The Cold Six Thousand (51 page)

Littell shoots Chuck. Littell’s drunk. Littell vows sobriety. Pete consoles him: I’ll dump Chuck and brace WILD RABBIT. Wild Bob’s Fed now. He’s Wayne Senior’s boy.

Flash ran the polys. Laurent ran the quiz: Do you drink water? Is your shirt blue? Do you hate Fidel Castro?

Needle dip—short—no lies.

Port Sulphur—stone’s throw to Bogalusa.

They drove Chuck around. They found a swamp. They dumped Chuck in. Gators ate him. Wayne and Pete watched.

Wayne toured the hospital. Wayne saw the bomb damage. Wayne saw a boy minus toes.

Pictures. Add-on shots. Let’s augment your Bongo pix. Let’s augment Wendell D. Pictures: The icebox/Chuck’s parents/those big gator teeth.

Flash ran the polys. Laurent ran the quiz: Are you a spy? Do you serve the Cuban militia?

Needle dip—short—no lies.

Wayne drifted. Wayne yawned. The stateside runs bored him. He missed Saigon. He missed the lab. He missed the war and the threat.

Are you anti
-Communisto
? Are you pro
-Tigre
? Will you serve
El Gato
supreme?

Needle dip—short—no lies.

Flash smiled. Laurent smiled. Mesplède up and cheered.

They unstrapped the prospects. They hugged them. Fuentes hugged Wayne. Fuentes oozed Brylcreem. Arredondo hugged Wayne. Arredondo oozed VO5.

Looks traveled. Hey—it’s lunchtime—let’s cook by electric chair.

They scrounged. They ad-libbed. Flash scrounged hot dogs. Laurent scrounged corned beef.

They packed them in. They stuffed the hoods. They pulled the switches. Sparks popped. The meat fried. The hoods dripped fat.

The meat cooked uneven. The concept rocked. The reality stunk.

Mesplède supplied mustard. Flash supplied buns.

(Las Vegas, 7/16/65)

C
andles—a full forty-five.

Pete blew them out. One puff did it. Barb cut the cake.

“Make a wish, and don’t mention Cuba.”

Pete laughed. “I already did.”

“So tell.”

“No. You jinx it that way.”

Barb cranked the AC. Barb chilled down the suite.

“Did it involve Cuba?”

“I’m not saying.”

“Vietnam?”

Pete licked icing. “Vietnam’s no Cuba.”

Barb scratched the cat. “Tell me why. It’s your birthday, so I’ll indulge you.”

Pete sipped coffee. “It’s too big, too fucked up, and too mechanized. You’ve got choppers with belly lights that can flash a one-mile-square patch of jungle. You’ve got carpet bombing and napalm. You’ve got gooks with no fucking charm and a bunch of shifty little cocksuckers in black pajamas who’ve lived guerrilla warfare for fifty fucking years.”

Barb lit a cigarette. “Cuba’s got more pizzazz. It fits your imperialist aesthetic.”

Pete laughed. “You’ve been talking to Ward.”

“You mean I stole his vocabulary.”

Pete cracked his knuckles. The cat humped his knees.

“Flash smuggled two guys in. They were heisting casinos and killing croupiers. In Havana, that takes balls.”

“Killing unarmed men?”

Pete laughed. “Militia guys work the casinos.”

Barb laughed. “Distinction noted.”

Pete kissed her. “Nobody disapproves like you. It’s one of the ten thousand reasons why we work.”

Barb pried the cat off. Barb squeezed his knees.

“Ward said you’ve let me grow up.”

Pete smiled. “Ward gets to you. You think you know him, then he pulls out one more stop.”

“For instance?”

“He cares about people who can’t do him any good, but he’s not a sucker about it.”

“For example?”

“He got wind of some Klan shit. He pulled a stunt that nobody else would have pulled.”

Barb smiled. “Including you?”

Pete nodded. “I helped him out on the back end. I braced a kadre guy and laid down some rules.”

Barb stretched. The cat clawed her skirt.

“I had lunch with Ward. He was worried. He saw Jane going through his papers.”

Pete stood up. Pete spilled his coffee.

Fuck—

“The ARVN boss man’s getting ready to bomb Hanoi. He’s talking to his financial advisor, One Lump Sum, and his Secretary of Fruitness, Come San Chin. They’re in this chink restaurant in Saigon. Come San Chin’s snarfing a big bowl of cream-of-some-young-guy.”

Pete yukked. Pete watched the building.

He flew to L.A. He brought Milt C. for chuckles. He shagged a rental car.

He
felt
it: Jane’s bent. She’s a plant. Carlos placed her with Ward.

