The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [72]
Holly said, “You’re not making any friends here.”
Wayne said, “I’m not trying to.”
Fritsch said, “You’ve got the sympathy vote.”
Gilstrap said, “You’ve got the chain of events.”
The Sheriff’s man coughed. “You’re trying to apprehend a fugitive cop-killer. You learn that your wife may be jeopardized, so you rush home and find her dead. Your actions from that point on are entirely understandable.”
Brown hitched up his pants. “It’s your prior relationship with Durfee that I don’t understand.”
Holly said, “I concur.”
Fritsch said, “Look at it our way. We’re trying to give the DA a package. We don’t want to see an LVPD man go down for three murders.”
Gilstrap said, “Let’s talk turkey. It’s not like you killed three white men.”
Brown cracked his knuckles. “Did you kill Maynard Moore?”
“Fuck you.”
“Did Wendell Durfee take part in the killing? Is that what all this derives from?”
“Fuck you.”
“Did Wendell Durfee witness the killing?”
“Fuck you.”
Holly pulled his chair up. Holly bumped Wayne’s chair.
“Let’s discuss the condition of the shack.”
Wayne shrugged. “I only saw the bindles I shoved in Curtis Swasey’s mouth. I did not see any other narcotics or narcotics paraphernalia.”
Holly smiled. “You anticipated the intent of my question very nicely.”
Wayne coughed. “You’re a narcotics agent. You want to know if I stole the large quantity of heroin that you think the victims had. You don’t care about the murders or my wife.”
Holly shook his head. “That’s not entirely true. You know I’m friends with your father. I’m sure he cared for Lyn—”
“My father despised Lynette. He doesn’t care for anyone. He only respects hard-ons like you. I’m sure he’s full of warmth for your days in Indiana and your good times with Mr. Hoover.”
Holly leaned in. “Don’t turn me into an enemy. You’re getting there already.”
Wayne stood up. “Fuck you and fuck my father. If I wanted his help, I’d be out now.”
Holly stood up. “I think I’ve got what I need.”
Gilstrap shook his head. “You’re playing kamikaze, son. And you’re bombing your own goddamn friends.”
Fritsch shook his head. “You can cross me off that list. We do our best to keep Vegas clean, while you go out and kill three niggers, which is going to bring out every civil-rights chimpanzee in captivity.”
Wayne laughed. “Vegas? Clean?”
The cops walked out. Wayne took his pulse. It ran 180-plus.
33
(Las Vegas, 1/17/64)
The room was cold. A heat coil blew. It chilled down the jail.
Littell read his notes.
Wayne Junior was good. He diverted Sergeant Brown. He deflected his attack. Pete briefed Littell beforehand. Pete dropped a bomb: Wayne Junior knows about Dallas.
Pete liked Wayne Junior. Pete mourned Lynette. Pete took the blame. Pete stopped there. Pete implied a Dallas snafu.
Littell checked his notes. The smart call: Wayne Junior killed Maynard Moore. The details played schizzy. Wendell Durfee played in somehow.
Wayne Junior had the board files. Littell needed them. Littell might need Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior called him. Wayne Senior made nice. He said I want to help my son. He said I want him to ask.
He informed Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior said no. He told Wayne Senior that. It angered him. That was good. He might need Wayne Senior. The “no” knocked him flat.
Wayne Junior was good. Wayne Junior pissed off Dwight Holly. Littell called Lyle Holly. They talked last night. They discussed the Bayard Rustin meet. Lyle said Dwight was mad. The killings fucked with him. Wayne Junior deep-sixed his surveillance.
He chatted Lyle up. He said, “I’m Junior’s lawyer.” Lyle laughed. Lyle said, “Dwight never liked you.”
Littell checked his notes. The room was cold. His breath fogged and steamed. Bob Gilstrap walked in. Dwight Holly followed him. They sat down and kicked back.
Holly stretched. His coat gapped. He wore a blued .45.
“You’ve aged, Ward. Those scars put some years on you.”
“They’re hard-earned, Dwight.”
“Some men learn the hard way. I hope you have.”
Littell smiled. “Let’s discuss Wayne Tedrow Junior.