The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [38]
Shouts overlapped. Spooks ad-libbed. A spook defamed Wayne Tedrow Senior.
Slumlord Senior stiffed him. Slumlord Senior fucked him. Slumlord Senior raised his rent. The noise got bad. Pete got a headache. Pete dosed it with pork rinds and scotch.
The Senior talk tweaked him—a gem within jive. Junior worked the intel squad. Junior had the gaming board files.
The spook gained steam. The spook digressed off Senior. The spook sparked other spooks. They aired the Spook Agenda wiiiiide.
Jim Crow. Civil rights. Real-estate sanctions. Praise for Martin Luther King.
The vibe went bad. The spooks vibed lynch mob. Pete caught bum looks:
WE THE MAN! YOU the ofay exploiter!
Pete walked out. Pete moved fast. Pete caught some elbows.
He hit the sidewalk. A kid buffed his car. He tipped him. He pulled out. A Chevy pulled out on cue.
Pete caught the move. Pete checked his rearview. Pete made the driver:
Young/white/cop haircut. Some kind of kid fuzz.
Pete zigzagged. Pete blew a stop sign. The Chevy stuck tail-close. They hit LV proper. Pete stopped at a light. Pete set the emergency brake.
The Chevy idled. Pete walked back. Pete twirled his belt sap. The kid cop played cool. The kid cop twirled a play chip.
Pete reached in. Pete grabbed it. The kid cop guuuulped.
A red chip—$20—scrip for the Land o’ Gold. Shit—Wayne Senior’s joint.
Pete laughed. Pete said, “Tell Sergeant Tedrow to call me.”
16
(Washington, D.C., 12/9/63)
ID work—old forms and smeared ink.
Littell worked. His kitchen table creaked. He knew paper and smudge art. The FBI taught him.
He smudged a birth-certificate form. He baked it on a hot plate. He sliced pen tubes and rolled smears.
The old Arden Smith/Coates—now the new Jane Fentress.
The apartment was hot. It helped dry forms. Littell rolled ink on a seal-stamp. He stole it from Dallas PD.
Arden was southern. Arden talked southern. Alabama had a lax driver’s-license policy. Applicants sent fees in. Birth certificates ditto. Written test forms went out.
They completed them. They mailed them in. They sent in a snapshot. They got their DL return mail.
Littell flew to Alabama—eight days back. Littell researched births and deaths. Jane Fentress was born in Birmingham. Her DOB was 9/4/26. Her DOD was 8/1/29.
He drove to Bessemer. He rented an apartment. He put “Jane Fentress” on the mailbox. Bessemer to Birmingham—twenty-two miles.
Littell switched pens. Littell spread fresh paper. Littell inked vertical lines.
Arden was a bookkeeper. Arden claimed credentials. Arden went to school in DeKalb, Mississippi. Let’s upgrade her—Tulane, ’49—let’s give her an accounting degree.
He was due in New Orleans. He could visit Tulane. He could skim old catalogs. He could learn the academic terrain. He could forge a transcript. He could solicit Mr. Hoover. Local agents knew Tulane. A man could plant the goods.
Littell lined six sheets—standard college forms. He worked fast. He blotted. He smudged. He smeared.
Arden was safe. He stashed her in Balboa—due south of L.A.
A hotel hideaway—paid for by Hughes Tool. Tool Co. ignored his expenses—per Mr. Hughes’ edict.
He swapped notes with Mr. Hughes. They spoke on the phone. They never officially met. He snuck into Drac’s lair—one time only—the assassination a.m.
There’s Drac:
He’s sucking IV blood. He’s shooting dope in his dick. He’s tall. He’s thin. His nails curl back.
Mormons guarded him. Mormons cleaned his spikes. Mormons fed him blood. Mormons swabbed his injection tracks.
Drac stayed in his room. Drac owned his room. The hotel endured him—call it squatter’s rights—Beverly Hills–style.
Littell spread photos out. Arden—three ways. One passport-DL shot/two keepsakes.
They made love in Balboa. A window blew open. Some kids heard them. The kids laughed. Their dog carried on.
Arden had sharp hips. He was bone-thin. They bumped and scraped and blundered into a fit.
Arden touched up her gray hair. Arden’s pulse ran quick. She’d had scarlet fever as a kid. She’d had one abortion.
She was running. He caught her. Her run predated