American Tabloid - James Ellroy [45]
Fulo pulled down the living-room drapes and wrapped them around the bodies. The exit wounds had congealed—no blood seeped through.
Chuck Rogers showed up. Fulo said he was competent and trustworthy. They dumped the stiffs into the trunk of his car.
Pete said, “Who are you?”
Chuck said, “I’m a petroleum geologist. I’m also a licensed pilot and a professional anti-Communist.”
“So who foots the bill?”
Chuck said, “The United States of America.”
Chuck felt like cruising. Pete co-signed the notion—Miami grabbed his gonads like L.A. used to.
They cruised. Fulo tossed the bodies off a deserted stretch of the Bal Harbor Causeway. Pete chain-smoked and dug the scenery.
He liked the big white houses and the big white sky—Miami as one big shiny bleach job. He liked the breathing room between swank districts and slums. He liked the shitkicker cops out prowling—they looked like they’d be hell on rambunctious niggers.
Chuck said, “Castro’s ideological beliefs are up in the air. He’s made statements that can be construed as very pro-U.S. and very pro-Red. My friends in the intelligence community are working on plans to cornhole him if he goes Commie.”
They drove back to Flagler. Armed men were guarding the cabstand—off-duty fuzz with that fat-and-sassy look.
Chuck waved to them. “Jimmy takes good care of the police contingent around here. He’s got this phantom union set up, and half the cops working this sector have got nice no-show jobs and nice paychecks.”
A kid slammed a leaflet on their windshield. Fulo translated odd slogans—Commie-type platitudes all.
Rocks hit the car. Pete said, “This is too crazy. Let’s go stash Fulo someplace.”
Rogers leased a room in an all-spic boardinghouse. Radio gear and hate leaflets covered every spare inch of floor space.
Fulo and Chuck relaxed with beers. Pete skimmed pamphlet titles and got a good laugh mojo going.
“Kikes Kontrol Kremlin!” “Fluoridation: Vatican Plot?” “Red Storm-clouds Brewing—One Patriot’s Response.” “Why Non-Caucasians Overbreed: A Scientist Explains.” “Pro-American Checklist: Do You Score RED or Red, White and Blue?”
Fulo said, “Chuck, it is rather crowded in here.”
Rogers futzed with a short-wave receiver. A hate tirade kicked in: Jew bankers, blah blah.
Pete hit a few switches. The rant sputtered out cold.
Chuck smiled. “Politics is something you come around to slow. You can’t expect to understand the world situation immediately.”
“I should introduce you to Howard Hughes. He’s as crazy as you are.”
“You think anticommunism is crazy?”
“I think it’s good for business, and anything that’s good for business is okay with me.”
“I don’t think that’s a very enlightened attitude.”
“Think what you like.”
“I will. And I know you’re thinking, ‘Holy Hannah, who is this guy that’s my fellow murder-one accessory, because we sure have shared some unusual experiences in our short acquaintance.”
Pete leaned against the window. He caught a little blip of a prowl car half a block down.
“My guess is you’re a CIA contract hand. You’re supposed to get next to the Cubans at the stand while everybody waits to see how Castro jumps.”
Fulo came on indignant. “Fidel will jump toward the United States of America.”
Chuck laughed. “Immigrants make the best Americans. You should know, huh, Pete? Aren’t you some kind of frog?”
Pete popped his thumbs. Rogers flinched.
“You just make like I’m a 100% American who knows what’s good for business.”
“Whoa now. I never doubted your patriotism.”
Pete heard whispers outside the door. Looks circulated—Chuck and Fulo caught the gist quick. Pete heard shotgun announcement noise: three loud and clear breach-to-barrel pumps.
He dropped his piece behind some pamphlets. Fulo and Chuck put their hands up.
Plainclothesmen kicked the door down. They ran in with shotgun butts at high port arms.
Pete went down behind a powder-puff shot. Fulo and Chuck played it rugged and got beaten skull-cracking senseless.
A cop said, “The big guy’s faking.” A cop