The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [12]
He slid. He fell. He hit gravel. He ate alley grit. He smelled cordite. He licked cigar butts and dirt.
He rolled over. He saw roof lights. He saw cherry lights twirl. Two prowl cars—behind him—DPD Fords.
He caught some sounds. He stood up. He caught his breath. He walked back. His feet scraped. He heard it.
Moore stood there. Cops stood there. The dice men lay prone. They were cuffed/shackled/fucked.
Shredded pants. Pellet burns and gouges—cuts to white bone.
They thrashed. Wayne heard partial screams.
Moore walked over. Moore said something. Moore yelled.
Wayne caught “Bowers.” His ears popped. He caught whole sounds.
Moore flashed his sandwich bag. Moore spread the flaps. Wayne saw blood and gristle. Wayne saw a man’s thumb.
5
(Dallas, 11/23/63)
Window wreaths / flags / ledge displays. 8:00 a.m.—one day later—the Glenwood Apartments loves Jack.
Two floors. Twelve front windows. Flowers and JFK toys.
Littell leaned on his car. The facade expanded. He got the sun. He got Arden Smith’s car. He got her U-Haul.
He borrowed a Bureau car. He ran Arden Smith. She came back clean. He got her vehicle stats. He nailed her Chevy.
She felt dirty. She saw the hit. She ran from the PD. That U-Haul said RUNNER.
She lived in 2-D. He’d checked the courtyard. Her windows faced in—no flags/no trinkets/no shrine.
He worked to midnight. He cleared an office space. Floor 3 was bedlam. Cops grilled Oswald. Camera crews roamed.
His bum ploy worked. Rogers walked. The bums escaped clean. He saw Guy B. He told him to brace Lee Bowers.
He read the wit statements. He read the DPD notes. They played ambiguous. Mr. Hoover would issue a mandate. Agents would secure it. Single-shooter evidence would cohere.
Lee Oswald was trouble. Guy said so. Guy called him “nuts.”
Lee didn’t shoot. The pro shooter did. Said pro shot from Lee’s floor perch. Rogers shot from the fence.
Lee knew Guy’s cutout. Cops and Feds worked him all night. He named no names. Guy said he knew why.
The kid craved attention. The kid was fucked-up. The kid craved the solo limelight.
Littell checked his watch—8:16 a.m.—sun and low clouds.
He counted flags. He counted wreaths. The Glenwood loved Jack. He knew why. He used to love Jack. He used to love Bobby.
He never met Jack. He met Bobby once.
He tried to join them. Kemper Boyd pushed his case. Bobby disdained his credentials. Boyd spread his loyalty. Boyd worked for Jack and Bobby. Boyd worked for the CIA.
Boyd got Littell a job. Ward, meet Carlos Marcello.
Carlos hated Jack and Bobby. Jack and Bobby spurned Littell. He built his own hate. He fine-tuned the aesthetic.
He hated Jack. He knew Jack. Scrutiny undermined image. Jack was glib. Jack had pizzazz. Jack had no rectitude.
Bobby defined rectitude. Bobby lived rectitude. Bobby punished bad men. He hated Bobby now. Bobby dismissed him. Bobby spurned his respect.
Mr. Hoover bugged Mob hangouts. Mr. Hoover picked up hints. He smelled the hit. He never told Jack. He never told Bobby.
Mr. Hoover knew Littell. Mr. Hoover dissected his hatred. Mr. Hoover urged him to hurt Bobby.
Littell had evidence. It indicted Joe Kennedy for long-term Mob collusion. He met Bobby—for one half hour—just five days back.
He stopped by his office. He played him a tape. The tape nailed Joe Kennedy. Bobby was smart. Bobby might link tape to hit. Bobby might gauge the tape as a threat.
Do not talk Mob Hit. Do not stain the name Kennedy. Do not stain sainted Jack. Feel complicitous. Feel guilty. Feel baaaad.
Your Mob Crusade killed your brother. We killed Jack to fuck you.
Littell watched a newscast. Late last night—Air Force One hits D.C. Bobby walks out. Bobby walks calm. Bobby consoles Jackie.
Littell killed Kemper Boyd. Carlos ordered it. Littell shot Boyd on Thursday. It hurt. He owed the Boys. It cancelled his debt.
He saw Bobby with Jackie. It hurt more than Boyd.
Arden Smith walked out.
She walked out fast. She lugged a satchel. She carried skirts and sheets. Littell walked over. Arden Smith looked up. Littell flashed his ID.
“Yes?”
“Dealey Plaza, remember?