American Tabloid - James Ellroy [170]
Claire believed his squeaky-clean version of the shootout. Claire zoomed down to Saint Augustine’s the second the doctor called her.
Claire said Laura had a new boyfriend. Claire said he was nice. Claire said she met Laura’s “nice friend,” Lenny Sands.
Lenny violated his order and resumed contact with Laura. Lenny always played things indirectly—that Hush-Hush Bay of Pigs piece was filled with double-edged innuendo.
He didn’t care. Lenny was extortable and long gone from his life.
Lenny dug up dirt for Howard Hughes. Lenny tattled certain secrets and quashed others. Lenny possessed circumstantial evidence on how badly Kemper Boyd fucked up in April ’61.
Kemper sniffed another speedball.
His heart revved. His collarbone went numb. He remembered how last May compensated for last April.
Bobby ordered him to follow some Freedom Riders. He said, “Just observe, and call for help if Klansmen or whoever get rowdy. Remember, you’re still convalescing.”
He observed. He got up closer than reporters and camera crews.
He saw civil rights workers board buses. He tailed them. Hymns roared out of wide-open windows.
Shitkickers tailed the buses. Car radios blared “Dixie.” He badged a few rock throwers off, with his gun arm still in a sling.
He stopped in Anniston. Some rednecks slashed his tires. A white mob stormed the depot and pelted a Freedom Bus out of town.
He rented an old Chevy and played catch-up. He zoomed out Highway 78 and caught a mob scene.
The bus had been torched. Cops, Freedom Riders and crackers were tangled up off the roadside.
He saw a colored girl batting flames off her pigtails. He saw the torch artist peel rubber. He ran him off the road and pistol-whipped him half-dead.
I take a few tastes now and then. It’s just to help me keep things straight.
“… And the best thing about what I’m proposing is that you won’t have to testify in open court. Federal judges will read your depositions and my accompanying affidavits and go from there. If any of you are called to testify, it will be in closed session, with no reporters, opposing counsel or local police officials present.”
The pretty little church was SRO. The preacher rounded up sixty-odd people.
Kemper said, “Questions?”
A man yelled, “Where you from?” A woman yelled, “What about protection?”
Kemper leaned over the pulpit. “I’m from Nashville, Tennessee. You might recall that we had some boycotts and sit-ins there in 1960, and you might recall that we’ve made great strides toward integration, with minimum bloodshed. I realize that Mississippi is a whole lot less civilized than my home state, and as far as protection goes, I can only say that when you go to register to vote, you’ll have numbers on your side. The more people who offer depositions, the better. The more people who register and vote, the better. I’m not saying that certain elements will take kindly to your voting, but the more of you who vote the better your chance of electing local officials who’ll keep those elements in line.”
A man said, “We got a nice cemetery outside. It’s just that none of us want to move in real soon.”
A woman said, “You can’t expect the law around here to jump on our side all of a sudden.”
Kemper smiled. Two tastes and a two-martini lunch made the church glow.
“As cemeteries go, that one you’ve got is just about the prettiest I’ve ever seen, but none of us want to visit it until some time around the year 2000, and as far as protection goes, I can only say that President Kennedy did a pretty good job of protecting those Freedom Riders last year, and if those aforementioned white-trash, peckerwood, redneck-cracker elements turn out in force to suppress your God-given civil rights, then the Federal government will meet that challenge with greater force, because your will to freedom will not be defeated, because it is good and just and true, and you have the strength of kindness, decency and unflinching rectitude on your side.”
The congregation rose and applauded.