The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [40]
Carlos flicked ash. “Narcotics is a tough sell. Nobody wants to put Vegas in the shitter.”
“Vegas is the shitter.”
“No, Mr. I-Was-Almost-a-Priest, it’s your fucking salvation. It’s your debt to pay off, and without that debt you’d be in the shitter with your friend Kemper Boyd.”
Littell coughed. The smoke was bad. The wall unit swirled it.
Carlos said, “So?”
“So, I have a plan for the Pension Fund books. It’s long-range, and it derives from your plans for Mr. Hughes.”
“You mean our plans.”
Littell coughed. “Yes, ours.”
Carlos shrugged—I’m bored for now—Carlos held up a file.
“Jimmy said you need a guy next to Bobby.”
Littell grabbed the file. Littell skimmed the top page—one Shreveport PD rap sheet/one note.
8/12/54: Doug Eversall drives home. Doug Eversall hits three kids. He’s drunk. The kids die. Doug’s DA pal buries it.
For his pal: Carlos Marcello.
Doug Eversall is a lawyer. Doug Eversall works at Justice. Bobby likes Doug. Bobby hates drunks and loves kids. Bobby doesn’t know Doug’s a kid-killer.
Carlos said, “You’ll like Doug. He’s on the wagon, like you.”
Littell grabbed his briefcase and stood up. Carlos said, “Not yet.”
The smoke was bad. It punched up the booze fumes. Littell almost drooled.
“We got some loose ends, Ward. Ruby bothers me, and I think we should send him a message.”
Littell coughed. Here it com—
“Guy said you know the story. You know, all that grief at Jack Zangetty’s motel.”
Chills now—steam off dry ice.
“I know the story, yes. I know what Guy wants you to do, and I’m against it. It’s unnecessary, it’s too conspicuous, it’s too close to Ruby’s arrest.”
Carlos shook his head. “They go. Tell Pete to take care of it.”
Dizzy—weightless now.
“This is all on Banister. He let them go to the safe house. He screwed up on Tippit and Oswald. He’s the drunk who’ll be bragging to every right-wing shithead on God’s green earth.”
Carlos shook his head. Carlos waved four fingers.
“Zangetty, Hank Killiam, that Arden cunt, and Betty McDonald. Tell Pete I don’t expect a big delay.”
17
(Las Vegas, 12/13/63)
The Dallas paper ran it—page 6 news—NO LEADS ON MISSING POLICEMAN.
Wayne sat in Sills’ Tip-Top. Wayne hogged a window booth. He held his gun—locked & cocked—the paper covered it.
The paper loved Maynard Moore. Moore got more ink than Jack Ruby. FAN MAIL FOR ASSASSIN’S SLAYER. CHIEF LAUDS MISSING OFFICER. NEGRO SOUGHT IN BAFFLING DISAPPEARANCE.
Wayne counted down. He had eighteen days in now. The Warren probe/the “Lone Gunman”/no news as good news.
He still worried Dallas. He still skipped meals. He still pissed every six seconds.
Pete walked in. Pete showed up punctual. He saw Wayne. He sat down. He smiled.
He checked Wayne’s lap. He peeked and goofed. He saw the paper.
He said, “Aww, come on.”
Wayne reholstered. Wayne fumbled his gun. Wayne banged the table. A waitress saw it. Wayne blushed red. Pete cracked his knuckles.
“I watched you clean up. You did a good job, but I wish you’d thought the nigger through.”
Wayne felt piss pressure. Wayne clenched up downstairs.
“You’re comped at the Stardust. That means the Chicago guys brought you in.”
“Keep going.”
“You think I owe you for that weekend.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “I want to see your gaming board files.”
Wayne said, “No.”
Pete grabbed a fork. Pete twirled it. Pete squeezed it and bent it in two. The waitress saw it. The waitress freaked.
She went oooh. She dropped a tray. She made a mess.
“I could go around you. Buddy Fritsch is supposed to be nice.”
Wayne looked out the window. Wayne saw a two-car crash.
Pete said, “Fucking tailgaters. I always wrote up guys like—”
“I’ve got the files stashed, and there’s no carbons. It’s an old fail-safe policy. If you go to Buddy, I’ll have my father intercede. Buddy’s afraid of him.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “That’s all I get for Dallas?”
“Nothing happened in Dallas. Don’t you watch the news?”
Pete walked out. Wayne felt piss pressure. Wayne ran to the can.
18
(Las Vegas, 12/13/63)
One more headache/one more headache drink/one more lounge.
The