The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [64]
A siren nudged his ass—loud and full-tilt.
Durfee hopped a fence. The conksters swung over. The prowl car swerved. It fishtailed. It brodied up. It blocked Pete off.
He dropped the gun. He raised his hands. He smiled subservient. The cops got out. The cops pulled saps. The cops raised Ithaca pumps.
They booked him—407 PC.—Clark County Sheriff’s.
They dumped him in a sweat room. They cuffed him to a chair. Two dicks worked on him—phone books and verbal shit.
We traced that gun. It’s hot. You’re a heist man. I found the gun—fuck you.
Bullshit. Why you down here? Tell us your biz.
I crave chitlins. I crave pork rinds. I crave dark trim. Bullshit. Tell us your—
I’m a civil-rights worker. We shall over—
They swung their phone books—fat ones—L.A. directories. You’re a heist man. You rob crap games. You tried to rob those coons.
You’re wrong—I crave collard greens.
They whopped his ribs. They whopped his knees. They aired it out good. They torqued his cuffs two ratchets up. They let him stew.
His wrists went numb. His arms went numb. He held a class-A piss.
He ran options:
Don’t call Littell. Don’t call the Boys. Don’t look très dumb. Don’t call Barb—don’t scare her.
His back went numb. His chest went numb. He pissed in his pants. He dug in. He dredged some juice. He snapped the cuff chain. He moved his arms and rewired his blood.
The dicks walked back in. They saw the snapped chain. One geek whistled and clapped.
Pete said, “Call Wayne Tedrow. He’s on LVPD.”
Wayne Junior showed up. The dicks left them alone. Wayne Junior took off his cuffs.
“They said you tried to take down a dice game.”
Pete rubbed his wrists. “Do you believe that?”
Wayne Junior frowned—diva with a grievance. Wayne Junior tucked his head up his ass.
Pete stood up. Some blood rewired. His eardrums popped.
“Have they got a seventy-two-hour detention law here?”
“Yeah, release or arraign.”
“I’ll ride it out, then. I’ve been there before.”
“What do you want? You want a favor? You want me to quit coming to your wife’s shows?”
Pete jiggled his arms. Some numbness went.
“Durfee’s here. He’s hanging out with two guys named Curtis and Leroy. I saw them around those shacks on Truman and ‘J.’ ”
Wayne Junior flushed—blood to his brows—blood-circuit overload.
Pete said, “Kill him. I think he came here to kill you.”
28
(Washington, D.C., 1/14/64)
White House pickets:
Civil Rights and Ban the Bomb. Young kids on the Left.
They marched. They chanted. Their shouts overlapped. It was cold. They wore overcoats. They wore Cossack hats.
Bayard Rustin was late. Littell waited. Littell sat in Lafayette Park.
Relief pickets chatted. Shop talk swirled. LBJ and Castro. The Goldwater threat.
The groups shared coffee. Lefty girls brought snacks. Littell looked around—no Bayard Rustin yet.
He knew Rustin’s face. Mr. Hoover supplied pix. He met the SCLC plant. They talked last night.
Lyle Holly—ex-Chicago PD.
Lyle worked the Red Squad. Lyle studied the Left. Lyle talked Left and thought Right. They shared similar credentials. They shared the same disjuncture. Lyle cracked racial jokes. Lyle said he loved Dr. King.
He knew Lyle’s brother. They worked the St. Louis Office—’48 to ’50.
Dwight H. was Far Right. Dwight worked kovert Klan jobs. Dwight fit right in. The Hollys were Hoosiers. The Hollys had Klan ties. Daddy Holly was a Grand Dragon.
They were post-Klan now. They got law degrees and became cops.
Dwight was post-FBI. Dwight was still Fed. Dwight joined the Narcotics Bureau. Dwight was restless. Dwight jumped jobs. Dwight craved a bold new cop gig: Chief Investigator/U.S. Attorney’s Office/Southern Nevada District.
Dwight was hard. Lyle was soft. Lyle oozed Littell-like empathy.
Lyle built the story:
Ward Littell—ex-FBI. He was dismissed. He was disgraced. He was maimed by Mr. Hoover. He’s a Mob lawyer now. He’s closeted Left. He’s close to Mob money.
It was a sound text. Littell conceded it. Lyle laughed. Lyle said Mr. Hoover helped.
The deal was set. He had the money—Carlos and