The Cold Six Thousand (4 page)

Barb left her gowns out. Blue spangles and green. Two shows tonite. His wife and her ex-hubby’s trio.

A sad room. Sad Barb. Let’s send one up to Jack.

Hit news preceded the hit. Outfit guys talked. Outfit guys
knew
. Hesh Ryskind checked into the Adolphus. Hesh had cancer. Hesh came to gloat and die.

Hesh watched the motorcade. Hesh died at 1:00 p.m. Hesh kicked with Jack concurrent.

Pete touched the bed. Pink sheets met red hair—one loud color clash.

The doorbell chimed—the B-flat “Eyes of Texas.” Barb slept through it. Pete walked over. Pete cracked the door.

Fuck—there’s Guy Banister.

Guy popped sweat. Guy was sixty-plus. Guy had heart attacks.

Pete stepped outside. Pete shut the door. Guy waved a highball glass.

“Come on. I rented a room down the hall.”

Pete followed him over. The floor rugs sent sparks up. Guy unlocked his door and bolted them in.

He grabbed a jug—Old Crow bond—Pete snatched it quick.

“Tell me they’re both dead, and this isn’t about some fuck-up.”

Guy twirled his glass. “King John the First is dead, but my boy killed a cop and got arrested.”

The floor dipped. Pete dug his legs in.

“The cop who was supposed to kill him?”

Guy eyeballed the jug. Pete tossed it back.

“That’s right, Tippit. My boy pulled a piece and popped him out in Oak Cliff.”

“Does
your boy
know your name?”

Guy uncorked the jug. “No, I worked him through a cutout.”

Pete slapped the wall. Plaster chips flew. Guy spilled some booze.

“But your boy knows the cutout’s name. The cutout knows
your
name, and your boy’ll name names sooner or later. Is that a fucking accurate assessment?”

Guy poured a drink. His hand shook. Pete straddled a chair. His headache retorqued. He lit a cigarette.
His
hand shook.

“We have to kill him.”

Guy blotted the spill. “Tippit had a backup man, but he wanted to go in alone. It was a two-man job, so we’re paying the price now.”

Pete squeezed the chairback. The slats shimmied. One slat sheared loose.

“Don’t tell me what we should have done. Tell me how we get to your boy.”

Guy sat on the bed. Guy stretched out comfy.

“I gave the job to Tippit’s backup.”

Pete said, “And?”

“And he’s got access to the jail, and he’s mean enough for the job, and he owes some casino markers, which means he’s in hock to the Outfit.”

Pete said, “There’s more. You’re trying to sell me a bill of goods.”

“Well …”

“Well, shit,
what
?”

“Well, he’s a tough nut, and he doesn’t want to do it, and he’s stuck on a liaison job with some Vegas cop.”

Pete cracked his knuckles. “We’ll convince him.”

“I don’t know. He’s a tough nut.”

Pete flipped his cigarette. It hit Guy clean. He yipped. He snuffed it out. He burned his pillow.

Pete coughed. “You’re the first one Carlos will clip if your boy talks.”

A TV kicked on—one room down. The walls leeched sound: “Nation mourns”/“valiant first lady.”

Guy said, “I’m scared.”

“That’s your first fucking sensible comment.”

“We got him, though. We made the world spin.”

The old fuck
glowed
. Sweats and shitty grins.

“Tell me the rest of it.”

“What about a toast to the fallen—”

“What about Rogers and the pro shooter?”

Guy coughed. “Okay, first things first. Mr. Hoover flew Littell in as soon as he heard, and I saw him over at DPD. The cops got Rogers on a sweep, but Littell let him out and misplaced the paperwork. He was carrying fake ID, so I think we’re clear there.”

Glitches/reglitches—

“The pro. Did he get out?”

“Heads up on that. He got down to McAllen and walked across the border. He left a message at my place in New Orleans, and I called him and got the all-clear.”

“What about Rog—”

“He’s at a motel in Fort Worth. Littell said the witnesses are confused and telling different stories, and Mr. Hoover’s hell-bent to prove that it was all my boy. Littell said we’ve only got one guy to worry about.”

Pete said, “Keep going. Don’t make me work so hard.”

“Okay, then. Littell said a railroad man put a half-ass ID on Rogers, so it’s my considered opinion that we should clip him.”

Pete shook his head. “It’s too close to the hit. You want him to go back to work like nothing happened.”

“Then you throw some fear into him.”

“No. Let the backup do it. Have him pull a cop number.”

That TV blared—“Nation grieves”/“sole killer.”

Guy folded his arms. “There’s one more thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“Okay, then. I talked to the pro. He thinks there’s a chance that Jack Ruby put it together.”

