The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [212]
“Which Mr. Hoover will frost out, no questions asked.”
Pete tapped his head. Pete tapped it hard. Pete sparked a headache.
“I want Fred Otash on backup.”
“Agreed.”
“Plus Freddy Turentine and ten grand for expenses.”
“Agreed.”
Pete’s stomach growled. The scotch fucked with it. Pete thought Cheeseburger.
Dwight smiled. “You bit fast. I thought I’d have to work you.”
“My wife left me. I’ve got time to kill.”
Otash said, “Sal scores tonight. I’ll lay you six to one.”
Car surveillance—Fred O.’s car—the seats pushed way back. Fred O.’s farts and Fred O.’s cologne.
They watched the street. They watched Sal’s car. They watched the Klondike Bar. Pete lit a cigarette. Pete had gas. Pete snarfed two cheeseburgers late.
“Of course he’ll score. He’s a half-assed movie star.”
He flew straight out. He called Otash. He briefed him. They checked Sal’s pad. Sal was gone. They checked Sal’s known haunts: The 4-Star/the Rumpus Room/Biff’s Bayou.
Shit—no Sal car/no Sal.
They checked the Gold Cup. They checked Arthur J’s. They checked the Klondike—8th and LaBrea.
Tilt—
Pete said, “You’re sure he won’t rabbit?”
“On Dom? Sure I’m sure.”
“Tell me why.”
“Because I’m his new daddy. Because I’m the guy he has coffee with every morning. Because I’m the guy who dumped Dom and his fucking car down a lime pit in the fucking Angeles Forest.”
Pete chained cigarettes. “The Vegas end’s good. No cops so far.”
“Dom was a fly-by-night. You think his pimp boyfriend will file a missing-persons report?”
Sal walked out. Sal had a date. Sal hung on some hunky young quiff.
Otash hit the horn. Pete hit the lights. Sal blinked. Sal saw the car. Sal stalled the quiff and walked over.
Pete rolled his window down. Sal leaned on the ledge.
“Shit. It’s a life sentence with you guys.”
Pete flashed a snapshot reminder. Streetlight hit Donkey Dom’s thumb. Sal blinked. Sal gulped. Sal vibed sick.
Pete said, “You like dark stuff, right? You get the urge once in a while.”
Sal weaved a hand—dark meat/comme ci comme ça.
Otash said, “We’re fixing you up.”
Pete said, “He’s a nice guy. You’ll thank us.”
Otash said, “He’s cute. He looks like Billy Eckstine.”
Pete said, “He’s a Communist.”
99
(Las Vegas, 12/2/66)
Tour time:
The DI sub-penthouse. Big Drac’s sub-lair. Littell as tour guide. Dwight Holly as tourist.
Look:
There’s the blood pumps. There’s the drips. There’s the freezers. There’s the candy. There’s the pizza. There’s the ice cream. There’s the codeine. There’s the meth. There’s the Dilaudid.
Dwight loves it. Dwight yuks. Dwight offends Mormons. Said Mormons scowl at said Fed.
Big Drac’s incursion—now one week in.
The legislature waives anti-trust laws. The legislature delivers—go, Drac!
Buy the DI. Buy the Frontier. Buy the Sands. Buy big! Buy laissez-faire! Buy the Castaways. Gorge yourself. Buy the Silver Slipper.
Littell cracked windows. Dwight looked out. Dwight saw nuts with signs: “We love H.H.!”/“Wave to us!”/“Hughes in ’68!”
Dwight laughed. Dwight tapped his watch—real business now.
They walked. They trekked hallways. They bagged a storeroom. File boxes hemmed them in.
Littell pulled his list out. Moe prepped it last night.
“Skim couriers. Easy litigations by any and all standards.”
Dwight faked a yawn. “Expendable, buffered, non-Mormon couriers that divert heat from Dracula and ingratiate you with Mr. Hoover.”
Littell bowed. “I won’t dispute it.”
“Why should you? You know we’re grateful, and you know we’ll prosecute.”
Littell creased the list. Dwight grabbed it. Dwight dropped it in his briefcase.
“I figured you’d try to softsoap me about Lyle. The ‘you lost a brother, I lost a friend’ routine.”
Littell coughed. “It was fifteen months ago. I didn’t think it was fresh on your mind.”
Dwight squared his necktie. “Lyle was doubling. He leaked some anti-Bureau shit to the House Judiciary Committee and Bobby Kennedy. Mr. Hoover had to pull a few bugs.”
Littell went slack-jawed. I don’t believe it! Littell made big eyes.
Dwight said, “Lyle, the closet liberal. It