The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [104]
Sam bought protection—new and improved—Sheriff’s and LVPD. Co-op deals meant insurance. Insurance meant safety. Safety meant anesthesia.
He shut Betty out. It worked intermittent. He notched minutes and hours and sleep. He did make-work. He did real work. He stretched the time. He cultivated distraction.
He’d get frazzled. He’d get fucked up. Betty jumped him then. It scared him. It relieved him. It said THIS IS REAL.
Betty stuck with him. Dallas faded away.
The Warren thing hits. Lee O. takes the rap. Jack Ruby goes down guilty as charged. Jack stays mute. Jack gets death. Ratfuck Bobby resigns as AG.
Barb dropped the p.m. news. Wayne dropped his Dallas questions. Carlos dropped all the hit talk. Betty took a slug. Arden-Jane dodged one for now.
Jimmy took another slug—pension-fund fraud—two five-year terms concurrent. Jimmy’s fucked. Jimmy knows it. Jimmy seeks solace.
His good lawyers helped. His good Teamsters helped. Likewise Ward’s fund-book plan.
Tiger was solace plus. Tiger subsumed Betty—intermittent.
Tiger roared. Tiger roamed. Tiger roved West LV. That trailer was still there. That whore decomped within.
Wayne wanted work. Wayne pressed Pete. Pete always said no. Tiger Kab hired spooks. Tiger Kab drove spooks. Wayne was spook-afflicted.
Wayne worked for Wayne père. Père tied his apron strings. Père had big pull. Père foresaw that Gulf of Tonkin thing.
Wayne was wowed—dig my dad—he’s a chingón.
Wayne Senior pressed Wayne—let’s start a snitch-Klan—the Neutered Knights of Natchez or some such fucking shit.
Wayne played along. Pete said: Don’t do it—Klans just ain’t you.
Wayne Senior bragged to excess. Ward Littell listened. Ward knew Wayne. Ward had pull with him. Ward could cut those strings.
Wayne Senior greased the hit fund. Wayne Senior told Ward. Wayne Senior sent Wayne to Dallas.
Wayne was naive. Wayne didn’t know.
Stay naive—you’ll live longer. Tiger rules. Ditch the hate and I’ll find you a spot. It’s elite. It’s effete. It helps you shut dead women out.
51
(Las Vegas, 9/10/64)
Canned food and booze. Sauerkraut and Cointreau—all Air Force stock.
Wayne tossed crates. A swamper stacked them. They worked. They broiled. They hogged the DI dock.
Creamed corn and Smirnoff. Stuffed olives and Pernod. Cheez-Its and Old Crow.
Wayne worked fast. The swamper worked slow. The swamper yak-yakked.
“You know we lost some guys, including our steward. I heard your dad got them work with Howard Hughes. Some lawyer set it up.”
Wayne tossed the last crate. The swamper caught it. The swamper peeled his roll and paid up.
He shuffled. He scratched. He played coy. He dragged out the transaction.
Wayne said, “What is it?”
“Well, it’s sort of personal.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well … you think that Durfee guy’s stupid enough to come back here?”
“I don’t think he’s stupid at all.”
Wayne drove to Nellis.
He’d scheduled two loops. A late shot for Twinkies and Jim Beam—all Flamingo stock.
Wayne yawned. Traffic was slow. The job was soporific. The job was a soggy cream puff.
He figured it out. It took him weeks. Wayne Senior wants you bored. Wayne Senior has plans.
Said plans implied:
Go to Alabama. Stress your reputation. Drop how you avenged Lynette. Start a snitch-Klan. Recruit snitches. Work for the Feds.
He told Pete about it. Pete said, “It’s cowardly shit.”
He hit Owens. He hit the Nellis gates. He drove straight in. Nellis was beige—beige buildings/beige barracks/beige lawns.
Big barracks. Named for Strip hotels. No goof or satire implied.
His QM contact lived off base. His QM parked on. Wayne had dupe car keys. Wayne left his coin in the car.
He passed the “Sands.” He passed the “Dunes.” He passed the Officers’ Club. He parked. He got out. He saw the QM’s Ford.
Two rows up: A ’62 Vette.
Red with white side coves. Whitewalls and chrome pipes. Janice’s cherried-out car.
Janice left the ranch. Janice left at noon. Janice said she was off to play golf. Boulder/thirty-six holes/Twin Palms Country