The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [214]
DIR: Do you remain convinced that your brother did not write that “Confession”?
BR: More than ever, Sir. Although now I’m starting to think that it was not CRUSADER RABBIT. I think there’s a fair chance that it could have been someone within the SCLC, who had a private investigator or someone of that ilk sweep and find the bugs and taps, and then decide to capitalize on my brother’s death and send in the “Confession.”
DIR: I will concede the possibility.
BR: I think your basic assessment of CRUSADER RABBIT is valid, Sir. He lives for intrigue, he’ll betray his moral convictions for the chance to do high-level ops, and he’s trustworthy and exploitable within a limited sphere.
DIR: Did you offer him the chance to install the bugs?
BR: I did, Sir. He accepted immediately.
DIR: I thought he would.
BR: I’m glad you approved my proposal, Sir. Public opinion has turned against electronic surveillance, and we need organized-crime wires in place.
DIR: I would amend your statement. We need covertly planted, deniable bugs monitored by handpicked agents in place.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: How did you describe the assignment?
BR: I said sixteen cities, Stage-2 Covert. I mentioned Mike Lyman’s Restaurant in Los Angeles, Lombardo’s in San Francisco, the Grapevine Tavern in St. Louis, and a few others.
DIR: Did you mention the stately El Encanto Hotel in Santa Barbara?
BR: I did, Sir.
DIR: How did CRUSADER react?
BR: He didn’t. He obviously has no idea that Bobby Kennedy keeps a suite there.
DIR: The attendant irony delights me. CRUSADER RABBIT bugs Prince Bobby’s hotel digs. He’s convinced the suite belongs to a prince of organized crime.
BR: It’s a pisser, Sir.
DIR: CRUSADER RABBIT is an entrenched Bobbyphile. You’re sure that he has no knowledge of Bobby’s suite?
BR: I’m certain, Sir. I’ve got the manager in my pocket. He told me that Bobby’s policy is never to reveal that he stays there. He’ll let CRUSADER in to do his work, and he’ll make sure that Bobby’s personal belongings are temporarily removed.
DIR: Salutary.
BR: Thank you, Sir.
DIR: We need access to Bobby. I’m convinced that he’ll form an unholy alliance with RED RABBIT.
BR: We’re covered on the Bobby front, Sir.
DIR: As we’ll be on PINK front, assuming that young Mineo is convincingly fetching.
BR: He will be, Sir. We hired queer to entrap queer, which should pay off in the end.
DIR: I want a duplicate copy of the film. Have it processed the morning after the fund-raiser.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Make two copies. I’ll give Lyndon Johnson one for his birthday.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Good day, Dwight. Go with God.
BR: Good day, Sir.
100
(Las Vegas, 12/5/66)
Wayne picked the lock.
He worked two picks. He tweaked the bolt. He jiggled hard right. Deadbeat patrol/room 6/Desert Dawn Motel.
Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s got two last names. Sirhan Sirhan.”
The door popped. They stepped inside. Wayne toed the door shut. Check the four-wall dump-site.
Soiled bed. No rugs. Horse-race posters/jockey silks/racing forms stacked.
Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s a track nut.”
The room smelled. Scents mingled. Spilled vodka and stale chink. Stale cheese spread and cigarettes.
Wayne checked the dresser. Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne sifted junk. Acne swabs/booze empties/cigarette butts.
Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s a pack rat.”
Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne perused. Wayne sifted junk. Racing forms and tip logs. Scratch sheets and hate tracts.
Cheap-paper tracts. Non–Wayne Senior stock. Text and cartoons—anti-Jew stuff.
Dollar-sign skullcaps. Bloody prayer shawls. Fangs dripping pus. “The Zionist Pig Order”/“The Vampire Jew”/“The Jewish Cancer Machine.” Jews with claw hands. Jews with pig feet. Jews with scimitar dicks.
Wayne skimmed text. Said text waxed repetitious. The Jews fucked the Arabs.