The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [70]
He walked across “J.” He mingled by a cop clique. He leaned on a prowl car. A cop sat in front. Said cop worked a hand mike. Said cop talked loud.
We got another one—shotgun DOA—a coon named Leroy Williams.
Wooooooo! Blew his burrhead cleeean off! The dump guys found him inside this Buick. We got the shotgun.
Call Leroy Stiff #3. Wendell—where you at?
Pete mingled. The cops ignored him. Cops blocked traffic. Cops stood point. Cops cordoned off “J.”
The rain fucking tripled. The clouds let fly. Pete grabbed a stray chicken box. Pete dumped out gizzards. Pete put it on and kept his head dry.
The jigs dispersed. The jigs booked willy-nilly. The jigs ran hellbent.
A Fed car pulled up. A big guy got out. Said guy vibed El Jefe—gray suit and gray Fed hat.
Jefe flashed a badge. Jefe got service. The point guard saluted. A baby Fed bowed. Jefe bootjacked his umbrella.
Pete circled the rope. Pete got in close. Said fuzz ignored him. Fuck you—you’re a geek—you’ve got a chicken-box hat.
Pete stood around. His hat leaked. Chicken grease oiled his hair. The baby Fed brown-nosed the boss Fed—yessir, Mr. Holly.
Mr. Holly was pissed. It’s my case. The vics pushed narcotics. It’s my crime scene—let’s toss the shack.
Mr. Holly stayed dry. The sub-fuzz stayed wet. A sergeant walked up. Said sergeant wore squishy blues.
He talked loud. He pissed off Mr. Holly. He said it’s our case. We’re sealing her up. We’ll bring in Homicide.
Mr. Holly fumed. Mr. Holly fugued out. He kicked a sawhorse. He yelped. He fucked his foot up.
A prowl car pulled up. A cop got out. He gestured wild. He talked wild. Pete heard “car at the dump.” Pete heard “Tedrow.”
Mr. Holly yelled. The sergeant yelled. A cop raised a bullhorn. Lock her up—let’s roll code 3—the Tonopah Dump.
The fuzz dispersed.
They grabbed their cars. They peeled up “J.” They fishtailed in mud. They plowed through gravel yards.
One cop stayed behind. Said cop locked the shack.
He stood by the front door. He stood in the monsoon. He smoked cigarettes. The rain doused them. He got two puffs per. He gave up. He ran to his car. He rolled the windows up.
Pete ran. The rain covered him. He kicked up mud. He ran back to the alley. He circled the shack.
No cars. No back-door guard—good. Said door was locked. The windows were tinfoil-patched.
Pete reached up. Pete tore at a foil patch. Pete de-patched a window.
He climbed up. He vaulted in. He saw chalk lines and bloodstains. He saw a burned-up TV-set.
Floor debris—chalk-circled: Bindle scraps/tube glass/fried nigger hair.
Pete tossed the shack. Pete worked rápidamente. He grid-scoped. He saw one dresser/one toilet/no shelves.
Two mattresses. Bare walls and floors. No stash-holes inset. A window air-cooler—Frost King brand—matted screens and rusty ducts.
No cord. No plug. No intake valve. Call it dope camouflage.
Pete popped the top. Pete reached in. Pete praised Allah Himself.
White horse—all plastic-wrapped—three bonaroo bricks.
32
(Las Vegas, 1/17/64)
Five cops grilled him.
Wayne sat. They stood. They filled the sweat room.
Buddy Fritsch and Bob Gilstrap. A Sheriff’s man. A Fed named Dwight Holly. A Dallas cop named Arthur V. Brown.
The heat went off. Their breath steamed. It fogged the mirror-wall. He sat. They stood. His lawyer stood under a speaker. His lawyer stood outside.
They popped him at home—2:00 a.m.—he was still there with Lynette. Fritsch called Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior came to the jail.
Wayne blew him off. Wayne blew off his lawyer. Dwight Holly knew Wayne Senior. Dwight Holly stressed the friendship thus:
You’re not your dad. You killed three men. You fucked my investigation up.
They’d braced him twice. He told the truth. He wised up and called Pete.
Pete knew the scoop. Pete knew a lawyer. His name: Ward Littell.
Wayne met with Littell. Littell quizzed him: Did they tape you? Did they transcribe?
Wayne said no. Littell advised him. Littell said he’d watch the next go. Littell said he’d veto tape and transcription.
The