The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [19]
Wayne followed them. They plowed camera guys. They pushed their way upstairs.
They made floor 3. They made the squadroom. It was double-packed.
Cops. Newsmen. Misdemeanants cuffed to chairs. Pinned-out ID: shields/stars/press cards.
Wayne pinned his badge on. The noise hurt. His blocked ear repopped. He looked around. He saw the squad bay. He saw cubicles and office doors.
Burglary/Bunco. Auto Theft/Forgery. Homicide/Arson/Theft.
He walked over. He tripped on a wino. A newsman laughed. The wino shook his cuff chain. The wino soliloquized.
Jackie needs the big braciole. Widows crave it. Playboy magazine says so.
Wayne hit a side hall. Wayne read door plates. Wayne saw Maynard Moore. Moore missed him. Moore stood in a storeroom. Moore cranked a mimeo press.
Wayne ducked by. Wayne passed a break room. Wayne heard a TV blare. A cop watched a press-room feed—live from downstairs.
Wayne checked doorways. Jack Ruby brushed by—leeched to a very big cat. He hung on him. He bugged him. He kvetched:
“Pete, Pete, pleeease.”
Wayne veered by a fish tank. Fish howled within. A perv stuck his dick through the mesh. He stroked it. He wiggled it. He sang “Some Enchanted Evening.”
Wayne doubled back. Wayne found the file room. A stand-up space with twelve drawers—two marked “KAs.”
He shut the door. He popped the “A to L” drawer. He found a blue sheet:
Durfee, Wendell (NMI).
He skimmed it. He got repeat shit and one new KA:
Rochelle Marie Freelon—DOB 10/3/39. Two kids by Whipout Wendell. 8819 Harvey Street/Dallas.
Two file notes:
12/8/56: Rochelle harbors Wendell/the Sheriff wants him/he’s got nine bench warrants due. 7/5/62: Rochelle violates her parole.
She leaves Texas. She drives to Vegas. She visits Wistful Wendell D. No vehicle stats/recent contact/two cubs by Wendell D.
Wayne copied the data. Wayne replaced the file. Wayne drawered loose sheets up. He walked out. He cruised hallways. He passed the break room.
The TV snagged him. He saw something weird. He stopped. He leaned in. He looked.
There’s a fat man. He’s facing a mike. One hand’s in a splint. One hand—tight gauze—no thumb.
A band ID’d him: “Witness Lee Bowers.”
Bowers talked. Bowers’ voice broke.
“I was in the tower right before he was shot … and … well … I sure didn’t see anything.”
Bowers blipped off. A cartoon ad blipped on. Bucky Beaver yap-yap-yapped. The fuck hawked Ipana toothpaste.
Wayne went cold—Popsicle chills—ice down his shorts.
A cop said, “You okay, hoss? You look a little green at the gills.”
Wayne borrowed a DPD car. Wayne went out alone.
He got directions. Harvey Street was Darktown. Cops called it the Congo and Coonecticut.
Bowers and Moore—reprise that—do it very slooow.
Wayne tried—it was easy—it was shortbread cake.
Moore was crazy. Moore was bent. Moore drank jar brew. He might push uppers. He might book bets. Bowers might be bent too. They fell out. Moore got pissed. Moore cut hisself a thumb.
Wayne hit Darktown. Wayne found Harvey Street. It was the shits—shacks and hen coops—connected dirt yards.
8819: Dead still and dark.
He parked out front. He hit his brights. He nailed the one window: No window shades/no furniture/no drapes.
Wayne got out. Wayne grabbed a flashlight. Wayne circled the shack. He cut through the backyard. He bumped furniture.
Big piles—yard-sale dimensions. Sofas and chairs—all cheap stuff.
He strafed it. His light roused a hen. She fluffed full. She made claws. She squawked.
Wayne kicked a cushion. A light hit him. A man laughed.
“It’s my property now. I got a receipt that says so.”
Wayne covered his eyes. “Did Wendell Durfee sell it to you?”
“That’s right. Him and Rochelle.”
“Did he say where they were going?”
The man coughed. “Out of your redneck jurisdiction.”
Wayne walked up. The man was fat and high yellow. He twirled his flashlight. The beam jumped.
Wayne said, “I’m not DPD.”
The man tapped his badge. “You’re that Vegas guy looking for Wendell.”
Wayne smiled. Wayne unpinned his coat. Wayne repinned his belt. The man