The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [218]
It hit the floor. It bounced. It rolled. It stopped.
Pete said, “Shit.”
Otash said, “Fuck.”
Bayard yelled—“Hell-o, J. Edgar!”—Bayard got echoes back.
Sal grabbed a pillow. Sal hid his face. Sal nellied out. Sal kicked his legs nonstop.
Bayard looked around. Bayard saw the mirror. Bayard ran up.
He hit the glass.
He gouged his hands.
He tore his hands up.
102
(Silver Spring, 1/6/67)
Bank work:
The B. of A. South of D.C. Tithe tunnel 3.
Littell wrote a deposit slip. Littell wrote a withdrawal slip. Littell scrawled an envelope.
Seven grand—one Drac-pilfered deposit. Five grand—one tithe withdrawn. A donation from “Richard D. Wilkins”—tithe pseudonym 3.
Littell got in line. Littell saw a teller. Littell showed his slips and bankbook. The teller smiled. The teller ran his paperwork. The teller metered his check.
He checked his book balance. He creased the check. He sealed the envelope. He walked outside. He dodged snowdrifts. He found a mail chute.
He dropped the letter. He checked for tails. Standard procedure now.
Negative. No tails extant. He knew it.
He stood outside. It felt good. The cold air revived him. He was tired. He’d been running—all-Bureau ops.
He toured sixteen cities. He did sixteen bug jobs. He bugged sixteen Mob meeting spots. He worked solo. Fred T. was booked. Fred T. had work with Fred O. He had off-time himself. It was Drac-approved. Drac’s Mormons filled his spot.
Said Mormons haggled in Vegas. They said sell us the DI. They said sell us more hotels.
He flew loops. He did bug jobs. He called Moe D. Moe was jazzed. Moe said we’ll bilk Drac—I know it.
He flew circuits. Chicago/K.C./Milwaukee. St. Louis/Santa Barbara/L.A. He nursed plans. He hit L.A. He acted.
He went through Jane’s file. He sifted dirt. He culled dirt on second-line hoods—all East Coast men.
It was prime Arden data. It detailed hijacks and Mob hits. It was non-tangential. It was non-fund-book-related. It was not related to: Carlos/Sam G./John Rosselli/Santo/Jimmy/et al.
He typed out the facts. He wrote succinct. He print-wiped the paper. He flew back out. He traveled. He bugged more meet spots. He hit Frisco/Phoenix/Philly. He hit D.C. and New York.
He stayed in Manhattan. He booked a hotel room. He used a pseudonym. He altered his appearance. He cosmeticized.
He bought a beard. It was dark blond and gray. It was superb quality. It covered his scars. It reshaped his face. It aged him ten years.
He met Bobby once. He met Bobby three days pre-Dallas. Bobby would remember him. Bobby knew his look.
He bought work clothes. He bought contact lenses. He surveilled Bobby’s billet: The UN Towers/old brick/off 1st Avenue.
He braced the doorman. The doorman knew Bobby. The doorman said Bobby rotates. Bobby runs south to D.C. Bobby runs back to New York.
Littell watched. Littell waited. Bobby showed two days in. Bobby brought a young aide north.
A thin boy. Dark hair and glasses. Said boy looked bright. Said boy adored Bobby. Said boy’s adulation glowed.
They walked the East Side. Constituents waved. The boy rebuffed hecklers and creeps. Littell tailed them. Littell got close. Littell heard Bobby speak.
The boy had a car. Littell got the plate stats. Littell ran them through the DMV. He got Paul Michael Horvitz/age 23/address in D.C.
Littell called Horvitz. Littell dropped hints. Littell said he had information. Horvitz bit. They arranged a meet—on for tonight in D.C.
Tellers walked out. A guard locked the bank. Snow fell. It felt cold. It warmed him.
He prepped. He worked up mannerisms. He culled a new wardrobe. He dredged up a drawl.
One tweed suit. One soft chambray shirt. Beard/lisp/fey posture.
He showed early. He named the spot: Eddie Chang’s Kowloon. The lighting was murky. Said lighting would camouflage.
He got a booth. He sprawled invertebrate. He ordered tea. He watched the door. He checked his watch.
There’s Paul.
It’s 8:01. He’s punctual. He’s youthful and sincere. Littell geared up—be aged/be fey.
Paul glanced around. Paul saw couples. Paul saw one solo act. He walked back. He sat down.