Read The Cold Six Thousand Online
Authors: James Ellroy
The Cold Six Thousand (33 page)
He’d get frazzled. He’d get fucked up. Betty jumped him then. It scared him. It relieved him. It said THIS IS REAL.
Betty stuck with him. Dallas faded away.
The Warren thing hits. Lee O. takes the rap. Jack Ruby goes down guilty as charged. Jack stays mute. Jack gets death. Ratfuck Bobby resigns as AG.
Barb dropped the p.m. news. Wayne dropped his Dallas questions. Carlos dropped all the hit talk. Betty took a slug. Arden-Jane dodged one for now.
Jimmy took another slug—pension-fund fraud—two five-year terms concurrent. Jimmy’s fucked. Jimmy knows it. Jimmy seeks solace.
His good lawyers helped. His good Teamsters helped. Likewise Ward’s fund-book plan.
Tiger was solace plus. Tiger subsumed Betty—intermittent.
Tiger roared. Tiger roamed. Tiger roved West LV. That trailer was still there. That whore decomped within.
Wayne wanted work. Wayne pressed Pete. Pete always said no. Tiger Kab hired spooks. Tiger Kab drove spooks. Wayne was spook-afflicted.
Wayne worked for Wayne
père. Père
tied his apron strings.
Père
had big pull.
Père
foresaw that Gulf of Tonkin thing.
Wayne was wowed—dig my dad—he’s a
chingón
.
Wayne Senior pressed Wayne—let’s start a snitch-Klan—the Neutered Knights of Natchez or some such fucking shit.
Wayne played along. Pete said: Don’t do it—Klans just ain’t you.
Wayne Senior bragged to excess. Ward Littell listened. Ward knew Wayne. Ward had pull with him. Ward could cut those strings.
Wayne Senior greased the hit fund. Wayne Senior told Ward. Wayne Senior sent Wayne to Dallas.
Wayne was naive. Wayne didn’t know.
Stay naive—you’ll live longer. Tiger rules. Ditch the hate and I’ll find you a spot. It’s elite. It’s effete. It helps you shut dead women out.
(Las Vegas, 9/10/64)
C
anned food and booze. Sauerkraut and Cointreau—all Air Force stock.
Wayne tossed crates. A swamper stacked them. They worked. They broiled. They hogged the DI dock.
Creamed corn and Smirnoff. Stuffed olives and Pernod. Cheez-Its and Old Crow.
Wayne worked fast. The swamper worked slow. The swamper yak-yakked.
“You know we lost some guys, including our steward. I heard your dad got them work with Howard Hughes. Some lawyer set it up.”
Wayne tossed the last crate. The swamper caught it. The swamper peeled his roll and paid up.
He shuffled. He scratched. He played coy. He dragged out the transaction.
Wayne said, “What
is
it?”
“Well, it’s sort of personal.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well … you think that Durfee guy’s stupid enough to come back here?”
“I don’t think he’s stupid at all.”
Wayne drove to Nellis.
He’d scheduled two loops. A late shot for Twinkies and Jim Beam—all Flamingo stock.
Wayne yawned. Traffic was slow. The job was soporific. The job was a soggy cream puff.
He figured it out. It took him weeks. Wayne Senior
wants
you bored. Wayne Senior has
plans
.
Said plans implied:
Go to Alabama. Stress your reputation. Drop how you avenged Lynette. Start a snitch-Klan. Recruit snitches. Work for the Feds.
He told Pete about it. Pete said, “It’s cowardly shit.”
He hit Owens. He hit the Nellis gates. He drove straight in. Nellis was beige—beige buildings/beige barracks/beige lawns.
Big
barracks. Named for Strip hotels. No goof or satire implied.
His QM contact lived off base. His QM parked on. Wayne had dupe car keys. Wayne left his coin in the car.
He passed the “Sands.” He passed the “Dunes.” He passed the Officers’ Club. He parked. He got out. He saw the QM’s Ford.
Two rows up: A ’62 Vette.
Red with white side coves. Whitewalls and chrome pipes. Janice’s cherried-out car.
Janice left the ranch. Janice left at noon. Janice said she was off to play golf. Boulder/thirty-six holes/Twin Palms Country Club.
Blithe Janice. Golf—shit.
Wayne unlocked the Ford. Wayne rolled down the windows. Wayne scrunched low and tucked himself in.
Cars came. Cars went. He chewed gum. He popped sweat. He stared at the Vette.
Time chugged. Time rescinded. Some instinct said
stick
.
The sun arced. The sun hit the Ford. Wayne broiled. His gum starched and dried out.
