The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [50]
Johnny grabbed a peach. “King Farouk’s a Mexican.”
Santo said, “Good. If he blows all his money, we’ll get him a job in the kitchen.”
Sam said, “I play golf with Billy Eckstine. He’s a wonderful guy.”
Johnny said, “He’s got white blood.”
Moe said, “I play golf with Sammy Davis on a regular basis.”
Carlos yawned. Carlos coughed. Carlos cued Littell.
Littell coughed. “Mr. Hughes thinks the local Negroes should be ‘sedated.’ It’s a preposterous idea, but we may be able to turn it to our advantage.”
Moe rolled his eyes. “You’re the best, Ward. Nobody disputes that. But you tend to beat around the bush.”
Littell crossed his legs. “Carlos has tentatively agreed that we should waive our no-narcotics rule and let Pete Bondurant sell to the Negroes here. You all know the precedent. Pete trafficked for Santo’s organization in Miami from ’60 to ’62.”
Santo shook his head. “We were funding the exiles then. That was strictly an anti-Castro thing.”
Johnny shook his head. “On a one-time-only basis.”
Carlos said, “I like the idea. It’s a moneymaker, and Pete’s a hell of a resource.”
Littell said, “Let’s keep him busy. We can establish a new cash source and mollify Mr. Hughes at the same time. He doesn’t need to know the details. I’ll call it a ‘Sedation Project.’ He’ll like the way it sounds and be satisfied. He’s like a child in some ways.”
Carlos said, “It’s a moneymaker. I foresee some big profits.”
Sam shook his head. “I foresee ten thousand junkies turning Vegas into a shithole.”
Moe shook his head. “I live here. I do not want to see a big fucking influx of junkie burglars, junkie heist guys, and junkie rape-os.”
Santo shook his head. “Vegas is the Queen City of the West. You don’t soil a place like that on purpose.”
Johnny shook his head. “You’ve got a bunch of hopped-up niggers looking for their next fix. You’re watching The Lawrence Welk Show and some big spook kicks the door in and steals your TV set.”
Sam shook his head. “And rapes your wife while he’s at it.”
Santo shook his head. “You’ll send tourism into the shitter.”
Moe snatched Santo’s cigar. “Carlos, you’re outruled on this. You don’t shit on your own carpet.”
Carlos shrugged. Carlos turned his palms up.
Moe smiled. “You’re batting five hundred, Ward. That’s a hell of an average in this room. And your long-range plan is a home run.”
Sam smiled. “Out of the ballpark.”
Santo smiled. “Out of the fucking galaxy.”
Johnny smiled. “It’s Cuba all over again. With no bearded Commie faggot to fuck things up.”
Littell smiled. Littell twitched. Littell almost bit his tongue.
“I want to make sure we get a unanimous license vote from the Gaming Control Board and Liquor Board. Pete tried to get a look at the LVPD intel file and got nowhere.”
Santo snatched his cigar back. “We’ve never been able to buy off the boards. They grant their fucking licenses by whim.”
Moe said, “It’s the pioneer thing. You know, prejudice. We own this town, but they lump us in with the shvartzes.”
Johnny said, “The files are the place to start. We’ve got to find the weak links and exploit them.”
Sam said, “The cops guard that information. Pete B. couldn’t shake it loose, so what does that tell you?”
Littell stretched. “Sam, will you have one of your people make an approach? Butch Montrose, maybe?”
Sam smiled. “For you, Ward, the moon.”
Littell smiled. “I want to plant support in the state legislature. Mr. Hughes is prepared to make a series of charitable contributions and publicize them throughout Nevada, so do any of you have fav—”
Johnny cut in. “Saint Vincent de Paul.”
Sam said, “The K of C.”
Santo said, “Saint Francis Hospital. They cut my brother’s prostrate out there.”
Moe said, “The United Jewish Appeal—and fuck all you dagos.”
Dracula supplied lodging—a suite at the DI. Four rooms/golf-course access/open-end lease.
His third place.
He had a place in D.C. He had a place in L.A.—two high-rise apartments. Three homes