The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [68]
He blew his head off. He blew up the trunk. He blew out the undercarriage. He blew the spare tires up.
He walked to his car. Smoke fizzed out the hood. He’d run it dry. The crankcase was shot.
He tossed the shotgun.
He walked home.
He sat by Lynette.
30
(Las Vegas,1/15/64)
Littell sipped coffee. Wayne Senior sipped scotch.
They stood at his bar—teak and mahogany—game heads mounted above.
Wayne Senior smiled. “I’m surprised you landed in that storm.”
“It was touch and go. We had a few rough moments.”
“The pilot knew his business, then. He had a planeful of gamblers, who were anxious to get here and lose their money.”
Littell said, “I forgot to thank you. It’s late, and you saw me on very short notice.”
“Mr. Hoover’s name opens doors. I won’t be coy about it. When Mr. Hoover says ‘Jump,’ I say ‘How high?’ ” Littell laughed. “I say the same thing.” Wayne Senior laughed. “You flew in from D.C.?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Mr. Hoover?”
“No. I saw the man he told me to see.”
“Can you discuss it?”
“No.”
Wayne Senior twirled a walking stick. “Mr. Hoover knows everyone. The people he knows comprise quite a loop.”
“The Loop.” The Dallas Office file. Maynard Moore—FBI snitch. His handler—Wayne Tedrow Senior.
Littell coughed. “Do you know Guy Banister?”
“Yes, I know Guy. How do you know him?”
“He ran the Chicago Office. I worked there from ’51 to ’60.”
“Have you seen him more recently?”
“No.”
“Oh? I thought you might have crossed paths in Texas.”
Guy bragged. Guy talked too much. Guy was indiscreet.
“No, I haven’t seen Guy since Chicago. We don’t have much in common.”
Wayne Senior arched one eyebrow—the pose meant oh-you-kid.
Littell leaned on the bar. “Your son works LVPD Intel. He’s someone I’d like to know.”
“I’ve shaped my son in more ways than he’d care to admit. He’s not altogether ungrateful.”
“I’ve heard he’s a fine officer. A phrase comes to mind. ‘Incorruptible by Las Vegas Police standards.’ ”
Wayne Senior lit a cigarette. “Mr. Hoover lets you read his files.”
“On occasion.”
“He permits me that pleasure, as well.”
“ ‘Pleasure’ is a good way to describe it.”
Wayne Senior sipped scotch. “I arranged for my son to be sent to Dallas. You never know when you might rub shoulders with history.”
Littell sipped coffee. “I’ll bet you didn’t tell him. A phrase comes to mind. ‘Withholds sensitive data from his son.’ ”
“My son is uncommonly generous to unfortunate people. I’ve heard you used to be.”
Littell coughed. “I have a major client. He wants to move his base to Las Vegas, and he’s very partial to Mormons.”
Wayne Senior doused his cigarette. Scotch sucked up the ash.
“I know many capable Mormons who would love to work for Mr. Hughes.”
“Your son has some files that would help us.”
“I won’t ask him. I have a pioneer’s disdain for Italians, and I’m fully aware that you have other clients beside Mr. Hughes.”
Scotch and wet tobacco. Old barroom smells.
Littell moved the tumbler. “What are you saying?”
“That we all trust our own kind. That the Italians will never let Mormons run Mr. Hughes’ hotels.”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves. He has to purchase the properties first.”
“Oh, he will. Because he wants to buy, and your other clients want to sell. I could mention the term ‘conflict of interest,’ but I won’t.”
Littell smiled. Littell raised the tumbler—touché.
“Mr. Hoover briefed you well.”
“Yes. In both our best interests.”
“And his own.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “I discussed you with Lyle Holly as well.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.”
“I’ve known his brother for years.”
“I know Dwight. We worked the St. Louis Office together.”
Wayne Senior nodded. “He told me. He said you were always ideologically suspect, and your current employment as a Mafia lawyer confirms it.”
Littell raised the tumbler. “Touché, but I wouldn’t call my employers ideological on any level.”
Wayne Senior raised the tumbler. “Touché back at you.”
Littell coughed. “Let’s see if I can put this together. Dwight’s with the Narcotics Bureau here. He used to work mail-fraud assignments