There’s Janice.
She leaves the O Club. She gets in her Vette. She kicks the key and idles it.
There’s Clark Kinman.
He leaves the O Club. He gets in a Dodge. He kicks the key and idles it.
Janice pulls out. Kinman pulls out behind.
Wayne pulled out. Wayne hung back. Cut the leash/cut them some slack.
Wayne hung back. Wayne read his watch dial. Wayne ticked one full minute off.
Now—
He hauled. He closed in. He caught up. Three-car caravan—east-bound—Lake Mead Boulevard.
Janice drove point. Kinman tapped his horn. Kinman goosed her pipes. They
played
. They flirted out their windows. They
goofed
.
Wayne hung back. Wayne held two car-lengths down. Wayne sidled one lane over.
They drove east. They logged eight miles. They hit a desert patch. Motel strips and beer bars. Sand and last-chance fill-ups.
Janice signaled. Janice turned right. Kinman signaled. Kinman turned right.
There—The Golden Gorge Motel.
Gold stucco. One-story/one-room row. Twelve connected rooms.
Wayne pulled right. Wayne braked. Wayne stopped. Wayne checked his rearview.
Janice parked in the motel lot. Kinman parked in close.
They got out. They embraced and kissed. They entered room #4. They bypassed the office. They had their own key.
Wayne got butterflies. Wayne locked the car and walked over.
He stood near room #4. He loitered and listened. Janice laughed. Kinman said, “Get that rascal hard.”
Wayne scoped the lot. Wayne saw scrub balls and junk cars. Wayne saw Mexican brats.
Thin room walls. Voices
en español
. Bracero cribs. Crop-picker tenants.
Kinman laughed. Janice went “Oooh.”
Wayne loitered. Wayne listened. Wayne lurked. Shades went up. Blinds furled. Brown faces bipped out.
He saw something:
Room #5 had no windows. The door had
two
locks.
He held it back. He bypassed Wayne Senior. He ran paper. He checked Clark County deeds. He traced the motel.
Shitfire—Wayne Senior owns it.
It’s 6/3/56. Wayne Senior bids and forecloses. The motel’s a bargain. The motel’s a tax dodge.
Wayne stewed. Pete called the ranch and left messages. Wayne ignored them. Wayne surveilled the motel.
Early p.m. stakeouts. Room #4. Janice and one-star Clark Kinman. Two matinees/three hours per.
He parked down the road. He trained binoculars. He walked by. He listened. He heard Janice sigh.
The Golden Gorge ran twelve units. Beaners camped out in ten. Janice kept her key. It unlocked room #4.
Room #5 had two locks. Room #5 had no windows. Room #5 stayed empty.
The lot buzzed by day. Braceros mingled. Bracero kids yahooed and yelped. Braceros worked hard. Braceros crashed hard. Braceros crashed early.
He popped a burglar once—late in ’60. He kept his tool kit. He kept his picklocks.
Room #5 glowed. The door was green. Green like that song:
What’s that secret you’re keeping?
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 9/12/64. Confidential memorandum: Howard Hughes to Ward J. Littell.
Dear Ward,
Bravo on the new casino consultants. My aides have chosen three rough and tumble, no-nonsense men from that list you submitted, and they have assured me that they are devout Mormons with germ-free blood.
Their names are Thomas D. Elwell, Lamar L. Dean and Daryl D. Kleindienst. They have extensive union experience in Las Vegas and, according to my aides, will not be afraid to negotiate and “lock horns” with those Mafia boys that Mr. Hoover tells me you have in your pocket. According to my aides, these men “know the ropes.” They did not meet with them in person, but have corresponded with your friend Mr. Tedrow in Las Vegas and have solicited his advice. Mr. Tedrow is well respected in Mormon circles, they tell me, and I confirmed that assessment with Mr. Hoover.
The new men will be traveling hither and yon to advance our Las Vegas plans, so I’m pleased that they are cutting down commercial airline costs by flying Hughes charters. I’ve sent memos to all the charter crews instructing them to have lots of Fritos, Pepsi-Cola and Rocky Road ice cream on hand, because hard-working men deserve to eat well. Also, thanks for getting charter clearance at Nellis Air Force Base, which cuts down costs as well.
Forewarned is forearmed, Ward. You’ve convinced me that our Las Vegas approach will take time, and I think this casino consultant plan is a winner. I look forward to receiving your first report.
All best,
H.H.
(Las Vegas, 9/12/64)
W
ayne Senior said, “I know what my men are transporting.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, ‘Oh.’ They’ve explained the entire procedure.”
