The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [16]
Pete stammered. Pete tried. Pete failed. His parents grieved. His parents sucked tailpipe fumes. His parents decomped in their car.
The cat fell asleep. Pete stroked him. Time schizzed. He dug on the dark.
He dozed. He stirred. He heard something. The door opened. Light shot straight in.
Pete jumped up. The cat tumbled. The calzone box flew.
There’s Betty Mac.
She’s got blond hair. She’s got curves. She’s got harlequin shades.
She saw Pete. She yelled. Pete grabbed her. Pete kicked the door shut.
She scratched. She yelled. She clawed his neck. He covered her mouth. She drew her lips back. She bit him.
He stumbled. He kicked the calzone box. He tripped a wall switch. A light went on. The cash fell out.
Betty looked down. Betty saw the money. Pete let his hand go. Pete rubbed his bite wound.
“There, Jesus Christ. Just get out before someone hurts you.”
She eased up. He eased up. She turned around. She saw his face.
Pete hit the wall switch. The room light died. They stood close. They caught their breath. They leaned on the door.
Pete said, “Arden?”
Betty coughed—a smoker’s hack—Pete smelled her last reefer.
“I’m not going to hurt her. Come on, you know what we’ve got—”
She touched his lips. “Don’t say it. Don’t put a name—”
“Then tell me where—”
“Arden Burke. I think she’s at the Glenwood Apartments.”
Pete brushed by her. Her hair caught his face. Her perfume stuck to his clothes. He got outside. His hand throbbed. The sun killed his eyes.
Traffic was bad. Pete knew why.
Dealey Plaza was close. Let’s take the kids. Let’s dig on history and hot dogs.
He split Oak Cliff. He found Arden’s building. It ran forty units plus. He parked outside. He checked access routes. The courtyard ruled B&Es out.
He checked the mail slots—no Arden Burke listed—Arden Smith in 2-D.
Pete toured the courtyard. Pete scanned doorplates: 2-A/B/C—
Stop right—
He made the suit. He made the build. He made the thin hair. He stepped back. He crouched. He looked.
Right there—
Ward Littell and a tall woman. Talking close and closing out the world.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/23/63. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Ward J. Littell.
JEH: Mr. Littell?
WJL: Good afternoon, Sir. How are you?
JEH: Forgo the amenities and tell me about Dallas. The metaphysical dimensions of this alleged tragedy do not interest me. Get to the point.
WJL: I would call things encouraging, Sir. There has been a minimum of talk about a conspiracy, and a very strong consensus seems to have settled in, despite some ambiguous statements from the witnesses. I’ve spent a good deal of time at the PD, and I’ve been told that President Johnson has called both Chief Curry and the DA personally, and has expressed his wish that the consensus be confirmed.
JEH: Lyndon Johnson is a blunt and persuasive man, and he speaks a language those cowpokes understand. Now, continuing with the witnesses.
WJL: I would say that the contradictory ones could be intimidated, discredited and successfully debriefed.
JEH: You’ve read the witness logs, observed the interviews and have been through the inevitable glut of lunatic phone tips. Is that correct?
WJL: Yes, Sir. The phone tips were especially fanciful and vindictive. John Kennedy had engendered a good deal of resentment in Dallas.
JEH: Yes, and entirely justified. Continuing with the witnesses. Have you conducted any interviews yourself?
WJL: No, Sir.
JEH: You’ve turned up no witnesses with especially provocative stories?
WJL: No, Sir. What we have is an alternative consensus pertaining to the number of shots and their trajectories. It’s a confusing text, Sir. I don’t think it will stand up to the official version.
JEH: How would you rate the investigation to date?
WJL: As incompetent.
JEH: And how would you define it?
WJL: As chaotic.
JEH: How would you assess the efforts to protect Mr. Oswald?
WJL: As shoddy.
JEH: Does that disturb