Ruby: Bagman/pimp/Littell’s old snitch/strip-club entrepre—

“I had the crew at a safe house up in Oklahoma. Rogers called Ruby and arranged for some entertainment. The pro said he showed up with two girls and some flunky, and they saw the rifles out back and—wait now—don’t get your tits in a twist—I told the backup to brace Ruby and see what he knows.”

The room dipped. Crash dimensions. Pete rode out the drop.

Guy said, “We might have to clip them.”

Pete said, “No.”

Guy
re
glowed. Guy previewed Heart Attack 3.

“
No
? The big man says
no
? The big man says no, like he doesn’t know the Boys are talking, and they’re saying he’s lost his taste for the Life?”

Pete stood up. Pete cracked his thumbs. Pete flexed his hands. Pete grabbed the chair slats. Pete pulled. Pete ripped the chair to sticks.

Guy pissed his britches. Guy fucking plotzed. The stain spread. His crotch seeped. He doused the sheets.

Pete walked out. The hall dipped. The walls balanced him. He walked back to his suite. He stopped ten feet short. He heard his TV.

He heard Barb sob. He heard Barb throw chairs at a wall.

(Dallas, 11/22/63)

A
dog shit on the runway. A stripper dodged turds. Welcome to the Carousel Club.

Cops clapped. Cops whooped. Cops ruled the room. The club was closed to the public. The owner loved Jackie. The owner loved JFK.

Let’s mourn. Let’s ride out this tsuris. Let’s show some respect.

You badged in. The owner loved cops. Your host—Jack Ruby.

Wayne walked in. Wayne dropped Maynard Moore’s name. Ruby seated him. Dallas cops ran tall. Boot heels did it. Wayne was six-one. The cops dwarfed him.

A bandstand adjoined the runway. A sax and drum worked. Two strippers stripped. The blonde looked like Lynette. The brunette looked like Janice.

Moore was late. The club was loud. The combo played “Night Train.” Wayne sipped 7-Up. The music fucked with him. The drum pops set up pix.

Pop—he caps Wendell Durfee. Pop—he plants a throwdown piece.

A stripper swayed by. She wore a pastie-patch. Her crotch stubble showed. A cop snapped her G-string. She swayed his way.

Ruby worked the room.

He dumped ashtrays. He tossed scraps. He lured his dog off the ramp. He poured drinks. He lit cigarettes. He laid out some grief.

A fuck killed his President. The fuck was a beatnik. His bookkeeper split. She blew the coop. She blew him off. She wouldn’t blow his friends.

He owed the IRS. Arden said she’d help. Arden was skunk cooze. Arden lied and stole. Arden had a fake address. A beatnik shot his hero.

Maynard Moore walked in.

He whooped. He rebel-yelled. He sailed his hat. A stripper snagged it.

Moore walked up to Ruby. Ruby went oh shit. The dog jumped in. Moore grabbed him. Moore kissed him. Moore tweaked his tail.

Ruby yukked. Boychik—you slay me!

Moore dropped the dog. Moore manhandled Ruby. He shoved him. He flicked his mezuzah. He knocked off his hat.

Wayne watched. Moore
squeezed
Ruby.

He jerked his necktie. He snapped his suspenders. He jabbed at his chest. Ruby squirmed. Ruby bumped a rubber machine.

Moore dressed him down. Ruby pulled a handkerchief. Ruby pat-dried his head.

Wayne walked over. Wayne caught Moore in tight.

“Pete’s in town. People ain’t gonna like what you might know, so you may be owin’ some favors.”

Wayne coughed. Moore turned around. Ruby squeezed his mezuzah chain.

Moore smiled. “Wayne, this is Jack. Jack’s a Yankee, but we like him anyway.”

Moore had pressing shit in Plano. Wayne said okay. Fuck it. Let’s stall—let’s postpone Wendell D.

Traffic was dead. A breeze stirred. Moore drove his off-duty sled. A Chevy 409—lake pipes and slicks—Stemmons Freeway faaaast.

Wayne gripped the dash-bar. Moore sipped Everclear. The fumes stung bad.

The radio howled. A preacher proselytized:

John F-for-Fruitcake Kennedy loved Pope Pinko. He sold his soul to the Jewnited Nations. God bless Lee H-for-Hero Oswald.

Wayne doused the volume. Moore laughed.

“You got a low capacity for the truth, unlike your daddy.”

Wayne cracked his wind wing. “Are all the DPD guys like you, or did they waive the IQ test in your case?”

Moore winked. “DPD runs to the right side of the street. We got some Klan and we got some John Birch. It’s like that pamphlet your daddy puts out. ‘Do you score red or red, white, and blue?’ ”

Wayne felt rain. “His pamphlets make money. And you won’t see him wearing a sheet in Pigshit, Texas.”

