The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [21]
Moore saw Wayne. Moore detoured up. Pete tagged along.
Moore said, “Let’s go find us that spook. My pal Pete hates spooks, don’t you, sahib?”
Pete smiled. Pete rolled his eyes. Pete goofed on dipshit Moore.
Wayne chewed ice cubes. “Fuck off. I’ll find him myself.”
Moore leaned on the bar. “Your daddy wouldn’t like that. It’d let him know the apple falls real far from the tree.”
Wayne tossed his drink. Moore caught it—hard in the eyes. Bourbon burned him—hi-test sting—triple-digit proof.
The cocksucker rubbed his eyes. The cocksucker squealed.
8
(Dallas, 11/24/63)
Pete was late. Littell voyeurized.
His room was high up. The window framed a church. A midnight mass convened.
Littell watched. A poster marked the mass—Jack K. in black borders.
Kids defaced it. Littell watched them—late this afternoon. He went to dinner later. He saw the work up close.
Jack had fangs. Jack had devil horns. Jack said, “I’m a homo!”
Mourners filed in. A breeze dumped the poster. A woman picked it up. She saw Jack’s picture. She cringed.
A car cruised by. An arm shot out. A stiff finger twirled. The woman sobbed. The woman crossed herself. The woman squeezed rosary beads.
The Statler was low-rent. The Bureau booked cheap rooms. The view compensated.
Pete was late. Pete was with the backup cop. The cop had details. The cop had a map printed up.
Littell watched the church. It diverted him. It subsumed Arden.
They talked for six hours. They skirted IT. He coded a message: I KNOW. I KNOW you KNOW. I don’t care how you KNOW. I don’t care what you DID.
She coded a message: I won’t probe your stake. No one said, “Jack Ruby.”
They talked. They omitted. They codified.
He said he was a lawyer. He was ex-FBI. He had an ex-wife and an ex-daughter somewhere. She studied his facial scars. He told her flat-out: My best friend put them there.
Le frère Pete—un Frenchman sanglant.
She said she traveled. She said she held jobs. She said she bought and sold stocks and made money. She said she had an ex-husband. She did not state his name.
She impressed him. She knew it. He coded a response: You’re a pro. You dissemble. I don’t care.
She knew Jack Ruby. She used the word “roust.” He skirted it. He offered advice. He told her to find a motel.
She said she would. He gave her his hotel number. Please call me. Please do it soon.
He wanted to touch her. He didn’t. She touched his arm once. He left her. He drove to the Bureau.
The office was empty—no agents about—Mr. Hoover made sure. He rifled drawers. He found the Tippit file.
Pete was late. Littell skimmed the file. It rambled and digressed.
Dallas PD was far right: Klan kliques and John Birch. Diverse splinter groups: The NSRP/the Minutemen/the Thunderbolt Legion.
Tippit was “klanned up.” Tippit joined the Klarion Klan Koalition for the New Konfederacy. The DPD boss was Maynard D. Moore. Moore was an FBI snitch. Moore’s handler was Wayne Tedrow Sr.
Tedrow Senior: “Pamphleteer”/“Fund Raiser”/“Entrepreneur”/“Extensive Las Vegas holdings.”
Unique stats—familiar—Mr. Hoover’s “Führer manqué.”
Littell skimmed up. Littell logged stats. Tedrow Senior ran eclectic.
He raised right-wing cash. He might know Guy B. Guy scrounged right-wing funds. Some fat cats greased the hit fund.
Littell skimmed down. Littell logged stats. Littell logged a possible connection.
Guy’s backup cop—friend of J. D. Tippit—odds on Maynard D. Moore.
Odds on: Mr. Hoover knew it. Mr. Hoover guessed the connection.
Littell skimmed up. Tedrow Senior’s CV expanded.
All-Mormon staff. Ties at Nellis AFB. Tight with the Gaming Control Board. One son: a Vegas policeman.
Senior withheld data from Junior. Junior worked the intel squad. Junior kept board files. Junior withheld data from Senior. Senior “assisted” Mr. Hoover. Senior “dispensed propaganda.”
Per: Martin Luther King/the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.
Littell skimmed pages. Littell took notes. Howard Hughes loved Mormons. They had “germ-free” blood. Tedrow Senior was Mormon. Tedrow Senior had