The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [44]
HH: Jesus, that was some speech. You’re a long-winded guy.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
HH: You didn’t mention your Mafia pals.
WJL: Sir?
HH: I talked to Mr. Hoover. He said you’ve got those guys in your pocket. What’s that guy’s name in New Orleans?
WJL: Carlos Marcello?
HH: Marcello, right. Mr. Hoover said he eats out of your hand. He said, “When the time’s right, Littell will jew those dagos down and get you your hotels at rock-bottom prices.”
WJL: I’ll certainly try.
HH: You’ll do better than that.
WJL: I’ll try, Sir.
HH: We’ve got to devise a germ policy.
WJL: Sir?
HH: At my hotels. No germs, no Negroes. Negroes are well-known germ conduits. They’ll infect my slot machines.
WJL: I’ll look into it, Sir.
HH: My solution is mass sedation. I’ve been reading chemistry books. Certain narcotic substances possess germ-killing characteristics. We could sedate the Negroes, lower their white-blood count and keep them out of my hotels.
WJL: Mass sedation would require certain sanctions that we might not get.
HH: You’re not convinced. I can tell by your voice.
WJL: I’ll give it some thought.
HH: Think about this. Lee Oswald was a germ conduit and a deadly-disease transmitter. He didn’t need a rifle. He could have breathed on Kennedy and killed him.
WJL: It’s an interesting theory, Sir.
HH: Only Mormons and FBI men have clean blood.
WJL: You’ve got quite a few Mormons in Nevada. There’s a man named Wayne Tedrow Senior that I may approach on your behalf.
HH: I’ve got some good Mormons here. They set me up with Fred Otash.
WJL: I’ve heard of him.
HH: He’s the “Private Eye to the Stars.” He’s been running a string of Howard Hughes look-alikes all over L.A., like Pete Bondurant used to. Those subpoena servers follow them around like robots.
WJL: Again, Sir. Dodging subpoenas only prolongs the whole process.
HH: Ward, you’re a goddamn killjoy.
(WJL laughs.)
HH: Freddy’s Lebanese. Those people have high white-cell counts. I like him, but he’s no Pete.
WJL: Pete’s working with me in Las Vegas.
HH: Good. Frenchmen have low white-cell counts. I read it in the National Geographic.
WJL: He’ll be pleased to hear it.
HH: Good. Tell him I said hello, and tell him to procure me some medicine. He’ll know what I mean. Tell him my Mormons have been bringing me inferior goods.
WJL: I’ll tell him.
HH: Let me make one thing clear before I hang up.
WJL: Sir?
HH: I want to buy Las Vegas.
WJL: You’ve made yourself clear.
HH: The desert air kills germs.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
20
(Las Vegas, 12/23/63)
The Party—a Vegas perennial—Wayne Senior’s Christmas bash.
A fag redid the ranch house. He added ice sculptures and snow-flocked walls. He hired elves and nymphs.
The elves were wetbacks. They slung hors d’oeuvres. They wore mock-rag coats. The nymphs whored at the Dunes. They served cleavage and drinks.
The fag brought a bandstand. The fag added a dance floor. The fag hired a bumfuck quartet.
Barb & the Bail Bondsmen—a singer and three swish ex-cons.
Wayne circulated. The combo bugged him. He popped the trumpet for flim-flam. He popped the sax for stat rape.
The singer compensated—red hair and wild legs.
Lynette circulated. The crowd meshed. Cops and Vegas trash. Mormons and Nellis brass.
Wayne Senior circulated. Janice danced solo. A crowd watched her. Janice shimmied. Janice swayed. Janice dipped loooow.
Wayne Senior walked up. Wayne Senior twirled his walking stick. A Nellis one-star grabbed it.
He cued the combo. Barb tapped a beat. The combo vamped. Barb palmed maracas.
The one-star knelt. The one-star dropped the stick