The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [96]
Littell drove through town. Negroes looked down. Whites looked straight through him.
There—the school. Jane’s description etched pure.
Bungalows. Walkways. Poplar trees. Pseudo-Quonset huts.
Littell parked. Littell checked his notes. The registrar was Miss Byers—in Bungalow 1.
Littell walked. Littell followed Jane’s route. The bungalow fit Jane’s description.
One counter. File chutes behind it. One woman—scarves and pincenez.
The woman saw him. The woman coughed.
“It’s a hoax, you want my opinion.”
Littell wiped his neck. “Pardon me?”
“Those boys in Neshoba. They’re sipping cool ones in Memphis right now.”
Littell smiled. “Are you Miss Byers?”
“Yes, I am. And you’re an agent with the Federal Bureau of Invasion.”
Littell laughed. “I need information on an old student. She would have attended classes in the late ’40s.”
Miss Byers smiled. “I’ve been here since this place was chartered in 1944, and in some ways the postwar years were the best we ever saw.”
“Why was that?”
“That’s because you had those rowdy GI Bill boys, and some girls just as rowdy. We had a girl who became a drug addict and two girls who became traveling prostitutes.”
“This girl’s name was Arden Smith or Arden Coates.”
Miss Byers shook her head. “We’ve never had an Arden here. It’s a pretty name, I would have remembered it. I’ve been the sole registrar of this institution, and my memory hasn’t failed me yet.”
Littell checked the chutes. Littell saw year-dated tabs. One chute per year/’44 up.
“Are your student files alphabetized?”
“They certainly are.”
“Are student photographs included?”
“Yes, sir. Clipped to the very first page.”
“Have you had teachers here named Gersh, Lane, and Harding?”
“Had and have. Teachers who come tend to stay.”
“Could I look through the files?”
Miss Byers squinted. “First, you tell me that this big commotion isn’t just a hoax.”
Littell said, “The boys are dead. The Klan killed them.”
Miss Byers blinked. Miss Byers blanched. Miss Byers pushed up the counter. Littell stepped through. Littell pulled the ’44 chute.
He checked the first file. He studied the layout. He saw first-page photos and class lists. He saw last-page notes: Job referrals/placements/general postscripts.
Jane knew the school. Jane attended—or knew those who did.
Littell pulled chutes. Littell checked files. He read names. He checked photos. He worked from ’44 up. No Ardens/no Jane pix/no Coateses or Smiths.
He read files. He reread files. He went back to ’44. He wrote names down. He checked postgrad notes.
Miss Byers watched. Miss Byers kibitzed. Littell jotted names.
Spark points. References. Jane might mention names. Jane dropped names routinely. Jane buttressed her lies. Jane sketched vivid scenes.
Marvin Whitely/’46—a bookkeeper now. Carla Wykoff—a state auditor.
Littell pulled the ’47s. Aaron/Abelfit/Aldrich/Balcher/Barrett/Bebb/ Bruvick. Lowly jobs. Prosaic appointments. Construction firms/feed stores/labor stewardships.
Richard Aaron married Meg Bebb. Aldrich stayed in De Kalb. Balcher caught lupus. Barrett worked in Scooba. Bruvick moved to Kansas City. Bruvick joined the AF of L.
Littell checked files. Littell wrote names. Miss Byers kibitzed.
Bobby Cantwell got shingles. The Clunes sisters went chippy. Carl Ennis spread head lice. Gretchen Farr—Satan with bangs. A hophead and worse.
Littell stopped. His knees gave out. His pen ran dry.
Jane built whole worlds. Jane lied past their limits. Jane eclipsed him at lies.
Miss Byers said, “I still think it’s a hoax.”
45
(Las Vegas, 7/2/64)
Bad heat—pure Vegas.
Wayne cranked the AC. Wayne chilled down the room. Wayne clipped an update:
The Dallas Morning News—6/29—DPD CONCEDES DEATH OF MISSING POLICEMAN.
He filed the clip. He scanned his corkboard. He saw Lynette on a morgue slab. He saw a blow-up of Wendell D.’s prints.
Glossy shots all—plus some FBI pix.
The nude Dr. King. Nude and plump. Nude with a blonde in the sack.
Wayne pulled the drapes. Wayne killed the sun. Wayne killed his