The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [18]
WJL: Good day, Sir.
7
(Dallas, 11/23/63)
Glut. Waste. Bullshit.
The hotel copped pleas. The hotel blamed Lee Oswald.
The joint bulged—capacity-plus—newsmen shared rooms. They hogged the phone lines. They sapped the hot water. They swamped the room-service crew.
The hotel copped pleas. The hotel blamed Lee Oswald.
Our guests mourn. Our guests weep. Our guests watch TV. They stay in. They call home. They hash out The Show.
Wayne paced his suite. Wayne nursed an earache—that muzzle boom stuck.
Room service called. They said we’re sorry—we’re running late. Maynard Moore didn’t call. Durfee escaped. Moore let it ride.
Moore didn’t issue warrants. Moore didn’t issue holds. Moore wrote up the crap-game snafu. One guy lost a kneecap. One guy lost two pints of blood. One guy lost a toe.
Mr. Bowers lost a thumb. Wayne nursed the picture—all-nite reruns.
He tossed all night. He watched TV. He made phone calls. He called the Border Patrol. He issued crossing holds. Four units grabbed look-alikes and called him.
Wendell Durfee had knife scars—too fucking bad—the look-alikes had none.
He called Lynette. He called Wayne Senior. Lynette mourned JFK. Lynette said trite shit. Wayne Senior cracked jokes.
Jack’s last word was “pussy.” Jack groped a nurse and a nun.
Janice came on. Janice extolled Jack’s style. Janice mourned Jack’s hair. Wayne laughed. Wayne Senior was bald. Janice Tedrow—touché!
Room service called. They said we’re sorry. We know your supper’s late.
Wayne watched TV. Wayne goosed the sound. Wayne caught a press gig.
Newsmen lobbed questions. One cop went wild. Oswald was a “lethal loner!” Wayne saw Jack Ruby. He carried his dog. He passed out dick pens and French ticklers.
The cop calmed down. He said we’ll move Oswald tomorrow—late morning looks good.
The phone rang. Wayne killed the sound.
He picked up. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Buddy Fritsch, and it took me all day to get a call in to you.”
“Sorry, Lieutenant. Things are a bit crazy here.”
“So I gathered. I also gathered that you had a run-in with Wendell Durfee, and you let him get away.”
Wayne made fists. “Who told you?”
“The Border Patrol. They were checking on your fugitive warrant.”
“Do you want to hear my version?”
“I don’t want to hear excuses. I don’t want to know why you’re enjoying your luxury hotel suite when you should be out shaking the trees.”
Wayne kicked a footrest. It hit the TV.
“Do you know how big the border is? Do you know how many crossing posts there are?”
Fritsch coughed. “I know you’re sitting on your keester waiting for callbacks that won’t come if that nigger went to ground in Dallas, and for all I know you’re living it up with that six thousand dollars the casino boys gave you, without doing the job that they paid you for.”
Wayne kicked a rug. “I didn’t ask for that money.”
“No, you sure didn’t. And you didn’t refuse it, either, ’cause you’re the type of boy who likes to have things both ways, so don’t—”
“Lieutenant—”
“Don’t interrupt me until you outrank me, and let me tell you this now. You can go either way in the Department. There’s boys who say Wayne Junior’s a white man, and there’s boys who say he’s a weak sister. Now, if you take care of this, you’ll shut the mouths on those latter boys and make everyone real proud of you.”
His eyes teared up. “Lieutenant …”
“That’s better. That’s the Wayne Junior I like to hear.”
Wayne wiped his eyes. “He’s down at the border. All my instincts tell me that.”
Fritsch laughed. “I think your instincts are telling you lots of things, so I’ll tell you this. That file I gave you was Sheriff’s, so you see if DPD has a file. That nigger’s got to know some other niggers in Dallas, or my name isn’t Byron B. Fritsch.”
Wayne grabbed his holster. His blocked ear popped.
“I’ll give it my best.”
“No. You find him and kill him.”
A door guard let him in. Some Shriners tagged along. The stairs were jammed. The halls were crammed. The lifts were sardine-packed.
People bumped. People chomped hot dogs. People spilled coffee and Cokes. The Shriners pushed through.