The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [26]
He crossed an access lane. He parked by the HoJo’s. He walked by the rooms. He squinted. He saw the “14.”
There—the door’s ajar. That’s Arden on the bed. Littell walked in.
Littell shut the door. Littell bumped a TV set. The juice was off. The box was warm. He smelled cigarettes.
Arden said, “Sit here.”
Littell sat down. The bedsprings sagged. Arden moved her legs.
“You look different without your glasses.”
“I broke them.”
She had her hair up. She wore a green sweater-dress.
Littell turned a lamp on. Arden blinked. Littell bent the lamp down. It shaded the glare.
“What did you do with your things?”
“I rented a storage garage.”
“In your own name?”
“You’re being disingenuous. You know I’m better than that.”
Littell coughed. “You’ve been watching television.”
“Along with the whole country.”
“You know some things they don’t.”
“We’ve got our version, they’ve got theirs. Is that what you’re saying?”
“You’re being disingenuous now.”
Arden hugged a pillow. “How did they convince him? How do you make someone do something so crazy on live television?”
“He was crazy to start with. And sometimes the stakes are so high that they play in your favor.”
Arden shook her head. “I don’t want to get more specific.”
Littell shook his head. “We don’t have to discuss it.”
Arden smiled. “I’m wondering why you’re going to so much trouble to help me.”
“You know why.”
“I may ask you to say it.”
“I will. If we go forward on this.”
“ ‘This?’ Are we going to define any of our terms at all?”
Littell coughed—full ashtrays/stale smoke.
“Confirm something for me. You’ve been in trouble, you’ve run before, you know how to do it.”
Arden nodded. “It’s something I’m good at.”
“That’s good, because I can get you a completely new identity.”
Arden crossed her legs. “Is there a disclosure clause in all ‘this’? ”
Littell nodded. “We can hold back some secrets.”
“That’s important. I don’t like to lie unless I have to.”
“I’m going to Washington for a few days. Then I’ll be setting up a base in Las Vegas. You can meet me there.”
Arden grabbed her cigarettes. The pack was empty—she tossed it.
“We both know who’s behind this. And I know they all pass through Vegas.”
“I do work for them. It’s one reason why you’ll be safe with me.”
“I’d feel safer in L.A.”
Littell smiled. “Mr. Hughes lives there. I’ll need to get a house or apartment.”
“I’ll meet you, then. I’ll trust you that far.”
Littell checked his watch—1:24 p.m.—Littell grabbed the phone by the bed.
Arden nodded. He pulled the phone to the bathroom. The cord almost snapped. He shut the door. He dialed the Adolphus. The switchboard patched him through.
Pete picked up. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
“Yeah, and you’re the white man of the week. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure that he’d do it.”
“What about Moore?”
“He goes. I’ll tail him and get him alone.”
Littell hung up. Littell walked back. Littell dropped the phone on a chair.
He sat on the bed. Arden slid close.
Arden said, “Say it.”
He squinted. Her freckles jumped. Her smile blurred.
“I’ve got nothing but the wrong things, and I want to take something good out of this.”
“That’s not enough.”
Littell said, “I want you.” Arden touched his leg.
12
(Dallas, 11/24/63)
Reruns:
The thumb. Pete and Moore. Killer Jack and Killer Lee.
Wayne drove I-35. The reruns hit. A soundtrack sputtered:
He calls Moore. He says, “Meet me. I’ve got a lead on Durfee.” He lies. He drops details. Static fries the line and blows the connection.
Moore gets the last word. Moore says, “… have us big fun.”
The freeway was flat. Flat blacktop/flat empty. Flat sand adjacent. Sand flats and scrub. Jackrabbit bones. Sand grit in circulation.
The soundtrack distorted. He’d fucked up the call. The Jack and Lee Show fucked with him.
A rabbit jumped. It hit the road. It cleared his wheels clean. A wind kicked up. It tossed scrub balls and waxed paper.
There’s the sign: Rest Stop #10.
Wayne pulled in. Wayne scoped the parking lot slooooow.
Gravel paving. No cars. Tire tracks on sand adjacent. Flat sand. Drift sand. Scrub balls hip-high.