The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [22]
Littell rubbed his eyes. The doorbell rang. He got up and opened the door.
Pete walked in. Pete grabbed the desk chair. Pete sprawled out tall.
Littell shut the door. “How bad?”
Pete said, “Bad. The map looks good, but he won’t pop Oswald. He’s crazy, but I can’t fault him for brains.”
Littell rubbed his eyes. “Maynard Moore, right? That’s his name.”
Pete yawned. “Guy’s slipping. He usually plays his names closer than that.”
Littell shook his head. “Mr. Hoover made him. He had a file on Tippit. He assumed that Moore had to be somewhere close.”
“That’s your interpretation, right? Hoover didn’t get that specific.”
“He never does.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “How scared are you?”
“It comes and goes, and I wouldn’t mind some good news.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “Rogers made it down to Juarez. The pro got down, but the Border Patrol detained him and ran a passport check. Guy said he’s a French national.”
Littell said, “Guy’s talking too much.”
“He’s scared. He knows Carlos is thinking, ‘If I went with Pete and Ward’s crew, none of this shit would have happened.’ ”
Littell cleaned his glasses. “Where is he?”
“He drove back to New Orleans. His nerves are shot, and he’s popping digitalis like a fucking junkie. All this shit is on him, and he knows it.”
Littell said, “And?”
Pete cracked a window. Cold air blew in.
“And what?”
“There’s more. Guy wouldn’t be going back unless he had an excuse to hand Carlos.”
Pete flicked his cigarette out. “Jack Ruby knows. He brought one of his flunkies and some women up to the safe house. They saw the targets and guns. Guy’s saying we should clip them. I think he’ll tell Carlos that, so he can buy his way out of the shit.”
Littell coughed. His pulse zoomed. He held his breath.
“We can’t take out four people that close to the hit. It’s too obvious.”
Pete laughed. “Shit, Ward, say it. I’ve got no balls for clipping civilians, so why should you?”
Littell smiled. “Ruby aside.”
Pete shrugged. “Jack’s no skin off my ass either way.”
“The women, then. That’s what we’re talking about.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “I’m not negotiating on that. I already warned one of them off, but I couldn’t find the other one.”
“Give me their names.”
“Betty McDonald and Arden something.”
Littell touched his tie. Littell scratched his neck. Littell made his hands quash his nerves.
He twitched. He swallowed. He gulped. The room was cold. He shut the window.
“Oswald.”
“Yeah. If he goes, this all disappears.”
“When are they moving him?”
“Eleven-thirty. If he hasn’t named Guy’s cutout by then, we can put the skids to all this.”
Littell coughed. “I’ve arranged for a private interview. The ASAC said he hasn’t talked, but I want to make sure.”
Pete shook his head. “Bullshit. You want to get close to him. You want to run some kind of fucking absolution number on him, so you can do a number on yourself later.”
In nomine patris, et filii et spiritus sancti, Amen.
“It’s nice to have someone who knows you.”
Pete laughed. “I wasn’t doubting you. I just want to work this fucking thing out.”
Littell said, “Moore. There’s no way he—”
“No. He knows too much, drinks too much and talks too much. After Oswald goes, he goes, and we draw the line at that.”
Littell checked his watch. Shit—1:40 a.m.
“He’s a policeman. He could get into the basement.”
“No. He’s too crazy. He’s working an extradition gig with a Vegas cop, and he gets in the guy’s face in the worst possible way. He’s not what we want.”
Littell rubbed his eyes. “What was the man’s name? The cop, I mean.”
“Wayne something. Why?”
“Tedrow?”
Pete said, “Yeah, and why do you care? He’s got nothing to do with any of this, and the fucking clock is ticking.”
Littell checked his watch. Carlos bought it for him. A gold Rolex/pure ostentat—
“Ward, are you in a fucking trance?”
Littell said, “Jack Ruby.”
Pete rocked his chair back. The legs squeaked.
Littell said, “He’s insane. He’s afraid of us. He’s afraid of the Outfit. He’s got seven brothers and sisters that we can threaten.”
Pete smiled. “The cops know he’s crazy. He carries