The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [264]
He hates Bobby. His logic’s warped. It’s misdirected and rationalized. He hates the Jews. He hates Israel. He hates Zionist Bobby. He hates Bobby because Bobby’s a fucking Kennedy.
He’s primed now. He’s ready now. He’s psycho. He’s blackout-prone. He’s booze-atrophied.
Fred picked the spot. Fred told Sirhan. Fred made Sirhan drink. Sirhan picked the spot. Sirhan picked it two bottles later. Sirhan usurped the idea. Sirhan thinks it’s his idea. It’s his booze epiphany.
Tomorrow night. The Ambassador Hotel. Bobby’s victory gala. Bobby to shout victory.
Bobby will be fried. Bobby will be torched and zorched—cumulatively. The kitchen’s the way out. It’s short and fast—serendipity. Sirhan’s there. Sirhan’s primed—tenaciously.
Fred knew the kitchen. Fred checked it out. Fred pumped rent-a-cops. Said cops pledged this:
Tight spaces/armed guards/tight security. That meant potential combustion/potential confusion. That meant potential insanity.
Fred’s suggested drama/Fred’s predicted lunacy:
Men draw their guns. Men shoot Sirhan. Shots bounce and hit Bobby K. Fred said he will shoot. Fred knew the nut turf. Fred-“Raul” ran James Earl Ray.
Pete looked around. The crowd yelled. The crowd went nuts. The crowd out-yelled Bobby.
The speakers backfired. Reverb blew wide. Bobby spoke basso-falsetto. Pete heard platitudes. Pete heard “end the war.” Pete heard “King’s legacy.”
Barb dug Bobby. Barb dug his antiwar shit. He hadn’t called her. She hadn’t called him. She never wrote. No contact since Sparta. No contact post-boat trip. No contact post-coronary.
The crowd yelled. Pete looked around. Pete saw a pay phone. It was streetside. It was away from the noise. It was away from Bobby.
He pushed over. People stepped aside. People saw his cane. He made the booth. He caught his breath. He fed quarters in.
He got an operator. She patched the Cavern. He got the switchboard. He shagged his messages.
No message from Barb. One message from Wayne: Call me/Lake Tahoe/urgent/this number direct.
Pete dropped quarters. Pete got an operator. She patched Tahoe direct. Pete heard two rings. Pete heard Wayne:
“Hello?”
“It’s me. Where the hell have—”
“Littell’s on to the hit. Grab him and bring him here. And tell Barb go someplace safe.”
117
(San Diego, 6/3/68)
Bobby soared.
He jabbed the air. He tossed his hair. He praised Dr. King. He co-opted him. He out-orated him. He made his praise sing.
It all worked. It all sang—the sunburn/the bray/the rolled sleeves.
The crowd soared. The crowd roared. The crowd cheered in sync. Two thousand people/crowd ropes up/parking-lot streams.
Littell watched. Littell willed Bobby: Please look at me.
See me. Don’t fear me. I won’t hurt you again. I’m a pilgrim. I fear for you. My fear’s justified.
Bobby stood on a flatbed. The tailgate shook and dipped. Aides stood below him. Aides steadied him.
Look over. Look down. See me.
His fear boiled over. It popped two weeks back. His fear stretched and peaked. He linked fear dots. He plumbed fear lines. He read fear hieroglyphs.
The news pic/the El Encanto/suite 301. The Sam line: “Box of goodies.” The Carlos line: Pete’s “small favor.” Fear connections/hieroglyphs/puzzle chips.
It got bad. It ate him up. It ruined his sleep. He split Vegas. He flew to D.C. He called Paul Horvitz.
Paul hung up. He called Mr. Hoover. He called Dwight Holly. They hung up. He drove to the Bureau. Door guards ejected him.
He flew to Oregon. He approached campaign staffers. Staff guards restrained him. He saw his name on a list—all “Known Enemies.”
He told the guards I sense things. He said please talk to me. They said no. They manhandled him. They ejected him.
Chips dovetailed. He sensed things. Mr. Hoover knows—just like he knew about Jack.
He flew to Santa Barbara. He got a hotel room. He staked out the El Encanto. He watched 301. He followed wires. He found the listening post.
Suite 208/fifty yards up/manned twenty-four hours per day.
He staked it out. He wore disguises. He worked