He called Fred Otash. He quizzed him—what have
you
got? Otash spieled a tip per Danny Bruvick—Arden-Jane’s ex.

Danny’s a boat man. Danny’s got a pseudonym. Danny runs a charter biz—“somewhere in Alabama.”

Carlos lived in New Orleans. Alabama was close.

Pete watched the building. Milt picked his nose. Ward was in Chicago. Sam G. called him in. Arden-Jane was upstairs.

“The Rat Pack tours Vietnam. Frank’s glomming all the slant-eyed trim. Dino’s bombed out of his gourd. He’s so blotto that he blunders behind
the Viet Cong lines. This little slant comes up to him. Dino says, ‘Take me to your leader.’ The slant says, ‘Ky, Mao, or Ho Chi Minh?’ Dino says, ‘We’ll dance later. Right now, take me to your leader.’ ”

Pete yukked. Pete watched the building.

Milt bummed a cigarette. “Freddy T. sent me a tape. Three legislators and six hookers jungled up at the Dunes.”

Pete stretched. Pete watched the building.

Milt blew smoke rings. “I’m doing some more TV ads with Sonny. ‘Tiger Kab, the Vegas champ. Call now or I’ll kick your patootie.’ ”

Pete yukked. Pete watched the building. Milt ditched his shoes. Milt aired out his feet.

“We’ve got some deadbeats. I do not see the wisdom of consigning white horse on credit.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Milt yukked. “Let’s use Sonny. Dig, he loves fur coats, he’s always buying them for his bitches, and Donkey Dom just clipped a fur shop in Reno. Dig, Sonny can do our collections, and we can pay him off in fur.”

Pete yukked—Milt, you slay me. Pete saw Jane walk out.

The doorman smiled. The doorman shagged her car. She got in. She pulled out. She drove west.

Pete kicked the engine. Pete pulled out. Pete tailed her. They took Wilshire west. They took Bundy south. They took Pico west toward the beach.

Pete laid back. Jane jumped lanes. Jane pulled right. Jane signaled. Jane turned.

There: the B. of A.—West L.A. branch.

She pulled up. She locked the car. She walked in.

Milt scoped her. “Nice pins. I could dig her love in a semi-large way.”

Pete lit a cigarette. Milt bummed one.

“So, who is she? You call me at 5:00 a.m. You say, ‘Let’s go to L.A.,’ you don’t explain yourself. I’m starting to think you just brought me along for the laughs.”

Jane walked out. Jane lugged a coin sack. Jane walked to the parking-lot phone.

She dialed “0.” She fed the slots. She talked. She listened. She cupped the receiver. The call dragged on. She jiggled coins. She refed the slots.

Pete watched her. Pete timed her: five minutes/six/eight.

Milt yawned. “I’m digging on the intrigue. It’s not like she hasn’t got a phone at her crib.”

Ten minutes/twelve/fourteen.

She hung up. She walked to her car. She got in and pulled out.

Pete tailed her. They took Pico east. They drove six miles plus. They took La Brea north.

They crossed Wilshire. They crossed 3rd. They took Beverly east. They took Rossmore north.

There—she pulls left. She signals. She turns. She’s upside the Algiers—a white-brick/mock-mosque motel.

She parked. She got out. She palmed a folder. The joint had big windows. Dig the see-thru surveillance.

She walked inside. She stopped a clerk. She passed him the folder.

Milt said, “I smell tsuris. Carlos has points in that joint.”

Pete said, “I know.”

He weighed it. He diced it. He fucking julienned it. Carlos had points. Carlos had
control
points. Carlos hired the crew.

They flew home. Milt buzzed off. Pete hit Tiger Kab. He rehearsed his shtick. He built some lies. He called PC Bell.

A clerk picked up. “Police Information. Who’s requesting?”

Pete coughed. “Sergeant Peters, LAPD. I need the connect on a pay-phone call.”

“Time, location, and origin number, please.”

Pete grabbed a pen. “1:16 p.m. today. No origin number, but it’s the pay phone outside the Bank of America at 14229 West Pico, Los Angeles.”

The clerk coughed. “Please hold for that information.”

Pete held. Pete watched the lot. Donkey Dom shot dice. Donkey Dom ogled boys. Donkey Dom adjusted his basket.

The line buzzed. The clerk coughed.

“That call was long-distance. The connect was a charter-boat slip in Bon Secour, Alabama.”

(Chicago, 7/19/65)

S
am kvetched.

Per the jail food. Per the jail lice. Per his jail hemorrhoids.

Sam talked loud. The attorney room buzzed. The lice had feet. The lice had wings. The lice had fangs like Godzilla.

Littell stretched. His chair squeaked. The seat itched—lice like Godzilla.

