The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [159]
With Bob Relyea—kadre-ex—kurrent Klan klown. Bob ran a snitch-Klan. Wayne Senior ran Bob. That meant he could WATCH.
They ditched the freeway. They took side streets. They ran their high beams. Houston was the shits—brick cribs and bug lights abundant.
Stanton shot them filework: stats per Chez Chuck. Chuck’s dad and mom were Fred and Edwina. They had a ’53 Olds.
Texas plates: DXL-841.
They hit Kirby Street. They hit Richmond. They turned hard right. There—Driscoll—1780/1800/1808.
1815 was glazed brick. No palace/no slum. Two floors and no lights extant.
Pete parked. Wayne grabbed two flashlights. They got out. They circled the house. They flashed the windows. They flashed the doors.
Bugs stirred. Owls stirred. Wasps bombed a nest.
Wayne flashed the back porch. Pete flashed a hedge. Wayne caught a glint—light on steel—Pete threw his beam down.
Wayne reached in. Wayne grabbed and pulled. Wayne sliced two fingers up.
There—
One Texas license plate—stuffed in a hedge. Bingo on DXL-841.
Pete said, “He changed plates on the Olds.”
Wayne sucked his fingers. “Let’s go in. We might find something.”
Pete flashed the back door. Wayne walked up and looked. Okay: One lock/flat bolt/wide keyhole.
Pete cupped his light. Wayne pulled his picks and jabbed at the hole. Two missed. One hit. One slid in deep.
He twisted it. He turned it. He popped the bolt. They popped the door and walked in.
They flashed the floor. They flashed a stairwell. Wayne smelled mold. Wayne smelled baked beans.
They turned left. They hit a hall. They hit a kitchen. Wayne felt trapped heat. Moonlight sieved through venetian blinds.
Pete pulled the blinds. Wayne hit the lights. There:
Sink water—dark pink—carving knives afloat. Baked beans and fruit flies on mold. Hair in a colander. Dots on the floor. Dots by the fridge.
Pete opened it. Wayne smelled it. They saw it:
The severed legs. The diced hips. Mom’s head in the vegetable bin.
74
(Bogalusa, 6/21/65)
Phone work:
Room 6—the Glow Motel—direct calls out. Outside noise as direct counterpoint.
Shouts. Rebel yells. Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! We Shall Overcome!
We’re in BOMBalusa now. We remember BOMBingham.
He slept with the riddle. He lived with it. He ran.
To: Marches and pray-ins and cross burns. To: Beatings and hecklings and shouts.
He assumed a Fed presence. He laid cover tracks. He called Carlos. He set up a meet. He flew through New Orleans.
BLUE RABBIT might be here. Add BLUE’s Brother WHITE. Add Hoover confidants. Add local Feds.
He laid tracks. I was close. It was close. I had to see. I’m CRUSADER RABBIT. I’m a fool for civil rights.
Littell checked his phone book. Littell ran motels. He called the Texas DMV this morning. He got Chuck Rogers’ stats.
Houston/Driscoll Street/one Oldsmobile. Texas plates: DXL-841.
He got the stats. He got the room. He called motels. Forty-two local—dull phone-book stats.
He played Fed. He dropped his stats. He checked registrations. He made 19 calls. He got all nos. He hit Clerk 20.
“You the second police type who called ’bout that Olds. Only this other guy didn’t give me no DXL number, he said it’d have hot Texas plates.”
He brainstormed the response. He ran RABBITS. FATHER RABBIT’s Wayne Senior. FATHER knows Chuck. FATHER runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT’s close. WILD RABBIT’s Klan.
There’s BLUE RABBIT. He’s Fed. Who else wants Chuck?
He called motels. He hit 28. He got nil results. The outside noise got bad—these loud Nigger! shouts.
Littell worked. Littell called motels. Littell got nil results. Motel 29. Motel 30. Motel 31-2-3.
Motel 34: “You’re the second guy askin’ about that Rogers an’ that car, but I ain’t seen him or it.”
The Moonbeam Motel/the Lark Motel/the Anchor Motel—nil results. The Dixie/the Bayou/the Rebel’s Rest:
“Office. May I help you?”
“This is Special Agent Brown, FBI.”
The guy laughed. “You come to curtail these agitators?”
“No, sir. It’s about something else.”
“That’s too bad, because—”
“I’m looking for a white man driving a 1953 Oldsmobile with Texas license