The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [105]
Blithe Janice. Golf—shit.
Wayne unlocked the Ford. Wayne rolled down the windows. Wayne scrunched low and tucked himself in.
Cars came. Cars went. He chewed gum. He popped sweat. He stared at the Vette.
Time chugged. Time rescinded. Some instinct said stick.
The sun arced. The sun hit the Ford. Wayne broiled. His gum starched and dried out.
There’s Janice.
She leaves the O Club. She gets in her Vette. She kicks the key and idles it.
There’s Clark Kinman.
He leaves the O Club. He gets in a Dodge. He kicks the key and idles it.
Janice pulls out. Kinman pulls out behind.
Wayne pulled out. Wayne hung back. Cut the leash/cut them some slack.
Wayne hung back. Wayne read his watch dial. Wayne ticked one full minute off.
Now—
He hauled. He closed in. He caught up. Three-car caravan—east-bound—Lake Mead Boulevard.
Janice drove point. Kinman tapped his horn. Kinman goosed her pipes. They played. They flirted out their windows. They goofed.
Wayne hung back. Wayne held two car-lengths down. Wayne sidled one lane over.
They drove east. They logged eight miles. They hit a desert patch. Motel strips and beer bars. Sand and last-chance fill-ups.
Janice signaled. Janice turned right. Kinman signaled. Kinman turned right.
There—The Golden Gorge Motel.
Gold stucco. One-story/one-room row. Twelve connected rooms.
Wayne pulled right. Wayne braked. Wayne stopped. Wayne checked his rearview.
Janice parked in the motel lot. Kinman parked in close.
They got out. They embraced and kissed. They entered room #4. They bypassed the office. They had their own key.
Wayne got butterflies. Wayne locked the car and walked over.
He stood near room #4. He loitered and listened. Janice laughed. Kinman said, “Get that rascal hard.”
Wayne scoped the lot. Wayne saw scrub balls and junk cars. Wayne saw Mexican brats.
Thin room walls. Voices en español. Bracero cribs. Crop-picker tenants.
Kinman laughed. Janice went “Oooh.”
Wayne loitered. Wayne listened. Wayne lurked. Shades went up. Blinds furled. Brown faces bipped out.
He saw something:
Room #5 had no windows. The door had two locks.
He held it back. He bypassed Wayne Senior. He ran paper. He checked Clark County deeds. He traced the motel.
Shitfire—Wayne Senior owns it.
It’s 6/3/56. Wayne Senior bids and forecloses. The motel’s a bargain. The motel’s a tax dodge.
Wayne stewed. Pete called the ranch and left messages. Wayne ignored them. Wayne surveilled the motel.
Early p.m. stakeouts. Room #4. Janice and one-star Clark Kinman. Two matinees/three hours per.
He parked down the road. He trained binoculars. He walked by. He listened. He heard Janice sigh.
The Golden Gorge ran twelve units. Beaners camped out in ten. Janice kept her key. It unlocked room #4.
Room #5 had two locks. Room #5 had no windows. Room #5 stayed empty.
The lot buzzed by day. Braceros mingled. Bracero kids yahooed and yelped. Braceros worked hard. Braceros crashed hard. Braceros crashed early.
He popped a burglar once—late in ’60. He kept his tool kit. He kept his picklocks.
Room #5 glowed. The door was green. Green like that song:
What’s that secret you’re keeping?
DOCUMENT INSERT: 9/12/64. Confidential memorandum: Howard Hughes to Ward J. Littell.
Dear Ward,
Bravo on the new casino consultants. My aides have chosen three rough and tumble, no-nonsense men from that list you submitted, and they have assured me that they are devout Mormons with germ-free blood.
Their names are Thomas D. Elwell, Lamar L. Dean and Daryl D. Kleindienst. They have extensive union experience in Las Vegas and, according to my aides, will not be afraid to negotiate and “lock horns” with those Mafia boys that Mr. Hoover tells me you have in your pocket. According to my aides, these men “know the ropes.” They did not meet with them in person, but have corresponded with your friend Mr. Tedrow in Las Vegas and have solicited his advice. Mr. Tedrow is well respected in Mormon circles, they tell me, and I confirmed that assessment with Mr. Hoover.
The new men will be traveling hither and yon to advance our Las Vegas