The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [33]
Fritsch said, “We read your report.”
Gilstrap said, “You must have had some time. I mean, the Kennedy deal and you trading shots with that spook.”
Wayne shrugged. Wayne played it frosty. Fritsch lit a cigarette. Gilstrap bummed one.
Fritsch coughed. “You didn’t care much for Officer Moore.”
Wayne shrugged. “He was dirty. I didn’t respect him as a policeman.”
Gilstrap lit up. “Dirty, how?”
“He was drunk half the time. He pressed people too hard.”
Fritsch said, “By your standards?”
“By the standards of good police work.”
Gilstrap smiled. “Those boys do things their own way.”
Fritsch smiled. “You can tell a Texan.”
Gilstrap said, “But not much.”
Fritsch laughed. Gilstrap slapped his knees.
Wayne said, “What about Moore? Did he show up?”
Fritsch shook his head. “That question is unworthy of a smart boy like you.”
Gilstrap blew smoke rings. “Try this one on. Moore didn’t like you, so he went after Durfee himself. Durfee killed him and stole his car.”
Fritsch said, “You got a six-foot-four nigger in an easily identifiable hot rod and a tristate APB out. Tell me it’s anything else and you’re stupid. And tell me the first cop who spots him won’t kill him, just so he can brag about it.”
Wayne shrugged. “That’s what DPD thinks?”
Fritsch smiled. “Them and us. And we’re the only two who count.”
Wayne shook his head. “You find the half-dozen Dallas cops who aren’t in the Klan and ask them what they think of Moore. They’ll tell you how dirty he was, how many people he pissed off, and how many suspects you’ve got.”
Gilstrap picked a hangnail. “That’s your pride talking, son. You’re blaming yourself because Durfee got away and killed a brother officer.”
Fritsch stubbed his cigarette. “DPD’s working it hard. They wanted to send one of their IA men up to talk to you, but we said no.”
Gilstrap said, “They’re talking negligence, son. You scuffled with Moore at the Adolphus, so he went out solo and got himself killed.”
Wayne kicked a footrest. An ashtray flew.
“He’s trash. If he’s dead, he deserved it. You can tell those redneck cops I said that.”
Fritsch grabbed the ashtray. “Whoa, now.”
Gilstrap scooped up butts. “Nobody’s blaming you. You proved yourself to my satisfaction.”
Fritsch said, “You showed some poor judgment, and you showed some stones. You did your reputation in this man’s police department a whole lot of good.”
Gilstrap smiled. “Tell your daddy the story. Running fire with one baaaad mother humper.”
Fritsch winked. “I feel lucky.”
Gilstrap said, “I won’t tell.”
Fritsch grabbed the chief’s desk bandit. Gilstrap pulled the handle. Gears spun. Three cherries clicked. Dimes blew out the chute. Gilstrap caught them. “There’s my lunch money.” Fritsch winked. “You mean there’s rank. Captains get to steal from lieutenants.”
Gilstrap nudged Wayne. “You’ll be a captain one day.”
Fritsch said, “Could you have done it? Killed him, I mean.”
Wayne smiled. “Durfee or Moore?”
Gilstrap whooped. “Wayne Junior’s a fireball today.”
Fritsch laughed. “Some folks don’t think so, but I say he’s his daddy’s son after all.”
Gilstrap stood up. “Tell true, boy. What did you spend that cold six on?”
Wayne grinned. Wayne said, “Liquor and call girls.”
Fritsch stood up. “He’s got Wayne Senior’s blood in his veins.”
Gilstrap winked. “We won’t tell Lynette.”
Wayne stood up. His legs hurt. He had fucking tension cramps. Gilstrap walked out. Gilstrap whistled and jiggled his dimes.
Fritsch said, “Gil likes you.”
“He likes my father.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.”
“Did my father tell you to send me to Dallas?”
“No, but he sure liked the idea.”
He worked them back—bait-and-switch—diversion. His heartbeat hit 200. His blood pressure soared. “Lone assassin”—shit. I SAW Dallas.
Wayne drove home. Wayne dawdled. Fremont was packed. Rubes waved bingo sheets. Rubes hopped casinos.
Wayne was brain-fucked. Wayne was brain-fucked off Dallas. Pete says, “Kill him.” He can’t. He runs PD checks. He gets Pete’s name. He queries three intel squads: