American Tabloid - James Ellroy [222]
“What diversion?”
Carlos perched an ashtray on his stomach. “Banister told some nut named Milteer about the Miami job, without naming no personnel. Guy knows Milteer’s a loudmouth who’s got a Miami PD snitch bird-dogging him. He’s hoping Milteer will blab to the snitch, who’ll blab to his handler, and somehow the Miami motorcade will get canceled and divert everybody’s attention away from Dallas.”
Littell smiled. “It’s far-fetched. It’s something out of ‘Terry and the Pirates.’ ”
Carlos smiled. “So’s your story about the Teamster books. So’s the whole idea of you thinking I didn’t know what really happened from the gate.”
A man stepped out of the bathroom. He was holding a cocked revolver.
Littell shut his eyes.
Carlos said, “Everybody but Jimmy knows. We had detectives tailing you from the fucking instant you walked me over the border. They know all about your code books and the research you did at the Library of Congress. I know you got plans for the books, and sonny boy, now you got partners.”
Littell opened his eyes. The man wrapped a pillow around his gun.
Carlos poured two drinks. “You’re going to set us up with Howard Hughes. We’re going to sell him Las Vegas and keester him for most of his profits. You’re going to help us turn the Fund books into more legitimate money than Jules Schiffrin ever dreamed of.”
He felt weightless. He tried to dredge up a Hail Mary and couldn’t remember the words.
Carlos raised his glass. “To Las Vegas and new understandings.”
Littell forced the drink down. The exquisite burn made him sob.
95
(Meridian, 11/4/63)
Heroin bricks weighed down the trunk and made the rear wheels drift. A simple traffic shake would net him thirty years in Parchman Prison.
He withdrew his bank-vault stash. Some powder leaked on the floor—enough to sedate rural Mississippi for weeks.
Santo wanted his dope back. Santo reneged on their deal. Santo let certain implications linger.
Santo might have you killed. Santo might let you live. Santo might tease you with some stay of execution.
Kemper pulled up to a stoplight. A colored man waved to him.
Kemper waved back. The man was a Pentecostal deacon—and very skeptical of John F. Kennedy.
The man always said, “I don’t trust that boy.”
The light changed. Kemper punched the gas.
Be patient, Mr. Deacon. That boy’s got eighteen days left to live.
His team was out. Banister’s was in. Juan Canestel and Chuck Rogers crossed over to Guy’s crew.
The hit was rescheduled for Dallas on November 22. Juan and a Corsican pro would shoot from separate locations. Chuck and two Dallas cops were set to kill the fall guy.
It was Littell’s basic plan embellished. It illustrated the ubiquitous Let’s Kill Jack metaphysic.
Littell disbanded the team. Lockhart returned to his Klan gig. Pete flew straight to Texas to be with his woman. The Swingin’ Twist Revue was scheduled to play Dallas on Hit Day.
Littell cut him loose. Some homing instinct drew him back to Meridian.
Quite a few locals remembered him. Some colored folks greeted him warmly. Some crackers gave him ugly looks and taunted him.
He took a motel room. He half-expected Mob killers to knock on his door. He ate three restaurant meals a day and drove around the countryside.
Dusk hit. Kemper crossed the Puckett town line. He saw a ridiculous sign framed by floodlights: Martin Luther King at a Communist training school.
The photo insert looked doctored. Someone drew devil’s horns on the Reverend.
Kemper swung east. He hit the switchback leading out to Dougie Lockhart’s old gun range.
Dirt roads took him right up to the edge. Shell casings snapped under his tires.
He killed his lights and got out. It was blessedly quiet—no gunshots and no rebel yells.
Kemper drew his piece. The sky was pitch dark—he couldn’t see the target silhouettes.
Shells crunched and skittered. Kemper heard footsteps.
“Who’s that? Who’s that trespassin’ on my property?”
Kemper tapped his headlights. The beams caught Dougie Lockhart head-on.
“It’s Kemper Boyd, son.”
Lockhart stepped out