The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [14]
“You’re scared, and you’re running.”
“You’re scared, and this isn’t a real FBI roust.”
He popped goose bumps. “Where do you work?”
“I’m a freelance bookkeeper.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“I structure deals to get businessmen out of trouble with the IRS.”
“I asked, ‘Where do you work?’ ”
Her hands jumped. “I work at a place called the Carousel Club.”
His hands jumped. The Carousel/Jack Ruby/Mob guy/bent cops.
He looked at her. She looked at him. Their brainwaves crossed.
6
(Dallas, 11/23/63)
Shit security. Fucked-up / negligent / weak.
Pete toured the PD. Guy scored him a pass. He didn’t need it. Some geek sold dupes. Said geek sold weed and pussy pix.
The ground doors stood open. Geeks hobnobbed. Door guards posed for pix. Camera cords snaked up the sidewalk. News vans jammed up the street.
Reporters roamed. Let’s bug the DA. Let’s bug the cops. Lots of cops—Feds/DPD/Sheriff’s—all motormouthed.
Oswald’s pink. Oswald’s Red. Oswald loves Fidel. He loves folk music. He loves dark trim. He loves Martin Lucifer Coon. We know it’s him. We got his gun. He did it alone. I think he’s queer. He can’t piss with men in the room.
Pete roamed. Pete checked hall routes. Pete sketched floor plans. He nursed a headache—a looong one—the fucker had legs.
Barb KNEW.
She said, “You killed him. You and Ward and those Outfit guys you work for.”
He lied. He bombed. Barb looked through him.
She said, “Let’s leave Dallas.” He said, “No.” She split to her gig.
He walked to the club. Biz was bad. Barb sang to three drag queens. She looked straight through him. He walked back alone.
He slept alone. Barb slept in the john.
Pete roamed. Pete passed Homicide. Pete stopped at room 317. Geeks cruised for looks. Geeks framed the door. A cop cracked it wide and obliged.
There’s Oswald. He looks beat-on. He’s cuffed to a chair.
The crowd closed in. The cop shut the door. Talk fired up:
I knew J.D. J.D. was Klan. J.D. was not. They got to move him soon. They sure will—to the County Jail.
Pete roamed. Pete dodged geeks with carts. Geeks sold poorboys. Geeks snarfed them. Geeks slurped ketchup.
Pete sketched hall routes. Pete took notes.
One bunco pen. One holding tank adjacent. Basement cells. A press room adjacent. Briefings/newsmen/camera crews.
Pete roamed. Pete saw Jack Ruby. Jack’s hawking pens shaped like dicks.
He saw Pete. He seized up. He freaked. He dropped his dick pens. He bent loooow and scooped up.
His pants ripped. Dig those plaid BVDs.
Maynard Moore rubbed him wrong.
His bad breath. His bad teeth. His Klan repartee.
They met at a parking lot. They sat in Guy’s car. They faced a nigger church and a blood bank. Moore brought a six-pack. Moore sucked one down. Moore tossed the can out.
Pete said, “Did you brace Ruby?”
Moore said, “Yeah, I did. And I think he knows.”
Pete slid his seat back. Moore raised his knees.
“Whoa, now. You’re crowdin’ me.”
Guy dumped his ashtray. “Let’s have the details. You can’t shut Jack up once he starts talking.”
Moore cracked beer #2. “Well, everybody—the crew, I mean—is up at Jack Zangetty’s motel in Altus, Oklahoma, where men are men and cows are scared.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Cut the travelogue.”
Moore belched. “Schlitz, breakfast of champions.”
Guy said, “Maynard, goddamnit.”
Moore giggled. “Okay, so Jack R. gets a call from his old friend Jack Z. It seems that the pilot guy and the French guy want some cooze, so Jack R. says he’ll bring some up.”
The pilot: Chuck Rogers. The French guy: the pro. Let’s observe the no-names policy.
Pete said, “Keep going.”
Moore said, “Okay, so Ruby goes up there with his buddy Hank Killiam and these girls Betty McDonald and Arden something. Betty agrees to put out, but Arden don’t, which pisses off the French guy something fierce. He slaps her, she burns him with a hot plate, then hightails. Now, Ruby don’t know where Arden lives, and he thinks she’s got a string of aliases. And the worst part is that everybody saw the rifles and targets, and they might’ve seen a map of Dealey Plaza layin’ around.”
Guy smiled.