The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [217]
I have to—the heat’s up—Drac brought publicity. I’ll work in Vegas and rotate to you in Sparta.
Barb bought the plan. Said plan stressed Vietnam. Said plan stressed his exclusion.
They made love. They sealed the pact. They fucking snowmobiled. Fucking Sparta, Wisconsin—Lutherans and trees.
Pete scoped the ballroom. Pete watched the floor. Sal M. looked over. Sal M. looked away.
Dom’s bun boy filed missing-persons. LVPD worked the case. It got some ink. Cops checked out the Cavern. Pete bribed them. They dumped the case resultant.
Otash watchdogged Sal. Sal learned his script. It was simple shit: I just loooove civil rights! Otash worked with Dwight Holly. They redid Sal’s pad. They ripped out a closet. They hung 1-way glass and rigged a camera. Said camera faced Sal’s bed.
Fred T. assisted. Fred T. bugged lamps. Fred T. bugged walls. Fred T. bugged mattress springs.
Pete scoped the ballroom. Pete watched the floor. Celebs hobnobbed. Celebs sucked up to King.
Otash said, “You see the paper? Jack Ruby died.”
“I saw it.”
“You guys went back. Sam G.’s dropped a few hints.”
Sal looked over. Pete cued him—go in strong now.
Sal shagged a waiter. Sal cadged a drink. Sal chugalugged. Sal flushed bright. Sal mingled. Sal walked.
Fruit Alert—Bayard Rustin—fruit fly at ten o’clock high. Bayard’s got backscratchers—Burl Ives plus two—Sal’s moving in tight.
Sal sees Bayard. Bayard sees Sal. Two smiles and wet lips aflutter. Strings swell. “Strangers in the Night.” “Some Enchanted Evening.”
Burl’s pissed. Who’s this punk? I’m old-line Left. Sal said hi. Sal drifted off. Bayard eye-tracked his ass.
Otash said, “Contact.”
A bell rang. It’s chow time. Hold for pygmy banquet fare.
Cliques dispersed. The guests hit the tables. Sal eye-tracked Bayard. Sal sat nearby.
Bayard saw him. Bayard wrote a napkin note. Pat Brown passed it down. Sal read it. Sal blushed. Sal passed a note back.
Pete said, “Liftoff.”
They killed time.
They walked next door. They hit Trader Vic’s. They quaffed mai-tais. They noshed rumaki sticks.
Cops passed through. Cops dished updates.
Dinner’s done. King’s talking. King’s dripping foam at the mouth. He’s Red. He’s a puppet. I know it. The peaceniks love him. It burns me. My son’s in Vietnam.
A TV kicked on. The barman flipped channels. The barman shut off the sound. There’s war news on three channels. There’s choppers and tanks. There’s Commie King on two more.
Pete checked his watch. It was 10:16. Hold for fruit flies on high. Otash wolfed a puu-puu platter. His cummerbund swelled.
10:28:
Sal walks in. Sal sits down. Sal ignores them.
10:29:
Bayard walks in. Bayard sits down. Bayard greets Sal: Child, how are you! I’m such a fan!
Otash got up. Pete got up. Pete grabbed a shrimp spear for the road.
Setup:
They hit Sal’s pad. They aired out the closet. They prepped the camera. They loaded film. They waited. They sat still.
The closet was hot. They popped sweat. They stripped to socks and shorts.
They sat still. They killed the lights. Their watch dials ran fluorescent.
11:18. 11:29. 11:42.
Poof—doorway light. Off the bedroom—stage right.
Pete squared the camera. Otash rolled film. More light/bedroom fixtures/beams overhead.
Sal walked in. Bayard squeezed in tight. They laughed. They touched. They brushed hips. Bayard kissed Sal. Otash went ugh. Sal kissed Bayard back.
Pete squared the camera. Pete nailed the bed. Pete got Ground Zero in mid-shot.
Sal said, “Martin gives a good speech, but you’re handsom—”
Sal stopped. Sal stopped what the—
His voice fluttered. His voice echo-chambered. His voice woofered. His voice tweetered. His voice bounced high and wide.
FUCK—
Overfeed. Overamp. Microph—
Bayard tweaked. Bayard hinked. Bayard looked around fast. Bayard yodeled. Bayard yelled, “Hell-o!” Bayard got echoes back.
Sal grabbed his neck. Sal blitzed a kiss. Sal squeezed his ass. Bayard shoved him. Sal hit the bed. A mattress-mike snapped.