“You certainly won’t, to his everlasting discredit.”

The rain came. The rain went. Wayne fugued on out. The fumes tickled. The car droned. He rehashed recent shit.

West Vegas: Assault One/eight counts. A white man beats up colored whores.

He picked them up. He took them home. He beat them and took snapshots—and LVPD didn’t care.

He
cared. He told Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior pooh-poohed it.

Moore pulled off the freeway. Moore trawled side streets. He hit his brights. He scanned curb plates. He drove down a tract row.

He grazed curbs. He read mailbox names. He found
the
box. He pulled over and stopped.

Wayne squinted. Wayne saw the name: “Bowers.”

Wayne stretched. Moore stretched. Moore grabbed a sandwich bag.

“This won’t take no more than two minutes.”

Wayne yawned. Moore got out. Wayne got out and leaned on the car.

The house was drab. The lawn was brown. The house had peeled paint and chipped stucco.

Moore walked to the porch. Moore rang the bell. A man opened up. Moore badged him. Moore shoved him inside. Moore kicked the door shut.

Wayne stretched some kinks out. Wayne dug on the car.

He kicked the slicks. He touched the pipes. He popped the hood. He sniffed the fuel valves. He nailed the smell. He broke down the oxide components.

You’re a cop now. You’re a good one. You’re a chemist still.

Somebody screamed. Wayne slammed the hood. It muffled scream #2.

Dogs barked. Curtains jerked. Neighbors scoped the Bowers pad.

Moore walked out.

He grinned. He weaved a tad. He wiped blood off his shirt.

They drove back to Big D. Moore chewed Red Man. He tuned in Wolfman Jack. He mimicked his howl. He lip-synced R&B.

They hit Browntown. They found the guy’s shack: Four walls—all plywood and glue.

Moore parked on the lawn. Moore grazed a boss Lincoln. The windows were down. The interior glowed.

Moore spat juice. Moore sprayed the seats good.

“You best believe they’ll name a car after Kennedy. And every nigger in captivity’ll rob and rape to get one.”

Wayne walked up. Moore trailed back. The door stood open. Wayne looked in. Wayne saw a colored guy.

The guy crouched. The guy
worked
. The guy fucked with his TV set. He tapped the dials. He tweaked the cord. He raised static and snow.

Wayne knocked. Moore walked in. Moore scoped this shrine shelf:

A plug-in JFK. Bobby cutouts. A Martin Luther King doll.

The guy saw them. He stood up. He shivered. He double-clutched.

Wayne walked in. “Are you Mr. Jefferson?”

Moore sprayed juice. Moore doused a chair.

“He’s the boy. Aka ‘Jeff,’ aka ‘Jeffy,’ you think I don’t do my homework?”

Jeff said, “That’s me. Yessir.”

Wayne smiled. “You’re in no trouble. We’re looking for a friend of—”

“How come you people got all these President names? Half the boys I take down got names more distinguished than mine.”

“Yessir, that’s true, but I don’t know what answer to tell you, so—”

“I popped a boy named Roosevelt D. McKinley, and he didn’t even know where his mama stole them names from, which is one sorry-ass state of affairs.”

Jeff shrugged. Moore mimicked him. He went slack. He bugged his eyes. He pulled a beavertail sap.

The TV sparked. A picture blipped. There’s Lee H. Oswald.

Moore spat on the screen. “There’s the boy you should name your pickaninnies after. He killed my friend J. D. Tippit, who was one dick-swingin’ white man, and it offends me to be in the same room as you on the day he died.”

Jeff shrugged. Jeff looked at Wayne. Moore twirled his sap. The TV popped off. Bum tubes crackled.

Jeff twitched. His knees shook. Wayne touched his shoulder. Moore mimicked him. Moore swished.

“You boys are
suuuch
the pair. You’ll be holdin’ hands any damn second.”

That tore—

Wayne shoved Moore. Moore tripped. Moore knocked a lamp down. Jeff shook nelly-style. Wayne shoved him in the kitchen.

They fit tight. The sink cramped them. Wayne toed the door shut.

“Wendell Durfee’s running. He always runs to Dallas, so why don’t you tell me what you know about that.”

“Sir, I don’t—”

“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ just tell me what you know.”

“Sir, I mean mister, I don’t know where Wendell’s at. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”

“You’re shucking me. Stop it, or I’ll hand you up to that cracker.”

“Mister, I ain’t woofin’ you. I don’t know where Wendell’s at.”

The walls shook. Shit cracked one room over. Wayne made the sounds: