The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [28]
Durfee stood up. His legs went. He fell on his ass.
Pete leaned on Moore’s car. Pete reached inside. Pete flipped off the key. Wayne leaned in his car. Wayne grabbed the six thousand. Wayne coughed up gravel grit.
Pete said, “Kill him.”
Wayne walked up to Durfee. Durfee sobbed. Durfee watched Wayne’s hands. He saw a gun. He saw a cash bag. He saw two hands full.
Wayne dropped the bag. Durfee grabbed it. Durfee stood up. Durfee got legs and ran.
Wayne leaned on his knees. Wayne puked his lunch up. Wayne tasted hamburger and sand.
Durfee ran.
He tripped through sand drifts. He got his Merc. He gunned it. He bumped drifts. He plowed them. He made the lot. He made I-35 south.
Pete walked over. Wayne wiped his face. Wayne smeared Maynard Moore’s blood.
Pete said, “You picked a good place for it. You picked a good weekend, too.”
Wayne leaned on his knees. Wayne dropped the gun. Pete grabbed it up.
“There’s an oil dump two miles down. You can ditch the car there.”
Wayne straightened up. Pete steadied him. Pete said, “Maybe I’ll see you in Vegas.”
13
(Dallas, 11/25/63)
Jack’s wake blared—epidemic boo-hoo—it cut through the bridal suite walls.
Barb said, “I’m getting the picture. The fix is in.”
Pete packed his suitcase. “Some people got Christmas early. They know how things work, and they know what’s best for the country.”
Barb folded her gowns. “There’s a catch. For us, I mean.”
Pete tuned her out. He’d just talked to Guy. Guy just talked to Carlos. Carlos loved the Ruby Show. Carlos wanted to clip Maynard Moore.
Guy told Pete that. Pete ad-libbed. Pete said Moore vanished—ka-poof!
Guy spritzed on Moore’s Vegas gig. Guy ragged Wayne Junior. Junior knew shit—small fucking world—Wayne Senior greased the hit fund.
Barb said, “The catch. Don’t tell me there isn’t one. And don’t tell me those tickets to Vegas aren’t part of it.”
Pete stashed his piece. “Are you saying that two tickets was being optimistic?”
“No. You know I’ll never leave you.”
Pete smiled. “There’s some fuck-ups I wouldn’t have made, if I’d known you better.”
Barb smiled. “The catch? Vegas? And don’t make eyes at me when we have to run for a plane.”
Pete shut his suitcase. “The Outfit has plans for Mr. Hughes. Ward’s putting some things together.”
“It’s about staying useful, then.”
“Yeah. Stay useful, stay healthy. If I can get them to bend a certain rule, I’d call it a lock.”
Barb said, “What rule?”
“Come on, you know what I do.”
Barb shook her head. “You’re versatile. You run shakedowns and you sell guns and dope. You killed the President of the United States once, but I’d have to call that a one-time opportunity.”
Pete laughed. Pete made his sides hurt. Pete leaked some wiiiiild tears. Barb tossed a towel up. Pete wiped his eyes and de-teared.
“You can’t move heroin there. It’s a set policy, but it’s probably the best way I can make the Boys some real money. They might go for it, if I only sell to the spooks in West Vegas. Mr. Hughes hates jigs. He thinks they should all be doped up, like he is. The Boys might decide to humor him.”
Barb got This Look. Pete knew the gestalt. I fucked JFK. You killed him. My craaazy life.
She said, “Useful.”
“Yeah, that’s it.”
Barb grabbed her Twist gowns. Barb dropped them out the window. Pete looked out. A kid looked up. The blue gown hit a ledge.
Barb waved. The kid waved back.
“The Twist is dead, but I’ll bet you could get me some lounge gigs.”
“We’ll be useful.”
“I’m still scared.”
Pete said, “That’s the catch.”
December 1963–October 1964
DOCUMENT INSERT:12/1/63. Internally circulated FBI intelligence report. Marked: “Classified Confidential 2-A: Restricted Agent Access”/“Pertinent Facts & Observations on Major Las Vegas Hotel-Casino Ownerships & Related Topics.” Note: Officially logged at Southern Nevada Office, 2/8/63.
The major Las Vegas hotel-casinos are situated in two locales: The downtown (Fremont Street/“Glitter Gulch”) area and “The Strip” (Las Vegas Blvd, the city