Sam said, “I found a bug in my corn flakes this morning. He had a wingspan like a P-38. I attribute all this shit to the cocksucker who impaneled this cocksucking grand jury, that well-known cocksucker Robert F. Kennedy.”

Littell tapped his pen. “You’ll be out in ten months. The jury term expires.”

Sam scratched his arms. “I’ll be dead in six months. You can’t go up against lice that big and survive.”

Littell laughed. Sam scratched his legs.

“It’s all Bobby’s fault. If the cocksucker ever runs for President, he will rue the fucking day, and that is no shit, Dick Tracy.”

Littell shook his head. “He’ll never try to hurt you again. He has a different agenda now.”

Sam scratched his neck. “Right. He’s in bed with the nigger agitators, which don’t mean his hard-on for us has subsided.”

A bug cruised the table. Sam smashed it.

“One for the home team. Breed no more, you cocksucker.”

Littell cleared his throat. “We’re on schedule in Vegas. We’ve got the
board votes and the legislators. Mr. Hughes should get his money sometime next year.”

Sam scratched his feet. “Too bad Jimmy won’t be around to see it.”

“I may be able to keep him out until after we get in.”

Sam sneezed. “So he celebrates en route to Leavenworth. We keester Howard Hughes, and Jimmy packs his pj’s for the pen.”

“That’s about it, yes.”

Sam sneezed. “I don’t like that look in your eyes. It says, ‘I got some momentous shit for you, even though
you
called
me
in.’ ”

Littell cleaned his glasses. “I’ve talked to the others. They have an idea that they think you should consider.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Then
tell
me. You’ve got this tendency to coax things and lay out these big preambles.”

Littell leaned in. “They think you’re through in Chicago. They think you’re a sitting duck for the Feds and the State AG. They think you should move to Mexico and run your personal operations from there. They think you should start making Latin-American connections, to aid us in our foreign casino strategy, which will begin sometime after we sell Mr. Hughes the hotels.”

Sam scratched his neck. Sam scratched his arms. Sam scratched his balls. A bug leaped. Sam caught it. Sam smashed it.

“Okay, I’ll play. I know when over’s over, and I know the future when I see it.”

Littell smiled. Sam rocked his chair back.

“You still got that look. You should unload before I start itching again.”

Littell squared his necktie. “I want to oversee the buyouts for the pension-book plan, assist in the foreign casino negotiations, and retire. I’m going to ask Carlos formally, but I wanted to get your blessing first.”

Sam smiled. Sam stood up. Sam played street mime. He sprayed holy water. He gave Holy Communion. He ran the Stations of the Cross.

“You’ve got it.
If
you help us out on one last thing.”

“Tell me. I’ll do it.”

Sam straddled his chair. “We got hurt on the ’60 election. I bought Jack West Virginia and Illinois, and he sicced his cocksucking kid brother on us. Now, Johnson’s okay, but he’s soft on the niggers, and he might not run in ’68. The thing is, we’re prepared to be very generous to the right candidate, if he pardons Jimmy and helps us out on some other fronts, and we want
you
to work it out.”

Littell inhaled. Littell exhaled. Littell went dead faint.

“Jesus Christ.”

Sam scratched his hands. “We want Mr. Hughes to put up 25% of our contribution. We want our guy to agree to a hands-off policy on the Teamsters. We want him to slow down any Fed shit aimed at the Outfit. We want no foreign-policy grief aimed at the countries where we plant our casinos, right- or left-wing.”

Littell inhaled. Littell exhaled. Littell went faint-faint.

“When?”

“The ’68 primaries. Around that time. You know, the conventions.”

A bug jumped. Sam caught it. Sam smashed it.

“Breed no more, you fuck.”

Charts: Profit flow/overhead/debits.

Littell read charts. Littell studied charts. Littell took notes. He worked on the terrace. The view distracted him. He loved Lake Michigan.

The Drake Hotel—two-bedroom suite—on Sam Giancana.

Littell read charts. Fund-book stats jumped. Money lent/money invested/money repaid.

Business targets. Fund-financed. Potential takeover prey. Let’s extort said businesses. Let’s build foreign casinos. Let’s buy a President. Let’s shape policy. Let’s reverse 1960. Let’s spread our bets. Let’s cover all odds. Let’s subvert left-wing nations.

That was odd—the Outfit leaned right—the Outfit bribed right per said leaning.

Chicago broiled. Wind scoured the lake. Littell ditched his charts. Littell studied briefs.

Appeal briefs—let’s keep Jimmy out. Stock briefs—let’s get Drac in. It was shit work. It was repetitive. It was post-dead.

He got up. He stretched. He watched Lake Shore Drive. He saw car lights as streamers.