The Cold Six Thousand (80 page)

Pete tailed him. Sirhan was a track nut. Odds on Santa Anita. Odds on the spring meet.

Sirhan drove funny. Sirhan waved his hands. Sirhan straddled lanes. Pete tailed him close. Fuck the laws of tail work. Sirhan was stone nuts.

They drove southeast. They hit Arcadia. They hit the track lot. Sirhan brodied. Sirhan parked erratic. Pete parked close up.

Sirhan got out. Sirhan pulled a pint of vodka. Sirhan took little pops. Pete got out. Pete tailed him. Pete dogged him cane-first.

Sirhan walked funny. Sirhan walked fast. Pete walked heart-attack slow.

Sirhan hit the turnstiles. Sirhan dropped change. Sirhan said, “Bleacher seat.” Pete bought a cheap seat. Pete huffed for breath. Pete tailed Sirhan slooooooooooow.

Sirhan pushed through people. Sirhan pushed funny. Sirhan used darty elbows. People gawked—check that clown/what a freak!

Sirhan stopped. Sirhan pulled out his scratch sheet. Sirhan cognified.

He studied the sheet. He picked his nose. He flicked snot. He licked a pencil. He circled nags. He jabbed at his ears. He dug earwax. He sniffed it. He flicked it off.

He walked. Pete cane-walked slow. Sirhan pulled a wad of dollar bills. Sirhan hit the two-dollar window.

He bet six races. He bet all longshots—two dollars per. He talked funny. He talked stilted. He talked fast.

The cage man passed him tickets. Sirhan walked. Pete tailed him slow. Sirhan walked fast. Sirhan pulled his jug every six steps.

He took a pop. He took six steps. He imbibed again. Pete counted steps. Pete tailed him. Pete yukked.

They hit the bleachers. Sirhan studied faces. Sirhan studied faces slooooow. He stared. His eyes darted. His eyes flared and flashed.

Pete
got
it:

He’s looking for demons. He’s scouting for Jews.

Sirhan stood still. Sirhan stared. Sirhan saw big beaks. Sirhan smelled Jew.

Sirhan walked. Sirhan grabbed a seat. Sirhan perched by some groovy girls. The girls checked him out. The girls went ugh. The girls went P-U.

Pete took a seat. Pete sat one bleacher up. Pete checked the view: the paddock/the track/the nags at the gate.

The bell rang. The nags tore ass. Sirhan went nuts.

He yelled. He shrieked go go go. His shirttail hiked up. Pete saw a bullet pouch. Pete saw a .38 snub.

Sirhan slurped vodka. Sirhan yelled in Arabic. Sirhan beat his chest to a pulp. The girls moved. The nags crossed the finish line. Sirhan tore a bet-stub up.

Sirhan sulked. Sirhan paced. Sirhan kicked paper cups. He studied his scratch sheet. He picked his nose. He flicked hunks of snot.

Some guys sat down—jarheads in dress blues. Sirhan slid close. Sirhan talked shit. Sirhan offered his jug.

The jarheads imbibed. Pete listened. Pete heard:

“The Jews steal our pussy.”

“Robert Kennedy pays them.”

“That is no shit I tell you.”

The jarheads yukked. The jarheads goofed on the spastic. Sirhan got pissed and reached for his jug. The jarheads tossed it over his head. The jarheads goofed double-hard.

They stood up. They stretched tall. They tossed the jug high. Sirhan was short. They were tall. They made Sirhan leap.

Keep away—
Semper Fi
—three-handed.

They tossed the jug. Sirhan leaped. Sirhan lunged and jumped. Keep away/hot potato/three hands.

The jug traveled. The jug flew shell-game fast. The jug fell and broke. The jarheads laughed. Sirhan laughed—à la Daffy Duck.

An onlooker laughed. He was fat and frizzy-haired. Dig his beanie and mezuzah.

Sirhan called him a “pussylicker.”

Sirhan called him a “vampire Jew.”

Pete watched the races. Pete watched The Sirhan Sirhan Show.

Sirhan noshed candy bars. Sirhan picked his teeth. Sirhan lost bets. Sirhan sulked. Sirhan picked his toes. Sirhan hassled blond girls. Sirhan dug earwax. Sirhan talked shit.

Jews. RFK. The pus puppets of Zion. The Arab revolt.

Sirhan trawled for Jews. Sirhan scratched his balls. Sirhan aired his feet. Sirhan walked to the paddock. Pete tailed him close. Sirhan hassled jockeys.

I was jockey once. I was hot walker. I hate Zionist pigs. The jockeys razzed him—fuck you, Fritz—you’re a
camel
jockey.

Sirhan walked to the bar. Pete tailed him. Sirhan drank vodka shooters with candy-bar chasers. Sirhan chomped ice cubes.

Sirhan trawled for Jews. Sirhan fixed on big schnozzolas. Sirhan jumped stools. Sirhan walked to the john. Pete tailed him. Sirhan trawled urinals.

Sirhan bagged a toilet stall. Pete loitered close. Sirhan shit long and loud. Sirhan walked out. Pete walked in. Pete saw toilet scrawls:

Pigs of Zion!

Blood Licker Jews!

RFK Must Die!

Pete called Fred O. Pete said, “He looks good.” Pete drove downtown. Pete hit the Hall of Justice. Pete hit the state horse race board.

