hit. Betty Mac. The noose on the crossbars. Her nails at her neck.

He spilled facts. He spilled names. He spilled numbers. He spilled details. He spilled new Dallas shit. He spilled on Wendell D. and Lynette.

Barb ran.

She packed her bag. She ran from him. She moved out. He tried to stop her. She grabbed his gun. She aimed at him flush.

He backed off. She ran. He got drunk and studied the cliff. The drop ran six hundred feet.

He ran up. He swayed. He ran up ten times. He ran up sober and drunk. He punked out ten times. He dipped and caught himself. He stopped on pure lack of guts.

He scored some red devils. He slept through whole days. He dungeoned the bedroom up. He ate pills. He slept. He ate pills. He slept. He woke up and thought he was dead.

Barb was there. She said, “I’ll stay.” He cried and tore the bed up.

Barb shaved him. Barb fed him soup. Barb talked him off pills and cliff drops.

They flew to L.A. He saw Ward Littell. Ward knew about Betty. Carlos had bragged the job up.

They made plans. They schemed precautions. Ward was smart. Ward was good. Ward made an Arden a Jane.

Shit looked all new now. Ward said he understood. Vegas looked new—hard hues and hot weather.

He scored on the Clay fight. He cat-proofed the suite. He banked a six-digit roll. The cat dug the suite. The cat perched. The cat pounced. The cat killed wall mice.