The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [127]
Littell miked a nightstand. Littell miked a couch leg. Littell miked a lamp.
Morgue dirt was old. Morgue dirt was still ripe. Morgue dirt might help Mr. Hughes. They needed dirt. Dirt incurred debt. Let’s call Moe D. Let’s call Milt C. Let’s bug more rooms yet.
Grind joints next—bedroom mounts—Milt to retrieve. Let’s bug Vegas. Let’s cull dirt. Let’s extort.
Littell miked a chair. Turentine flipped channels. There’s Mr. Hoover in the flesh.
He said, “King.” He said, “Communist sympathizer.” He looked old. He looked weak.
The news ran late. Bobby’s segments ran long.
Littell went “home.” Littell called room service. Littell ate dinner and watched TV.
Home-suite-home. Room service and valets.
He missed Jane. He pressed her to come for Thanksgiving. She agreed. It scared her. The Boys owned the town.
She told lies. It disturbed him in L.A. He missed her and wanted her here.
Bobby praised LBJ. Bobby praised his programs. Bobby praised Dr. King.
He played his Bobby tapes. He played them most nights. Sometimes Jane overheard. He punted. He lied. He described depositions.
Lies:
Bayard Rustin pressed him—meet Dr. King—Bayard proposed a dinner. He declined. He lied. He stressed nonexistent engagements. He lied. He never said “distance.”
Distance balanced his risk. Distance balanced his commitment. He subverted King. He aided King. He worked for a balance.
Personal moments would kill it. Affection would blitz respect. Compartments would burn. The risk would grow exponential.
Bobby promised legislation. Bobby promised hard work. Bobby did not mention organized crime. Bobby did not mention Jack.
He knew Bobby. Bobby knew the Boys killed Jack. Bobby on tape: “When the time’s right I’ll jump on it, and devil take the hindmost.”
Don’t. Please. Don’t risk your safety. Don’t risk yourself.
Littell flipped channels. Littell saw LBJ. Littell saw Blatz beer and Vietnam. U.S. advisors. More troops pledged. Buddhist monks on fire.
Pete called him this morning. Pete pitched a plan: Call Drac/work Drac/help me work this new plan.
He agreed. He called Drac and snowed him. Drac agreed to Pete’s “plan.” Pete dropped the name Clark Kinman. Bypass Wayne Senior through him.
He called Kinman. He pitched a meet. He deciphered the gist of Pete’s “plan.”
Heroin/Vietnam. “Ordnance”/hidden dope/cosmetic donations.
It meant one thing. The Boys waived the no-dope rule. The Boys never told him.
Pete sounded happy. Pete came off engaged. Pete built airtight compartments. There’s Betty Mac. There’s heroin. There’s the partition.
Littell flipped channels. Bobby waved. Bobby hugged his kids.
Kinman served drinks. Littell sipped club soda. Kinman sipped scotch himself.
“I know about you. You brought the Hughes charter deal to Wayne Senior.”
The den was stuffy. The den was GI. Airplane models and airplane wall plaques.
Littell smiled. “I hope your compensation sufficed.”
Kinman sipped scotch. “I’m an officer in the United States Air Force. I’m not going to tell a perfect stranger if, where, or how I was compensated, if in fact I was.”
Littell twirled his coaster. “You could call Wayne Senior for a reference.”
“We’re not on good terms. He told me he doesn’t like you, which refers you pretty good these days.”
A door slammed upstairs. Music kicked on. A female voice hummed along.
Littell stirred his drink. “Do you know who I work for?”
“I was informed that it was Howard Hughes, who folks say has designs on Las Vegas. I figured he was good for the town, which is why I facilitated the charter deal.”
“For which you were or were not compensated.”
The music dipped. Footsteps tapped downstairs. A woman hummed along.
Kinman smiled. “I’ve got a friend here. That means you’ve got five minutes to state your case and skedaddle.”
Littell toed his briefcase. “Mr. Hughes wants to donate U.S.-supplied Vietnamese Army surplus to the Air National Guard. He wants to publicize the donations and credit you with inspiring the gift. All he requires is expanded ground clearance for periodic courier flights from