The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [190]
He was distracted. Fred O. just called him. Fred O. found the scandal-rag files. They’re yours for ten G’s. I want them/I’ll meet you/they’re mine.
The summit kicked off. Six Mormons hogged one table. A Mormon prepped a tape rig. A Mormon looped a tape in. A Mormon pressed Play.
Drac speaks:
“Good morning, gentlemen. I trust that you have clean air in your conference room, along with appropriate snacks such as Fritos corn chips and Slim Jim beef jerky. As you know, the purpose of this meeting is to establish ballpark price estimates for the hotel-casinos I wish to purchase, and to devise strategies to circumvent recent so-called civil-rights laws, which are in fact civil-wrongs laws, which will prove detrimental to the American free-enterprise system. It is my intention to cunningly and willfully abrogate these laws, retain segregated work crews and discourage Negroes from habituating my casinos, with exceptions to be made for stellar Negroes such as Wilma Rudolph, the so-called fastest woman alive, and the multi-talented Sammy Davis Jr. Before I turn the meeting over to my Las Vegas point man, Ward J. Littell, I should inform you that I have been studying the tax code for the state of California and have determined that it is in fact unconstitutional. It is my intention to avoid paying California state income tax for the upcoming fiscal year of 1966. I may decide to remain mobile until the time that I establish permanent residence in Las Vegas. I may travel by train, avoid undue stays in all fifty states and thus avoid paying state income tax in toto.”
The off switch clicked. The tape died. The Mormons stirred. The Mormons checked the credenza.
Salty Fritos. Congealed cheez dip. Tasty Slim Jims.
Littell coughed. Littell dispensed graph sheets. Price projections/per twelve hotels. Gaming projections/per twelve casinos.
Doctored paper. Revised and cooked. Your chef—Moe Dalitz.
The Mormons read. The Mormons skimmed columns. The Mormons cleared their throats. The Mormons took notes.
A Mormon coughed. “The purchase prices are high by 20%.”
Moe set the prices. Carlos consulted. Santo T. helped.
Littell coughed. “I think the prices are reasonable.”
A Mormon said, “We’ll need tax returns. We’ll need to calibrate off reported profits, not estimates.”
A Mormon said, “That part doesn’t bother me. We’re dealing with organized-crime proprietors, to one degree or another. You have to believe that they report low.”
A Mormon said, “We can subpoena their tax returns from the IRS. That way they can’t submit fakes.”
Wrong. Mr. Hoover will act. Mr. Hoover will quash selectively. Mr. Hoover will pick what you see.
No oldies. No pre-64s. Good ’64s/the Boys report high/the Boys bait-and-switch.
A Mormon said, “Mr. Hughes is adamant on the Negro issue.”
A Mormon said, “Wayne Senior can help us out there. He segregates his work crews, and he knows his way around those new laws.”
Littell stabbed his pencil. Littell hit his notepad. Littell broke the tip.
“Your suggestion offends me. It’s unsavory and altogether repugnant.”
The Mormons stared at him. Littell stared straight back.
Fred Otash was big. Fred Otash was gruff. Fred Otash was Lebanese. He lived in restaurants. He loved Dino’s Lodge and the Luau. Clients found him there.
He doped race horses. He fixed fights. He brokered abortions. He traced fugitives. He pulled shakedowns. He sold smut pix. He knew things. He found things out. He charged high fees.
Littell hit the Luau. Otash was splitsville. Littell hit Dino’s. Littell hit paydirt—there’s Freddy O. in his booth.
He’s in nubby silk shorts. He’s in a hula shirt. He’s got a tan. He’s spearing calamari. He’s skimming racing forms. He’s sipping cold chablis.
Littell walked over. Littell sat down. Littell dropped the cash on the table.
Otash kicked a lettuce box. “It’s all there. I photocopied the choice stuff, in case you were wondering.