The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [65]
He told them straight—it’s Mr. Hoover’s gig—it’s non-Outfit/anti-SCLC.
Carlos and Sam loved it. Lyle talked to Bayard Rustin. Lyle gushed:
Ward Littell—my old pal. Ward’s kindred. Ward’s got cash. Ward’s pro-SCLC.
The ban-the-bomb crew walked. A YAF crew appeared. New signs: Bop the Beard and Krucify Khrushchev.
Bayard Rustin walked up.
A tall man—dressed and groomed—more gaunt than his mug shots.
He sat down. He crossed his legs. He cleared bench space.
Littell said, “How did you recognize me?”
Rustin smiled. “You were the only one not involved in the democratic process.”
“Lawyers don’t wave placards.”
Rustin cracked his briefcase. “No, but some make donations.”
Littell cracked his briefcase. “There’ll be more. But I’ll deny it if it ever comes to that.”
Rustin took the money. “Deniability. I can appreciate it.”
“You have to consider the source. The men I work for are not friends of the civil-rights movement.”
“They should be. Italians have been persecuted on occasion.”
“They don’t see it that way.”
“Perhaps that’s why they’re so successful in their chosen field.”
“The persecuted learn to persecute. I understand the logic, but I don’t accept it as wisdom.”
“And you don’t ascribe ruthlessness to all people of that blood?”
“No more than I ascribe stupidity to your people.”
Rustin slapped his knees. “Lyle said you were quick.”
“He’s quick himself.”
“He said you go back.”
“We met at a Free-the-Rosenbergs rally. It must have been ’52.”
“Which side were you on?”
Littell laughed. “We were shooting surveillance film from the same building.”
Rustin laughed. “I sat that one out. I was never a real Communist, despite Mr. Hoover’s protestations.”
Littell said, “You are by his logic. You know what that designation codifies, and how it allows him to encapsulate everything that he fears.”
Rustin smiled. “Do you hate him?”
“No.”
“After what he put you through?”
“I find it hard to hate people who are that true to themselves.”
“Have you studied passive resistance?”
“No, but I’ve witnessed the futility of the alternative.”
Rustin laughed. “That’s an extraordinary statement for a Mafia lawyer to make.”
A wind stirred. Littell shivered.
“I know something about you, Mr. Rustin. You’re a gifted and compromised man. I may not have your gifts, but I suspect that I run neck-and-neck in the compromise department.”
Rustin bowed. “I apologize. I try not to second-guess people’s motives, but I just failed with you.”
Littell shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We want the same things.”
“Yes, and we both contribute in our own ways.”
Littell buttoned his coat. “I admire Dr. King.”
“As much as any Catholic can admire a man named Martin Luther?”
Littell laughed. “I admire Martin Luther. I made that compromise when I was more of a man of faith.”
“You’ll be hearing some bad things about our Martin. Mr. Hoover has been sending out missives. Martin Luther King is the devil with horns. He seduces women and employs Communists.”
Littell put his gloves on. “Mr. Hoover has numerous pen pals.”
“Yes. In Congress, the clergy, and the newspaper field.”
“He believes, Mr. Rustin. That’s how he makes them believe.”
Rustin stood up. “Why now? Why did you decide to undertake such a risk at this time?”
Littell stood up. “I’ve been visiting Las Vegas, and I don’t like the way things are run there.”
Rustin smiled. “Tell those Mormons to loosen the chains.”
They shook hands. Rustin walked off. Rustin whistled Chopin.
The park glowed. Mr. Hoover bestows all gifts.
29
(Las Vegas,1/15/64)
Picture loop:
The dead whore/the eyeball/Wendell Durfee with fangs.
Pictures and flash dreams. No sleep and rolling blackouts. Two fender-benders at the wheel.
The pictures looped on. Thirty-six hours’ worth. Bad rain offset them.
Wayne muscled a Monarch Cab man. Wayne stole some bennies. Wayne called Lynette’s school and left a message:
Don’t go home—stay with a friend—I’ll call back and explain.
He ate bennies. He guzzled coffee. It juiced him. It drained him. It torqued his picture loop.
He staked out Truman