The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [74]
Rustin called him. Littell lied. Littell offered a rationale. A Negro man killed a white woman. Three more killings derived. The cop killed in self-defense. It’s all certified.
Rustin got it—don’t build hate—don’t martyr an angry white cop. Vegas wasn’t Birmingham. Negro junkies weren’t four girls in church.
Rustin was savvy. Rustin was gracious. Littell pledged more money. Littell praised Dr. King.
He met Rustin once. He charmed and entrapped him. He used him forthwith.
I believe. I have horrible debts. I’ll try to help more than I hurt.
34
(Las Vegas, 1/19/64)
He saw Lynette.
He saw the flaps. He saw the sheared ribs. He saw where the knife snapped bone. Wayne Junior didn’t blame him. Wayne Junior blamed himself.
Pete stood by the freeway. Pete ate gas fumes. Pete had a replacement sled—a boss new Lincoon.
A prowl car pulled up. A cop got out. He fed Pete three guns. Three calibers: .38/.45/.357 mag.
Throwdown guns. Taped and initialed: L.W./O.S./C.S.
The cop knew the plan. They had two crime scenes. They had viable blood—good Red Cross stock.
The cop split. Pete drove to Henderson. Pete hit a gun shop. Pete bought ammo.
He loaded the guns. He rigged silencers. He drove back to Vegas.
Wayne Junior was out. He saw him yesterday. The DA dumped his case. They met. They talked. They hit Wayne’s bank vault. Wayne dumped his board files and briefed him.
Spurgeon dug jailbait. Peavy was larcenous. Hinton whacked a nigger whore. Three board members—swing votes plus—good news for Count Drac.
Spurgeon vibed easy. Hinton vibed tough sell. Peavy vibed grief. Monarch Cab as Tiger Kab—hold that good thought.
Wayne looked frazzled. His eyes roamed. He strafed jigaboos. They ate lunch and talked.
Neutral shit—Clay versus Liston. Pete liked Liston in two. Wayne said three tops. A shine cleared their table. Wayne fucking seized up.
Pete drove to the car dump. The cop met him there. The dump was closed. The sun was up. A breeze wafted through.
They schmoozed. They jumped the crime-scene rope. Wayne’s car was gone. The Buick was cut into scrap.
The cop taped a body—white tape on cement. Pete aimed the .45.
He popped six shots. He nailed a tree. He grabbed the slugs. He gauged trajectories. He dropped the slugs. He chalked them. The cop took pix.
Pete spritzed the body tape. Pete watched the blood dry. The cop took pix.
They drove to the shack. They jumped the crime-scene rope. The cop taped two bodies. The cop spritzed the tape.
Pete shot the .38. Pete popped four rounds. Pete hit the walls and dug the slugs out. The cop bagged them. The cop lab-logged them. The cop took pix.
They drove to the County Morgue. The cop greased the attendant geek. Said geek had three fish. Said fish reposed on three trays.
Leroy had no head. Leroy wore a dashiki. The cop pulled a sap. The cop broke Leroy’s right hand. The cop flexed the fingers free.
Pete rolled the fingertips. Pete smudged the magnum. Pete laid two butt spreads.
Curtis was stiff. Otis was stiff. They wore Dodger T-shirts and morgue sheets.
Pete squeezed their hands. Pete broke their fingers. Pete flexed the tips. The cop rolled prints—barrel spreads—the cop rolled the .45 and .38.
The stiffs stunk of morgue rouge and sawdust. Pete coughed and sneezed.
Ward set it up. We’ll meet at Wilt’s Diner—it’s out near Davis Dam.
They showed early. They grabbed a booth. They cleared table space and sipped coffee. Ward propped the bag up. Tabletop center—très hard to miss.
Dwight Holly showed. Punctual—2:00 p.m. straight.
He parked his car. He looked through the window glass. He saw them and walked straight in.
Pete made room. Holly sat beside him. Holly eyeballed the bag.
“What’s that?”
Pete said, “Christmas.”
Holly made the jack-off sign. Holly spread out.
He stretched. He made elbow room. He hard-nudged Pete.
He coughed. “I caught the fucking Tedrow kid’s bug.”
Ward smiled. “Thanks for coming out.”
Holly tugged his cuff links. “Who’s the big guy? The Wild Man of Borneo?