The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [41]
Pete sipped scotch. A moon maid fed him peanuts. Ward left him a message. A desk clerk relayed it. Wait for a Bible code—I’ll Western Union it in.
Wayne Junior said no. Nos hurt. Nos fucked with him.
A moon maid dipped by—a faux redhead—dark roots and dark tan. Fuck faux redheads. Real redheads burned.
He got Barb a gig—three days ago—Sam G. pulled strings. Dig it: Barb & the Bail Bondsmen.
Permanent work—4 shows/6 nites—the Sultan’s Lounge at the Sahara. Barb was rehearsing. She said the Twist was out. She said the go-go beat was in.
Nigger music. The Swim/the Fish/the Watusi. White stiffs take note.
He shitcanned Barb’s ex. He shitcanned his combo. Dick Contino came through. Dick scored Barb a trio—sax/trumpet/drums—three long-term lounge denizens.
Fags. Beefcake types. USDA-certified swish.
Pete cowed them. Pete warned them. Sam G. spread the word: Barb B. was verboten. Approach once and suffer. Approach twice and die.
Barb dug Vegas. Hotel suites and nightlife. No Presidential motorcades.
West LV looked good. West LV looked contained and vice-ready.
Vice zones worked. He hit Pearl in ’42. The SPs shut down some roads and cordoned the clap. White horse would work. The niggers craved it. They’d geez up. They’d stay home. They’d soil their own rug.
A moon maid slid by—a faux blonde—dark roots and Miss Clairol. She fed him some peanuts. She dropped off Ward’s note.
Pete killed his drink. Pete went up to the suite. Pete got out the Gideon book. The code spanned the whole text—chapter and verse—Exodus to First John.
He worked off a scratch pad—numbers to letters—letters to words.
There:
“CM’s orders. Elim. 4 from motel/safe house. Call tomorrow night, 10:30 EST. Pay phone in Silver Spring, Md.: BL4-9883.”
19
(Silver Spring, 12/14/63)
Perfect:
The off ramp / the road / the train station / the tracks / the platform / the phone.
A freeway adjacent. Off-ramp access. Parking-lot view. Late commuters passing through—milk runs from D.C.
Littell sat in his car. Littell watched the ramp—hold for a powder-blue Ford. Carlos described Eversall. He’s a tall guy. He’s got one high shoe.
9:26 p.m.
The express blew by. Cars parked and split. The local should stop at 10:00.
Littell studied his script. It stressed Eversall’s time in New Orleans. It stressed Lee Oswald’s time there. It stressed the ’63 racket hearings. It stressed Bobby’s star role.
Mob panic ensues. Two months pass. JFK dies. Eversall links the dots. Eversall sees collusion.
Littell checked his watch—9:30 sharp—hold for the man with the high shoe.
A blue Ford pulled in. Littell flashed his lights. Littell strafed the windshield and grille. The Ford braked and stopped. A tall man got out. Said man swayed on a high shoe.
Littell hit his brights. Eversall blinked and tripped. He caught himself. His bad leg buckled. His briefcase balanced him.
Littell killed his brights. Littell popped the passenger door. Eversall limped up—briefcase as ballast—Eversall fell on the seat.
Littell shut the door. Littell hit the roof light. It haloed Eversall.
Littell frisked him.
He grabbed his crotch. He pulled his shirt up. He pulled down his socks. He opened his briefcase. He went through his files. He dropped the script in.
Eversall smelled—sweat and bay rum. His breath reeked of peanuts and gin.
Littell said, “Did Carlos explain?”
Eversall shook his head. His neck muscles bobbed.
“Answer me. I want to hear your voice.”
Eversall squirmed. His high shoe hit the dash.
“I never talk to Carlos. I get calls from this Cajun-type guy.”
He said it slow. He blinked in time. He blinked and ducked from the light. Littell grabbed his tie. Littell jerked it. Littell pulled him back in the light.
“You’re going to wear a wire and talk to Bobby. I want to know what he thinks about the assassination.”
Eversall blinked. Eversall st-st-stuttered.
Littell jerked his tie. “I read a piece in the Post. Bobby’s throwing a Christmas party, and he’s inviting some people from Justice.”
Eversall blinked. Eversall