The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [209]
“Right.”
Moe rolled his eyes. “We always buffer. It’s how we survive.”
Littell smiled. “Let’s give some of them up to the Feds, as soon as Mr. Hughes takes over a few hotels. It will buttress our publicity campaign, it will make Mr. Hoover happy, it will tie the Feds here up in litigation.”
Moe dropped his cigarette. Moe singed deep-pile carpet. Moe toed the butt flat.
“I like it. I like all deals that fuck disenfranchised personnel.”
“I’ll call Mr. Hoover.”
“You do that. You say hi and give him our best regards, in your best lawyer way.”
Voices boomed eight tables up—tax rates/tax incentives. Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked eight yards. They bypassed two tables.
“I know you been through this with Carlos and Sam, but I want you to hear it from my perspective, which is we do not want a fucking repeat of the 1960 election. We want to back a strong guy who’ll come down hard on all this agitation and civil unrest and stand firm in Vietnam, as well as leave us the fuck alone. Now, per the aforementioned goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior, let me say this. We’ve heard that he’s no longer schlepping hate pamphlets, that he’s cleaned up the seedier aspects of his act, and that him and his Mormons are getting tight with that well-known political retread Richard M. Nixon, who has always hated the Reds a good deal more than he’s hated the so-called Mafia. We want you to talk to Wayne Senior and get an indication as to whether Nixon will run, and if he says yes, you know what we want and what we’re willing to pay.”
Voices boomed ten tables up—tax nuts/tax credits.
Littell coughed. “I’ll call him when I get a—”
“You call him in the vicinity of the next five minutes. You meet him and lay it out. You get him to plant the seed with the Nixon people, and you tell him you’ll be the guy to sit down with Nixon, if and when that shifty cocksucker runs.”
Littell said, “Jesus Christ.”
Moe said, “Your goyishe savior. A presidential cat in his own right.”
Voices boomed ten tables up—Negro hygiene/Negro sedation.
The T-Bird—hole 10.
Play crawled. Duffers hacked. Oldsters bumped carts. Littell sipped club soda. Littell watched hole 9.
Women dumped shots. Women blew putts. Women sprayed sand. Ball beaters all—no Janice types.
He called Wayne Senior. He made the meet. He called Mr. Hoover. He got an aide. He promised news. He promised hard data. Mr. Hoover was out. The aide said he’d find him. The aide called back. The aide said:
Mr. Hoover’s busy. Talk to SA Dwight Holly—he’s in Vegas now.
Littell agreed. Littell assessed.
Mr. Hoover loves Dwight. Dwight’s his assessor. Dwight will see you and assess. Work Dwight/work said assessment/work back to BLACK RABBIT.
A breeze strafed through. Golfers blew shots. Putts blew way wide. Littell brainstormed. Littell watched hole 9.
Work Wayne Senior. Glean data. His union broke laws. His union ignored civil-rights codes. Glean said data. Leak it to Bobby. Maybe now/maybe later/maybe ’68.
He’d be free. He’d be “retired.” Bobby might run for Prez. Funnel the leaks/buffer the leaks/cloak the source disclosure.
Littell watched hole 9. Wayne Senior played up.
He dumped his approach. He hit the trap. He chipped out wide. He three-putted. He laughed. He left his golf pals.
He walked over brisk. Littell arranged a lawn chair.
“Hello, Ward.”
“Mr. Tedrow.”
Wayne Senior leaned on the chair. “Things run dense with you. Every word has its meaning.”
“I’ll state my case briefly. I’ll have you back on the tee in five minutes.”
Wayne Senior smirked. Wayne Senior grinned aw-shucks.
“I thought we might work at a thaw. We could commiserate over a certain woman and go from there.”
Littell shook his head. “I don’t kiss and tell.”
“That’s a shame, because Janice certainly does.”
A ball shanked close. Wayne Senior ducked.
Littell said, “My people will be needing some men to work at Mr. Hughes’ hotels, along with some new couriers. I’d like to go through your union files and look for prospects.”
Wayne Senior twirled his putter. “I’ll pick the men.