The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [69]
“That’s correct. We go back thirty-some years. His daddy was a daddy to me.”
“The Grand Dragon? And a nice Mormon boy like you?”
Wayne Senior grabbed a cocktail glass. Wayne Senior built a Rob Roy.
“The Indiana Klan was never as rowdy as those boys down south. That’s too rowdy, even for boys like Dwight and me. That’s why we worked those mail-fraud assignments.”
Littell said, “That’s not true. Dwight did it because Mr. Hoover told him to. You did it to play G-man.”
Wayne Senior stirred his drink. Littell smelled bitters and Noilly Prat. He salivated. He moved his chair back. Wayne Senior winked.
Shadows creased the bar. A woman crossed the rear deck. Proud features/black hair/gray streak.
Wayne Senior said, “I want to show you a film.”
Littell stood up. Littell stretched. Wayne Senior grabbed his drink. They walked down a side hall. The scotch and bitters swirled. Littell wiped his lips.
They stopped at a storage room. Wayne Senior hit the lights. Littell saw a projector and wall screen.
Wayne Senior spooled film. Wayne Senior set the slide. Wayne Senior fed film in. Littell killed the lights. Wayne Senior hit the on switch. Words and numbers hit the screen.
Surveillance code—white-on-black. A date—8/28/63. A location—Washington, D.C.
The words dissolved. Raw footage hit. Speckled black & white film. A bedroom/Martin Luther King/a white woman.
Littell watched.
His legs dipped. He weaved hard. He grabbed at a chair. The skin tones contrasted—black-on-white—stretch marks and plaid sheets.
Littell watched the film. Wayne Senior smiled. Wayne Senior watched him.
All gifts. Mr. Hoover. A gift that he would regret.
31
(Las Vegas,1/15/64)
The cops kicked him loose.
They called around. They got his rep. They got très hip. He’s mobbed up/he knows the Boys/the Boys dig on him.
Pete walked. Pete paged Barb at work. Pete said I’ll be home soon.
He did forty-one hours. He ate jute balls and rice. His head hurt. His wrists hurt. He smelled like Chihuahua shit.
He cabbed to his car. He cabbed Monarch—the Browntown Express. The driver lisped. The driver wore rouge. The driver said he sold guns.
The driver dropped Pete at the carport. Pete’s car was trashed/totaled/torched.
No windshield. No hubcaps. No tires. No wheels. The Cadillac Hotel—one wino booked in.
He snored. Bugs bombed him. He cradled Sterno and T-Bird. The car got a paint job—kustom nigger script:
Allah Rules/Death to Ofays/We Love Malcolm X.
Pete laughed. Pete fucking roared. He kicked the grille. He kicked the door panels. He tossed the wino his keys.
A rain hit—light and cold. Pete heard a ruckus close in. He placed it—way close—the shacks off “J” Street.
He walked over. He caught the grief.
Six prowl cars—LVPD and Sheriff’s. Two Fed sleds snout-to-snout. Big voodoo upside a jig shack.
Arc lights/crime-scene rope/one ambulance. A cop-jig confluence—large.
Cops inside the crime-scene rope. Jigs outside. Jigs armed with Tokay and fried chicken.
Pete pushed up close. A cop rigged two gurneys. A cop pushed them in the shack. A cop jumped the rope. A cop briefed him. Pete eavesdropped in tight.
A kid called it in. Said kid lives next door. Said kid heard a commotion. A honky do it. Honky got a shotgun. Honky get in his car and ex-cape. Said kid enters the shack then. Said kid sees two stiffs—Curtis and Otis Swasey.
The jigs pressed up. The jigs stretched the crime-scene rope. The jigs Wah-Watusi’d. A cop placed sawhorses. A cop stretched the rope. A cop eased the jigs back.
Jigs eyeballed Pete. Jigs jostled him. White Man—bad juju. White Man—go home. White Man—he kill our kin.
Odds on: Wayne Junior. Odds on: Wendell Durfee—dead and dumped somewhere.
The jigs huddled. The jigs mumbled. The jigs pygmy-ized. A jig lobbed a bottle. A jig lobbed a drumstick. A jig lobbed french fries.
Four cops pulled batons. Two cops rolled out the gurneys.
There Curtis—he blue—honky beat his face. There Otis—he crisp—honky torch his face baaaaaad juju.
Pete backed off. Pete caught some elbows.