The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [95]
“Mr. Hoover’s been talking a good game.”
The sun was way high. Bayard wore egg yolk and slush.
“He wants hate and resentment sustained at what he considers the proper level, and coming down on the Klan gives him a mainstream cachet.”
Bayard drummed the dashboard. “Let me ask you a question. Lyle said you have some expertise.”
“All right.”
“Here’s the situation. Martin and Coretta enter their hotel room and want to make sure their friend Edgar hasn’t gotten there first. Where do they look for bugs and what do they do when they find them?”
Littell slid his seat back. “They look for small wires with perforated metal tips extending from picture frames and lampshades. They speak innocuously until they determine that there are none, and they do not pull the ones that they find, because it would anger their friend Edgar and cause him to escalate his actions against Dr. King, who is making great strides while Edgar slowly builds a file against him, because Edgar’s greatest weakness is implementing institutional sadism at a sedate pace.”
Bayard smiled. “Johnson’s signing the Civil Rights Bill next week. Martin’s going to Washington.”
Littell smiled. “That’s a case in point.”
“Any other advice?”
“Yes. Keep your people out of areas where the Regal and Konsolidated Knights operate. They’re full of mail-fraud informants, they’re almost as bad as the White Knights, and the FBI will never investigate anything that they do.”
Bayard popped the passenger door. The handle burned him.
Littell said, “I’ll have more money soon.”
The party went late.
He stayed late. He had to. The town exiled him. Desk clerks sized him up. Desk clerks saw his suit and gun. Desk clerks said, “No vacancy.”
The party was a wake. Guy Banister—mort. The camp was gulfside. The Cubans perched on four acres.
Their landlord was Klan. Maynard Moore’s Klarion Koalition. They were pro-exile. They spelled “Cuba” with a K. Carlos bankrolled the site. Pete passed through last spring. Pete said the troops needed work.
Littell toured the grounds. Littell dropped off Pete’s tithe. Littell chucked his coat and kicked sand.
A bunkhouse. A speedboat. A Klan/exile range. Straw-man targets with cartoon faces: LBJ/Dr. King/Fidel “Beard” Castro.
A gun hut. Stacked flamethrowers. Bazookas and BARs.
The exiles were gracious—he knew Big Pete. The Klan boys were rude—he wore a Fed suit.
The sun went down. The sand dunes launched fleas. The wet air launched mosquitoes.
Bottles traveled. Toasts went up. Klansmen rigged hibachis. They served hot dogs. They overcooked. They flamethrower-broiled.
Littell played wallflower. Guests bopped by. Littell made their reps:
Hank Hudspeth—Guy’s pal—kook in mourning. Chuck Rogers clipped Guy. Guy’s heart attack was assisted.
Laurent Guéry and Flash Elorde—Pete’s right-wing confreres. Mercs/Dallas backup/late of Pete and Boyd’s team.
Laurent was ex-CIA. Laurent clipped Patrice Lumumba. Flash clipped untold Fidelistos.
The Loop. Open secrets. Things you just knew.
Laurent dropped hints: Monsieur Littell, nous savons, n’est-ce pas, ce qui s’est passé à Dallas?
Littell smiled. Littell shrugged—Je ne parle pas le français. Laurent laughed. Laurent praised “le pro shooter. ”
Le pro était un français. Jean Mesplède, qui est maintenant un “merc” à Mexico City.
Littell walked off. Guéry made him nervous. Littell stopped and ate a hot dog. It was bad. It was overcooked. It was flamethrower-broiled.
Littell played wallflower. Littell watched the party. Littell read news magazines. The Civil Rights Bill/the conventions/Bobby’s shot at Veep.
The party wore on. Hank Hudspeth blew a tenor sax. The Cubans blew cherry bombs.
Pete loved la Causa. The Cause anchored. The Cause justified. The Cause always condoned. They shared a dilemma—penance and tithe. He knew it. Pete didn’t.
Littell tried to sleep. The Cubans sang songs. Cherry bombs blew.
De Kalb adjoined Scooba. De Kalb adjoined Neshoba County.
The drive took five hours. The heat sapped his car. De Kalb fit Jane’s description.
A main drag. Feed