The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [191]
“I thought you might.”
“I found a snapshot of Rock Hudson browning a Filipino jockey. I sent a dupe to Mr. Hoover.”
“That was thoughtful.”
Otash laughed. “You’re droll, Ward, but you’re not my cup of tea. I’ve never understood your allure to Pete B.”
Littell smiled. “Try shared history.”
Otash poked a squid. “Like Dallas ’63?”
“Does the whole world know?”
“Just some guys who don’t care.”
Littell kicked the box. “I should go.”
“Go, then. And beware the ides of fucking September.”
“Would you care to explain?”
“You’ll see soon enough.”
Jane was out. Littell lugged the box in. Littell checked the papers first. Three subscribed dailies: L.A. Times/New York Times/Washington Post.
He skimmed the front sections. He skimmed the B-sheets. No word—nineteen days in.
The letters went out—mea culpa/Lyle Holly—postmarked SCLC. One to the House Committee/one to Bobby.
Littell skimmed the C-sheets. Littell skimmed the D. Nothing—no word yet.
He dumped the papers. He cleared some desk space. He dumped the lettuce box.
Files and carbon sheets. Photos and tip sheets. Unpublished smears—full pieces. The gamut—Confidential to Whisper/Lowdown to Hush-Hush.
He stacked piles. He skimmed sheets. He read fast. He rolled in dirt.
Dipsomania. Nymphomania. Kleptomania. Pedophilia. Coprophilia. Scopophilia. Flagellation. Masturbation. Miscegenation.
Lenny Bruce rats Sammy Davis. Sammy swings bilateral/Sammy sniffs cocaine. Danny Thomas hits sepia sinspots. Bob Mitchum dips his dick in Dilaudid and fucks all nite.
Sonny Liston killed a white man. Bing Crosby knocked up Dinah Shore. Dinah got twin Binglets scraped at a clap clinic in Cleveland. Lassie has K-9 psychosis. Lassie bites kids at Lick Pier.
Paydirt: Two casino front men/one date-a-boy.
They rendezvous at the Rugburn Room. They trick at the Dunes. They party with peyote and poppers. The front men work the date-a-boy. He sustains damage and hemorrhages. The front men check the register. The front men look for doctors. The front men hit suite 302.
The doc’s a drunk. The doc’s a hophead. The doc’s got King Kong on his back. The doc soaks his tools in vodka. The doc operates. The date-a-boy dies. The doc dips back to Des Moines. A desk clerk calls Confidential.
One hit. One bite for Drac. One blackmail wedge.
Littell clipped pages. Littell scanned carbons. Littell skimmed tip sheets. Payoffs/bribes/slush funds/dope cures/nut bins/car wrecks.
Johnnie Ray. Sal Mineo. Adlay Stevenson. Toilet stalls/glory holes/gonorr—
No. Wait. Ides of Sept—
Hush-Hush-10/57/unpublished. The title: RED LINK TO RACKETS.
Arden Breen Bruvick. Her Commie dad—killed in ’52. “Who Iced Daddy Breen? Temperamental Teamsters? Arden or Hubby Dan?”
Arden’s a party girl. Arden’s a call girl. Arden fled grief in K.C. Dan B.’s a lamster. He’s on the run. He split K.C.
Arden’s a femme fatale. Arden has Mob ties. Arden knows “Shifty” Jules Schiffrin.
A clipped photo/a caption/a date:
8/12/54—RED PARTY GIRL PARTIES WITH RANDY RACKETEER.
There’s Arden. She’s young. She’s dancing with Carlos Marcello.
Littell trembled. Littell got the shakes. Littell got instant DTs.
He palsied. His hands jerked. He ripped the photo. He dropped the tip sheets.
He saw things:
Cords stuck to walls. Cords stuck to lamps. Cords off the TV.
He heard things:
Tap sounds. Phone buzz. Line clicks.
His chair slid. He fell. He saw wall cords. He saw bug mounts. He saw wisps. He got up. He stumbled. He braced the walls. He saw shapes. He saw flecks. He saw wisps.
88
(Las Vegas, 9/28/65)
The cat abused him. He loved it. He lived for his shit.
The cat clawed his pants. The cat snagged his socks. The cat dropped turds on his shirts. He loved it. Shit on me more now. I live for your shit.
The AC dipped. Pete slapped the wall unit. The cat clawed his shirt.
Biz was slow. The p.m. lull dragged. Pete shagged calls. His drivers smoked outside.
New rules: The Tiger Kab Manifesto.
Don’t smoke near me. Don’t eat near me. Don’t snarf fat-rich food. Don’t tempt me with taste treats—let me get back.
I’ve got more wind now.