The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [171]
Carlos winked. “I don’t want you to get hurt. We go back like Ward and me go back. Some guys would have been miffed at what you did to Danny B., but I am not one of them.”
Pete smiled. “I copped to it, didn’t I? I called you.”
“That is correct. You did the wrong thing and covered your bets.”
“I just don’t want—”
“He won’t be. They’re good for each other. I know Arden, and Arden knows she can’t shit me. Arden tells me Ward’s not scheming against me, so I believe her. I’ve always had this feeling that Ward was skimming Howard Hughes, but Arden says it’s not so, so I believe her.”
Pete burped. Pete undid his belt—rich Creole food.
“Give me the warning. Let’s get it over with.”
Carlos burped. Carlos undid his belt—rich Creole food.
“Don’t tell Ward about this. Don’t make me peeved at you.”
“This”—still solid—still incomplete.
A waiter cruised by. Pete nixed a comped brandy.
Carlos belched. “What’s this about ‘ideas’?”
Pete cleared some plates. Pete laid his map out. Pete swamped the table.
“Speedboat runs waste man-hours. You can’t move ordnance in bulk. I want to refit and camouflage Bruvick’s boat and run it out of Bon Secour. I want to move guns in quantity and pull terror missions.”
Carlos checked the map. Carlos lit his cigar. Carlos burned a big hole in Cuba.
81
(Las Vegas, 8/7/65)
Lyle Holly: Dwight Holly built small. BLUE to WHITE RABBIT. A Hoosier/a loudmouth/a fraud.
They met at the DI. They sat in the lounge. Lyle was blunt. Lyle was coarse. Lyle was buzzed at noon.
Lyle said, “I think I’m schizophrenic. I work for the SCLC, I work for Mr. Hoover. I’m on Black Rabbit one minute, voting-rights drives the next. Dwight says I’m psychically unhinged.”
Littell sipped coffee. Littell smelled Lyle’s scotch.
“Did Mr. Hoover send you in to spy on me?”
Lyle slapped his knees. “Dwight suggested it. He knew I was coming to Vegas, so what the hell.”
“Is there anything you’d like me to reveal?”
“Shit, no. I’ll tell Dwight that the Ward I saw is the same Ward I allegedly knew back in Chicago, except now he’s just as schizo as I am, and for all the same reasons.”
Littell laughed. Sammy Davis Jr. walked by. Lyle stared at him.
“Look at that. He’s ugly, he’s got one eye, and he’s colored and Jewish. I heard he gets lots of white pussy.”
Littell smiled. Lyle waved to Sammy. Sammy waved back.
Lyle sipped Johnnie Red. “Marty gives this speech in New York. He’s got a captive audience of liberal Jews with deep pockets. He starts attacking the Vietnam War and pissing all the hebes off with words like ‘genocide.’ He’s going outside his civil-rights bailiwick and biting the hand that feeds him.”
Pete was in Laos. Wayne was in Saigon. The war hid them there. He called Carlos. Carlos talked up Pete. Carlos said they’d just schemed plans for Cuba.
Littell said let me retire. Carlos said okay. Carlos dittoed Sam’s consent. Carlos talked up the ’68 election.
Lyle sipped scotch. Peter Lawford walked by. Lyle stared at him.
“He used to pimp for Jack Kennedy. That makes us comrades-in-arms. I get Marty all his white snatch, and sometimes I dig up young meat for Bayard Rustin. Mr. Hoover’s got a photo of Bayard with a dick in his mouth. He made a dupe for President Johnson.”
Littell smiled. Lyle hailed a waitress. Lyle shagged a quick refill.
“Dwight said they blew that church up with C-4 explosive. Bayard told me it really was a leaky gas main, which makes me think you told him.”
Littell sipped coffee. “I told him, yes.”
Lyle sipped scotch. “Crusader Rabbit’s a white man. I’ll tell Dwight that.”
Littell smiled. Lyle grinned. Lyle pulled out a checkbook.
“I feel lucky. You think you can cash a check into play chips for me?”
“How much?”
“Two grand.”
Littell smiled. “Put my initials and ‘suite 108’ on the check. Tell the cashier I’m a permanent resident.”
Lyle smiled. Lyle wrote the check. Lyle got up and walked—half-steady.
Littell watched.
Lyle weaved. Lyle slurped scotch. Lyle trekked the casino. Lyle braced the teller’s cage. Lyle passed the check. Lyle got his chips.
Littell watched.