The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [172]
Lyle braced a roulette stand. Lyle stacked his chips. Red chips—hundreds—two G’s. The wheelman bowed. The wheelman twirled. The wheel spun. The wheel stopped. The wheelman raked chips.
Lyle slapped his forehead. Lyle moved his lips. Littell watched. Littell read his lips. Lyle said, “Oh, shit.”
Schizo/comrades/young meat.
Lyle might keep private files. Said files might indict. Said files might indict BLACK RABBIT.
Lyle looked around. Lyle saw Littell. Lyle waved his checkbook. Littell waved and nodded.
Lyle walked to the cage. Lyle grabbed the grate. Lyle wrote a check. Lyle fumbled chips.
Their waitress walked by. Littell stopped her.
“My friend’s on the floor. Bring him a triple Johnnie Walker.”
She nodded. She smiled. Littell gave her ten bucks. She walked to the bar. She poured the drink. She trekked the floor. She hit the roulette stands. She saw Lyle and fueled him.
Lyle guzzled scotch. Lyle stacked his chips. Red chips—hundreds—big stacks.
The wheelman bowed. The wheelman twirled. The wheel spun. The wheel stopped. The wheelman raked chips.
Lyle slapped his forehead. Lyle moved his lips. Littell watched. Littell read his lips. Lyle said, “Oh, shit.”
Littell walked over. Littell passed the waitress. Littell slid her ten bucks. She nodded. She got it. She smirked.
Lyle walked up. Lyle killed his drink. Lyle chewed the ice.
“I’m down, but I’m not licked, and I’ve got resources.”
“You were always resourceful, Lyle.”
Lyle laughed. Lyle swayed half-blotto. Lyle burped.
“You’re patronizing me. It’s that saintly quality that Dwight hates about you.”
Littell laughed. “I’m no saint.”
“No, you’re not. Martin Luther Coon’s the only saint I know, and I’ve got some hair-curling shit on him.”
The waitress swooped by. Lyle grabbed his refill.
“Hair-curling. Or hair-kinking, in his case.”
Work him—slow now—ease in.
“You mean Mr. Hoover has shit.”
Lyle swirled scotch. “He’s got his, I’ve got mine. I’ve got a big stash at my place in L.A. Mine’s better, ’cause I’ve got daily access to Saintly Marty himself.”
Tweak him—slow now—ease in.
“Nobody has better intelligence than Mr. Hoover.”
“Shit, I do. I’m saving it for my next contract powwow. I tell my handler, ‘You want the goods, you raise my pay—no tickee, no washee.’ ”
Sammy Davis walked by. Lyle bumped into him. Sammy swerved. Sammy goofed—cat, you are blitzed!
Lyle swerved. Lyle slugged scotch. Lyle pinched a zit on his chin.
“White chicks dig him. He must be hung.”
Fumes glowed. Mash and smoke—86 proof. Littell salivated. Littell stepped away.
Lyle pulled two checkbooks—both embossed—“L.H.” and “SCLC.” He kissed them. He slung them. He drew them quick-draw style. He twirled them and aimed.
“I’ve got a lucky feeling, which means I just might have to float a loan from the civil-rights movement.”
Littell smiled. Lyle weaved. Lyle settled. Lyle walked off blitzed.
Littell watched.
Lyle braced the cage. Lyle showed a checkbook—blue for SCLC. Lyle wrote a check. Lyle kissed said check. Lyle fumbled chips.
Reds—ten stacks—five G’s.
Slow now—ease in—this is for real.
Littell walked to the phone stand. Littell grabbed a booth. He picked up. The line clicked active. He got service quick.
“Desert Inn. How may I help you?”
“It’s Littell, suite 108. I need an outside line to Washington, D.C.”
“The number, please.”
“EX4-2881.”
“Please hold. I’ll connect you.”
The line buzzed—long-distance coming—static popped and clicked. Littell looked around. Littell saw Lyle. Lyle’s at a crap table. Lyle’s stacking chips.
The shooter rolls. Lyle slaps his forehead. Lyle says, “Oh, shit.”
Static clicked. The call clicked in. Mr. Hoover said, “Yes?”
Littell said, “It’s me.”
“Yes? And the purpose of this unsolicited contact?”
“White Rabbit suggested a meeting. He arrived at the Desert Inn drunk. He’s running up a casino debt with SCLC money.”
The line fuzzed. Littell cleared the cord. Littell slapped the receiver. There’s Lyle. Lyle’s at the cage. Lyle’s ecstatic. Lyle’s got more chips.
Reds