The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [109]
Pete hogged a bus bench. Pete watched the pad. Pete carried a treat bag. 1:16 a.m.—fruit alert.
Koethe had a date. Koethe poked his dates for two hours. Pete knew Koethe. Pete knew Koethe’s routine.
Wayne read the Dallas papers. Wayne passed a clip on. It pertained to Koethe’s “book.” It pertained to Koethe’s pal Maynard Moore. Pete flew to Dallas. Pete tailed Koethe. Pete played scribe. Pete called Koethe’s editor.
The guy ragged Koethe. Koethe was a jack-off. Koethe was Mr. Pipe Dream. Sure—they went to Ruby’s crib. Sure—they talked to his roommate. But—the talk was all bullshit. The talk was all jive.
Conspiracy—shit. Read the Warren Report.
The guy was convincing—but—Jim Koethe knew Maynard Moore.
A bus pulled up—some late-night express. Pete waved it on.
He killed four days. He tailed Koethe. He grooved Koethe’s routine. Koethe loved the Holiday. Koethe loved Vic’s Parisian. Koethe loved Gene’s Music Room. Koethe sipped sidecars. Koethe prowled the johns. Koethe buzz-bombed young flesh.
Oak Cliff was the shits. Oak Cliff was a ghost zone. Betty Mac/Ruby’s pad/the Oswald-Tippit tiff.
Koethe’s date walked out. Koethe’s date walked bowlegged. He swished by the bench. He checked Pete out. He went uugh and swished away.
Pete put his gloves on. Pete grabbed his treat bag. Koethe lived in 306—one light extant.
Pete took the side stairs. Pete walked up slow. Pete checked the walkways. No outdoor noise/no indoor noise/no visible wits.
He walked over. He braced the door. He tapped the knob. He popped the lock-catch. He opened the door. He walked in. He saw a dark room. He caught sounds and shadows.
Shower noise—down a side hall—off a doorway. Steam and light at that spot.
Pete stood still. Pete strained his eyes. Pete got indoor sight. He saw a living room–office. He saw file drawers. He saw a kitchenette.
Down the hall: A bathroom and bedroom.
Pete dropped his treat bag. Pete crouched. Pete walked down the hall. The shower stopped. Steam whooshed out. Jim Koethe walked through it.
He wore a towel. He turned right. He walked into Pete.
They bumped. Koethe went EEK! Koethe went butch. Koethe snapped to some martial-arts pose.
His towel fell. His equipment dangled. He wore a dick extender. He wore cock rings.
Pete laughed. Pete came in low.
Koethe kicked. Koethe missed. Koethe stumbled and tripped. Pete kicked him. Pete nailed his nards good.
Koethe jackknifed. Koethe re-posed. Koethe tried some karate shit. He flailed. He threw fists. He positioned.
Pete judo-chopped him. Pete nail-raked his face.
Koethe screamed. Pete grabbed his neck. Pete held it and snapped it. Pete felt his hyoid bone shear.
Koethe gurgled. Koethe spasmed. Koethe choked on bile. Pete picked him up. Pete re-snapped his neck. Pete threw him in the shower.
He stood there. He caught his breath. He got a Godzilla-rate headache. He popped the medicine chest. He found some Bayer’s. He popped half a tin.
He prowled the pad. He dumped his treat bag. He dropped treats on rugs and chairs: Dildoes/reefers/bun-boy boox/Judy Garland LPs.
His headache dimmed—Godzilla to King Kong. He found some gin. He dosed it more—King Kong to Rodan.
He searched the pad. He tossed the pad. He faked a B&E. He trashed the bedroom. He trashed the kitchen. He searched the file sleeves. He found clips. He found notes. He found a folder marked “Book.”
Sixteen pages/typed text. Conspiracy—shit.
Pete skimmed the file. The story wandered. The gist cohered.
Wendell Durfee was a “dumb pimp.” He was “too dumb to kill Maynard Moore.” Moore had a temp job. Moore had a partner: Wayne Tedrow Junior/LVPD.
Koethe knew Sergeant A. V. Brown. Sergeant Brown said:
“There was bad blood between Moore & Junior. They got in a ruckus at the Adolphus Hotel. Moore allegedly failed to show up for a meeting with Junior. I think Junior killed him, but I’ve got no proof.”
Koethe knew a Fed man. Koethe quoted said Fed:
“Tedrow Senior ran snitch-Klan informants. Maynard Moore reported to him, so I think it’s a hell of a coincidence that Moore and Tedrow Junior