The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [165]
Pete yukked—Milt, you slay me. Pete saw Jane walk out.
The doorman smiled. The doorman shagged her car. She got in. She pulled out. She drove west.
Pete kicked the engine. Pete pulled out. Pete tailed her. They took Wilshire west. They took Bundy south. They took Pico west toward the beach.
Pete laid back. Jane jumped lanes. Jane pulled right. Jane signaled. Jane turned.
There: the B. of A.—West L.A. branch.
She pulled up. She locked the car. She walked in.
Milt scoped her. “Nice pins. I could dig her love in a semi-large way.”
Pete lit a cigarette. Milt bummed one.
“So, who is she? You call me at 5:00 a.m. You say, ‘Let’s go to L.A.,’ you don’t explain yourself. I’m starting to think you just brought me along for the laughs.”
Jane walked out. Jane lugged a coin sack. Jane walked to the parking-lot phone.
She dialed “0.” She fed the slots. She talked. She listened. She cupped the receiver. The call dragged on. She jiggled coins. She refed the slots.
Pete watched her. Pete timed her: five minutes/six/eight.
Milt yawned. “I’m digging on the intrigue. It’s not like she hasn’t got a phone at her crib.”
Ten minutes/twelve/fourteen.
She hung up. She walked to her car. She got in and pulled out.
Pete tailed her. They took Pico east. They drove six miles plus. They took La Brea north.
They crossed Wilshire. They crossed 3rd. They took Beverly east. They took Rossmore north.
There—she pulls left. She signals. She turns. She’s upside the Algiers—a white-brick/mock-mosque motel.
She parked. She got out. She palmed a folder. The joint had big windows. Dig the see-thru surveillance.
She walked inside. She stopped a clerk. She passed him the folder.
Milt said, “I smell tsuris. Carlos has points in that joint.”
Pete said, “I know.”
He weighed it. He diced it. He fucking julienned it. Carlos had points. Carlos had control points. Carlos hired the crew.
They flew home. Milt buzzed off. Pete hit Tiger Kab. He rehearsed his shtick. He built some lies. He called PC Bell.
A clerk picked up. “Police Information. Who’s requesting?”
Pete coughed. “Sergeant Peters, LAPD. I need the connect on a pay-phone call.”
“Time, location, and origin number, please.”
Pete grabbed a pen. “1:16 p.m. today. No origin number, but it’s the pay phone outside the Bank of America at 14229 West Pico, Los Angeles.”
The clerk coughed. “Please hold for that information.”
Pete held. Pete watched the lot. Donkey Dom shot dice. Donkey Dom ogled boys. Donkey Dom adjusted his basket.
The line buzzed. The clerk coughed.
“That call was long-distance. The connect was a charter-boat slip in Bon Secour, Alabama.”
78
(Chicago, 7/19/65)
Sam kvetched.
Per the jail food. Per the jail lice. Per his jail hemorrhoids.
Sam talked loud. The attorney room buzzed. The lice had feet. The lice had wings. The lice had fangs like Godzilla.
Littell stretched. His chair squeaked. The seat itched—lice like Godzilla.
Sam said, “I found a bug in my corn flakes this morning. He had a wingspan like a P-38. I attribute all this shit to the cocksucker who impaneled this cocksucking grand jury, that well-known cocksucker Robert F. Kennedy.”
Littell tapped his pen. “You’ll be out in ten months. The jury term expires.”
Sam scratched his arms. “I’ll be dead in six months. You can’t go up against lice that big and survive.”
Littell laughed. Sam scratched his legs.
“It’s all Bobby’s fault. If the cocksucker ever runs for President, he will rue the fucking day, and that is no shit, Dick Tracy.”
Littell shook his head. “He’ll never try to hurt you again. He has a different agenda now.”
Sam scratched his neck. “Right. He’s in bed with the nigger agitators, which don’t mean his hard-on for us has subsided.”
A bug cruised the table. Sam smashed it.
“One for the home team. Breed no more, you cocksucker.”
Littell cleared his throat. “We’re on schedule in Vegas. We’ve got the board votes and the legislators.