He flashed a Rice Krispies badge. He conned a clerk. He cadged an employee file check.

The clerk showed him a file bank. He saw six drawers alphabetic. The clerk yawned. The clerk split. The clerk took a java break.

He pulled the S drawer. He finger-walked. He found “Sirhan, Sirhan B.” He skimmed two pages. He got:

Sirhan
was
a hot walker. Sirhan fell off horses. Sirhan bonked his head repeatedly. Sirhan drank too much. Sirhan gambled too much. Sirhan defamed Jews.

He found a memo. The board sent Sirhan to a shrink. A pork dodger/Dr. G. N. Blumenfeld/out in West L.A.

Pete laughed. Pete walked. Pete found a pay phone. He called Fred O. He said, “He looks great.”

He tired fast. He tired hard. It killed him. The
day
fucking killed him. Cane tails at age forty-seven.

He hit his motel. He took his pills. He snarfed his blood-thinning drops. He chewed Nicorette gum. He ate his rabbit-food dinner.

He was shot. He was dead whipped. He tried to sleep. His circuits disconnected. Recent shit recohered.

Barb/the boat/the Big Lie. Wayne/the King hit/Bobby.

Barb made sense. Nothing else. Barb dug on Bobby. Barb would mourn Bobby. Barb might link him to the hit. She might do a “Not Again” number. She might freak and split. She might leave him for Bobby
and
Jack.

It scared him. Nothing else did. No outrage or fugue for
la Causa
. No fear outside that.

My shit’s too exhausting. I’m dispersed and dead whipped. I’m shot.

He checked the Yellow Pages. He got the shrink’s address. He slept.

He got six hours. He revived. He went out sans cane. G. N. Blumenfeld/office on Pico/out in West L.A.

2:30 a.m.—sleepytime L.A.

He drove out. He parked curbside. He checked the building: Stucco/one-story/six doors in a row.

He grabbed his penlight. He grabbed a pocket knife. He grabbed his Diners Club card. He got out. He tilt-walked. Where’s my fucking cane?

He made the door. He flashed the lock. He tapped the keyhole. Go—the knife blade/the card/one sharp twist.

He got leverage. He applied force. The door popped.

He tilt-walked inside. He caught his breath. He pulled the door shut. He flashed the waiting room. He saw clown prints. He saw one desk and one couch.

He flashed a side door. He saw a caduceus. He saw
G. N. BLUMENFELD
. He walked over. He braced off the walls. His breath snagged and huffed.

He tried the door. It was unlocked. There’s the shrink chair. There’s the file bank. There’s the shrink couch.

His breath jerked. He got dizzy. He stretched out on the couch. He laughed—I’m Sirhan Sirhan—RFK watch out!

He got his breath. He stowed the yuks. His pulse leveled out. He flashed the file bank: A to L/M to S/T to Z.

He got up. He pulled drawer handles. The file drawers slid out. M to S—be there, you fuck.

He pulled drawer 2. He finger-walked. He found him: one folder/two pages/three-visit summary.

He flashed the pages. Quotes leaped:

“Memory loss.” “Fugue states.” “Disoriented condition.”

“
Overdependence on supportive male figures.
”

Boffo quotes. Fred O. would swoon. Hello, you camel jockey!

(Lake Tahoe, 6/2/68)

T
he hole-up:

Wayne Senior’s cabin / four rooms / secluded. Up mountain roads. Wide views and trout streams.

Home for now. Home since Memphis.

He had a scrambler phone. He had a food stash. He had a TV. He had shit to sort out. He had time to think.

Let’s wait. The Feds will get Jimmy Ray. LAPD will give up on Durfee.

Bob Relyea had his hole-up. Bob had some shack near Phoenix. Wayne got better lodging. Wayne made phone calls. Wayne watched TV.

The Feds traced Ray to England. The search tapped out there. They’ll get him. They’ll kill him or bust him. He’ll give up “Raul.” They’ll say you’re crazy. They’ll say there is no “Raul.”

The TV spieled news. Wayne Senior called daily. Wayne Senior spieled gossip.

I work with Carlos now. Carlos said he got some tapes. Mr. Hoover sent them. The tapes scared him. Bobby K.’s out to fuck us. Let’s clip him fast.

Wayne Senior tattled.
See what I know
? Wayne Senior bragged.

Fred O.’s gigging it. He runs the new shooter. Pete B. runs backup. Wayne Senior gloated.
I’m an insider
. Wayne Senior bragged.

Pete killed some kadre men. Pete klipped loose ends at sea. Carlos told me that. Wayne Senior tattled.
Your daddy hears things
. Wayne Senior bragged.

The kadre biz was a shuck. The Boys fucked the Cause. Carlos told me that. Wayne hashed it out. Wayne came to this: I just don’t care.

He watched TV. He caught the war. He caught politics. Wayne Senior puffed. Bobby’s a dead man. I’ll set Nixon up with the Boys.

Wayne hashed it out. It felt felicitous. Wayne grooved the details. Wayne foresaw the balance.

King’s dead. Bobby soon. Shit will peak and resettle. The Poor People’s March tanked. The riots upstaged it. Fools popped their rocks and resettled. Chaos is taxing. Fools tire quick. King’s death let them roar and resettle. Bobby will go. Dick Nixon will reign. The country will roar and resettle.