The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [51]
Littell moved in. Littell dodged golf balls. Littell tore the phones up. Littell bugswept them.
The phones were safe. He rebuilt them. He relaxed and unpacked.
Arden was in L.A. She moved toward him piecemeal. Dallas to Balboa/Balboa to L.A. Vegas scared her. The Boys partied there. She knew the Boys. She wouldn’t say how.
She was his “Jane” now. She loved her new name. She loved her revised history.
He finished her transcript. She learned the details. An agent planted the goods. She told him Jane stories—straight off the cuff—she dropped details and recalled them days later.
He memorized them. He caught her subtext:
You made me. Live with your work. Don’t challenge my tales. You’ll know me. I’ll say who I was.
Pete knew about Arden. Pete learned in Dallas. He trusted Pete. Pete trusted him. The Boys owned them both.
Carlos told Pete to kill Arden. Pete said, “Okay.” Pete won’t kill women. That’s pure un-okay.
Pete killed Jack Zangetty. Pete flew to New Orleans. Pete briefed Carlos on it. Carlos loved the Polaroids. Carlos said, “Three more.”
Pete drove to Dallas. Pete checked around. Pete called Carlos. Pete reported back:
Jack Ruby’s nuts. He scratches. He moans. He talks to spirit husks. Hank Killiam split Dallas. Hank booked to Florida. Betty Mac split to parts unknown.
Arden? She vanished—that’s all I’ve got. Carlos said, “Okay—for now.”
The Summit succeeded. His plan wowed the Boys. They vetoed the dope plan. Pete logged a No. Pete braced Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior said No. Pete logged two Nos straight.
Doug Eversall called him—on Christmas Eve. Doug said, “I couldn’t tape Bobby.”
He said, “Keep your tape rig—and brace him again.”
Merry Christmas. Don’t fall off your high shoe. Don’t drop your microphone.
He called Mr. Hoover. He said he had a Bobby source. He said he hotwired him.
He didn’t say:
I need to hear Bobby’s voice.
23
(Las Vegas, 1/6/64)
The heat ducts blew. The squadroom froze. Fucking igloo time.
Guys split en masse. Wayne worked solo. Wayne cleaned up his desk.
He sifted desk junk. He stacked the Dallas dailies first. He had some Ruby shit. He had bopkes on Moore and Durfee.
Sonny Liston sent a postcard. It rehashed their “good times.” Sonny foresaw a Clay fight KO.
He cleaned up one file—the West LV whore jobs/reports and snapshots. Colored whores/bad bruises/smeared lipstick and contusions.
He held the file. He read it. He looked for leads. Nothing popped out. The assigned cop hated Negroes. The assigned cop hated whores. The assigned cop drew dicks in their mouths.
Wayne stacked papers. Wayne cleared his desk. Wayne locked the file up. Wayne typed reports.
The squadroom froze. The ducts blew—brrr-fucking-brrr.
Wayne yawned. Wayne craved sleep. Lynette bugged him incessant. Lynette had one refrain: “What happened in Dallas?”
He dodged her. He split home early. He worked late. He logged lounge time. He nursed beers. He caught Barb B. He nursed this big crush.
He sat near the stage. Pete sat close by. They never talked. They both eyed the redhead.
Call it leverage. Call it a buffer zone—let’s stay in touch.
Lynette rode him. Lynette said don’t hide from me. Lynette said don’t hide with Wayne Senior.
He hid there pre-Dallas. He crushed on Janice pre-Barb. Dallas changed things. He reworked his crush time now.
He watched Barb. He played chicken with Pete concurrent. Janice played supporting crush.
He dodged Wayne Senior now. Christmas tore it. The film and the hate tracts—Wayne Senior’s print style.
The oldies were one thing. “Veto Tito!”/“Castrate Castro!”/“Ban the U.N.!” It was fear shit. It was Red Tides. It was no hate overt.
He saw Little Rock. Wayne Senior didn’t. The Klan torched a car. The gas cap blew. It put a colored boy’s eye out. Some punks raped a colored girl. They wore rubbers. They shoved them in her mouth.
Wayne yawned. Wayne pulled carbons. The fine print blurred.
Buddy Fritsch walked up. “You bored with your work?”
Wayne stretched. “Do you care if blackjack dealers have misdemeanor convictions?