The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [208]
Sal wiped his face. Sal blew his nose. Sal made a mess.
Pete said, “This can all go away. I work the Vegas end, Freddy watchdogs you here. I don’t want bad publicity at the Cavern, you don’t want a manslaughter bounce.”
Sal wiped his nose. Otash supplied a hankie. Pete pulled his photos. Pete tossed them. Pete hit Sal’s lap.
Dig that disarray. Dig that drain hair. Dig that blood. Dig that severed thumb.
Sal dabbed his cuts. Sal checked the pix. Sal went gray-green.
“You know, I really liked him. He was bad, but he had this sweet side.”
Otash rubbed his knuckles. Otash wiped his rings.
“Us or the fuzz?”
Sal said, “You.”
Otash said, “Where is he?”
Sal said, “In the trunk.”
Otash drew a dollar sign. Pete paid off—the trunk/six to one.
He flew home. The ride bumped. He worried Barb and Wayne.
Barb sniffed white horse. Wayne knew it. Wayne grieved. Wayne loves Barb. Wayne eschews women. Wayne’s a watcher. Wayne’s a martyr. Wayne’s woman-fucked.
Warn Wayne. Tell Barb soft: I know you—just me.
The plane landed. Vegas glowed radioactive. Pete cabbed to the Cavern. Pete unlocked the suite.
The cat jumped him. He picked him up. He kissed him. He saw the note.
It’s flat on the wall. It’s taped high. It’s his eye-level.
Pete,
I’m leaving you for a while to sort some things out. I’m not hiding; I’ll be staying at my sister’s house in Sparta. I need to get away from Vegas and figure out a way to be with you as long as you’re doing the things that you do. You’re not the only one who knows me, but you’re the only one I love.
Barb
Pete tore the note up. Pete kicked walls and shelves. Pete hugged the cat. Pete let the cat claw his shirt.
96
(Las Vegas, 11/29/66)
Moe Dalitz said, “Look.”
Littell checked the window. Littell saw nuts below. Ten floors down. Nuts with cameras. Nuts with kids in tow.
Moe said, “They think Hughes sleeps in a coffin. They figure he’ll wake up at dusk and sign autographs in his cape.”
Littell laughed. Littell went ssshhh. Hush now—biz-in-progress.
Ten yards up. Two tables—Mormons meet front men.
Moe grinned. “It’s my fucking hotel and my fucking king-size conference room. I’m supposed to whisper in my own joint?”
A Mormon glanced over. Moe smiled and waved.
“Goyishe shitheels. Mormons are roughly synonymous with the Ku Klux Klan.”
Littell smiled. Littell steered Moe. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.
“Would you like an update?”
Moe rolled his eyes. “Tell me. Use words of one syllable only.”
“Short and sweet, then. I think we’ll get our price. They’re discussing undistributed profits tax now.”
Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.
“I know you don’t like him, but that well-known goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior is essential to our plans. We need his union, and we need to keep his ex-buddies and Mormons in general running skim on those charter flights. Now, we’ve got the papers and TV bribed to do this ‘Hughes is cleaning out Mob influence in Vegas’ number, which makes me think we should recruit some more clean Mormon skim guys, because Hughes will insist on hiring Mormons to work the key fucking managerial positions, and I do not want any old-line skim people hanging around looking conspicuous when we can have some well-scrubbed shitheel Mormons, especially since the skim ante is about to go way up.”
Littell brainstormed. Littell checked the window. He saw nut swarms. He saw newsmen. He saw clowns with snack carts.
“The publicity heat will be going up, too.”
Moe lit a cigarette. Moe popped digitalis.
“Tell me what you’re thinking. Go to two syllables if you have to.”
Littell brainstormed—one quick brain draft. Propose it/convince Moe/refine the draft. Gift Mr. Hoover/earn a gift reciprocal/earn back to BLACK RABBIT.
Moe rolled his eyes. “A trance you’re in. Like the Vegas sun finally got to your head.”
Littell coughed. “Are you still buffered from your old-line skim people?”
“The ones we replaced? The ones