The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [160]
The man laughed. “Then you’re one lucky member of the Federal Bureau of Integration, ’cause he checked into room 5 yesterday.”
“What? Repeat th—”
“I got it right here. Charles Jones, Houston, Texas. ’53 Olds sedan, PDL-902. By my lights, he’s a mean motherhumper. Probably gargles with antifreeze and flosses with razor blades.”
Traffic crawled. The disruption ratched it up.
Sidewalk marches. Hecklers. TV crews out. Signs and countersigns. Shriekers with good lungs. Nonparticipants out for yuks.
Freedom Now!/Jim Crow Must Go!/Nigger Go Home! We shaaaall overcome! in re-run shouts.
Littell drove his rental car. Traffic slogged. Littell parked and walked. Egg crews roamed. White kids chucked eggs. They chucked at Negroes. They nailed perceived Feds.
Littell walked. Littell dodged eggs. Eggs hit marchers. Eggs hit picket signs.
Egg crews walked. Egg trucks roamed. Egg men trucked ammo. Eggs flew. Eggs hit doors. Eggs hit awnings and cars.
The marchers wore slickers. The slickers dripped yolk. The slickers dripped cracked shells. Cops stood around. Cops dodged eggs. Cops sucked Nehi and Coke.
Littell walked. Eggs creased him. Littell looked all-Fed.
He cut left. He walked two blocks. He passed two egg huts. Egg crews formed. Egg crews armed. Egg trucks loaded up.
He saw it—right there—the Rebel’s Rest.
One floor. Ten rooms. All street-view units. Rebel flag and rebel sign—neon Johnny Reb.
Parking slots/outdoor walkway/the office detached.
Littell palmed a credit card. Littell cut straight over. Littell saw room 5.
He knocked. He got no answer. No car in front/no people/no Olds 88.
He faced the street. He braced the door. He worked backwards. There now—by touch:
The jamb. The bolt. Wedge the card and slide it through fast.
He did it. The door popped. He fell backwards inside. He locked the door behind him. He hit the lights. He checked the room out.
One bed. One bathroom. One closet. One overnight bag on the floor.
He tossed the bag. He saw clothes and a razor. He saw hate tracts. He checked the closet. He checked the shelf. He saw a box of fuses—half full.
He saw a Mossberg pump. He saw a .45. He saw a .357 mag.
He grabbed the pump. He dumped the shells. He grabbed the .45. He popped the hot round. He popped the clip.
He grabbed the mag. He popped the cylinder. He dumped the shells. He pulled the rug up.
He hid the ammo. He shut the closet door. He killed the room lights. He sat down. He pulled his piece. He cocked the hammer.
He leaned on the bed. He faced the door. He counted rabbits full-out.
He dozed. He cramped up. He heard chants outside. Two words—say two blocks out.
“Freedom” and “nigger”—two words overlapped.
The sun arced—light cut through window shades—shades going black.
Littell dozed. Littell stirred. Littell heard siren bursts. Short bursts—per stalled traffic.
He got up. He walked outside. Tenants mingled. Tenants rebel-yelled.
A man laughed. A man went “Ka-pow!”
A man said, “A nigger church just went ka-blooey.”
Littell ran.
He cut left. He ran two blocks. He passed the egg huts. His coat flapped. His piece showed. Some egg men perked up.
They chucked eggs. They hit him. They dosed his pants. They grazed his head.
He hit the main drag. He cut right. He pushed through pickets. He ate eggs. He ate picket signs.
He slid. He hit eggshells. He tripped. A redneck kicked him. A marcher kicked him for kicks.
Horns. Sirens. Shouts—street blockade dead ahead. Egg trucks and egg men. An ambulance stalled and bucked.
Rednecks ran over. Marchers ran over. Fat cops ran up slow. They hit the blockade. They yelled. They shoved.
The blockade held. Pushing and shoving. Horns/sirens/shouts.
Littell got up. Littell dripped eggshells. Littell ran over fast. The cops saw him. Looks traveled—check Johnny Fed.
Littell pulled his badge. Littell pulled his gun. The cops smirked. The egg men smirked. The marchers stepped back.
Louder now: Yahoos and nigger yells. Horns/sirens/shouts.
Littell grabbed an egg man. Said egg man smirked. Littell smashed his face on his truck. He hit the