They sat poolside. Janice stood close. Janice sunned and putted golf balls.
“You knew at our first meeting. It was quite evident.”
“An instinct doesn’t equal a certainty.”
Littell raised one brow. “You’re being disingenuous. You knew then, you know now, and you’ve known at all points in between.”
Wayne Senior coughed. “Don’t mimic my gestures. You don’t have my flair.”
Littell grabbed his prop stick. Littell twirled it. Fuck Wayne Senior sideways.
“Tell me what you want. Be direct, and feel free to use the word ‘skim.’ ”
Wayne Senior coughed. “My men have quit the union. They refuse to pay me the percentage I requested.”
Littell twirled the stick. “How much do you want?”
“I’d be satisfied with 5%.”
Littell twirled the stick. Littell twirled figure-eights. Littell did all Wayne Senior’s tricks.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Categorically?”
“Yes.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “I have to assume that Mr. Hughes doesn’t know what his planes are transporting.”
Littell studied Janice. She flexed. She putted. She stretched.
“I would advise you not to tell him.”
“Why? Because your Italian friends will hurt me?”
“Because I’ll tell your son that you sent him to Dallas.”
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 9/12/64. Dallas
Morning News
article.
REPORTER WRITING JFK BOOK; SAYS HE’LL “BLOW
CONSPIRACY WIDE OPEN”
Dallas
Times-Herald
reporter Jim Koethe has a tale to tell, and he’ll tell it to anyone who’ll listen.
On Sunday evening, November 24, 1963, Koethe, along with
Times-Herald
editor Robert Cuthbert and reporter Bill Hunter of the Long Beach (California)
Press-Telegram
, visited the apartment of Jack Ruby, the convicted killer of presidential assassin Lee Harvey Oswald. The three men spent “two or three hours” talking to Ruby’s roommate, novelty salesman George Senator. “I can’t reveal what Mr. Senator said,” Koethe told this reporter. “But believe you me it was an eye-opener, and it sure got me thinking about some things.”
Koethe went on to say that he’s done quite a bit of digging into the assassination and is writing a book on the subject. “It’s a conspiracy, sure as shooting,” he said. “And my book is going to blow it wide open.”
Koethe refused to name the people he believes are responsible for the death of President John F. Kennedy and refused to reveal the basic motive and details of the conspiracy. “You’ll have to wait for the book,” Koethe said. “And believe me, the book will be well worth the wait.”
Koethe’s friend, reporter Bill Hunter, died in April. Editor Robert Cuthbert declined to be interviewed in depth for this article. “Jim’s extracurricular activities are his business,” Cuthbert said. “I wish him well with his book, though, because I love a good potboiler. Personally, I think Oswald was the lone assassin, and the Warren Report sure backs me up. Still, I’ve got to say that Jim Koethe exemplifies the bulldog reporter, so maybe he’s on to something.”
Koethe, 37, is a colorful local scribe, known for his persistence, assertive behavior and connections within the Dallas Police Department. He is reputed to be a close friend of DPD Officer Maynard D. Moore, who disappeared around the time of the assassination. Asked to comment on Officer Moore’s missing status, Koethe
said, “Mum’s the word. A good reporter doesn’t reveal his sources and a good book writer doesn’t reveal anything.”
I guess we’ll have to wait for the book. In the meantime, though, interested parties will have to make do with the 16-volume Warren Report, which for this reporter stands as the authoritative final word.
(Las Vegas, 9/13/64)
T
he cat snared a rat. One chomp—adieu.
The cat prowled the hut. The cat paraded. Harvey Brams crossed himself. Donkey Dom laughed.
Milt grabbed the rat. The cat snarled. Milt dropped the rat in the shitter. The cat nuzzled Pete. The cat clawed the switchboard.
Biz was slow. The 6:00 p.m. blues descended.
Champ B. bopped through. Champ B. juked morale. Champ B. dumped some hijacked Pall Malls.
Pete bought them. Call it PR swag—potential Drac donations.
Hospital
swag—yuk-yuk—lung-ward booty.
Biz picked up. Sonny Liston called. Sonny ordered two cabs. Sonny ordered scotch and red devils.
Pete yawned. Pete stroked the cat. Wayne walked in distracted. Dom checked his basket. Dom eyeball-stroked his bulge.
Pete said, “I’ve been calling you.”
Wayne shrugged. Wayne passed Pete a note. A news clip—two columns. A call came in. Milt plugged it. Pete steered Wayne outside.
Wayne looked frazzled. Pete sized him up. Pete stuck the clip in his pocket.
“Sol Durslag. Ring a bell?”
