The Cold Six Thousand (34 page)

“Sure. He’s a card cheat. He’s the treasurer for the Liquor Board, and he used to work for my father.”

“Did they fall out?”

“Everybody falls out with—”

“Your father owns the Land o’ Gold, right? He’s got covert points.”

“Right. The Gold and thirteen more.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “Milt’s been digging up shit. He heard that Durslag’s been running card counters out of the Gold. I might need his help down the line.”

Wayne smiled. “My father used to run him.”

“That’s what Milt said.”

“So you …”

“I want you to muscle him. Think about it. You’re Wayne Senior’s son, and you’ve got your own reputation.”

Wayne said, “Is this a test?”

Pete said, “Yes.”

Durslag lived on Torrey. Durslag lived middle-class. Durslag lived in the Sherlock Homes tract.

Said tract was a style clash. Mock Tudors and palm trees. Mock gables and sand lots. Mixed-message
mishegoss
.

It was dark. The house was dark. Clouds draped the moon.

Pete knocked. Pete got no answer. The garage door was up. They lounged inside.

Pete smoked. Pete got a headache. Pete popped aspirin. Wayne yawned. Wayne shadowboxed. Wayne fucked with a gooseneck lamp.

Milt dished on Sol. Milt said Sol was divorced. Good news—no women.

The wait dragged. 1:00 a.m. went south. They loitered. They stretched kinks out. They pissed the walls green.

There—

Headlights/the driveway/incoming beams.

Pete crouched. Wayne crouched. A Caddy pulled in. The beams dimmed. Sol got out. Sol sniffed—

What’s that smoke sm—

He ran. Pete tripped him. Wayne threw him up on the hood. Pete grabbed the lamp. Pete whipped the neck down. Pete flashed light on Wayne.

“That’s Mr. Tedrow. You used to work for his father.”

Sol said, “Fuck you.”

Pete flashed him. Sol blinked. Sol rolled off the hood. Wayne grabbed him. Wayne pinned him. Wayne pulled his sap out.

Pete flashed him. Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the arms. Sol shut his eyes. Sol bit his lips. Sol squeezed up fists.

Wayne said, “Pull your crew out of the Land o’ Gold.”

Sol said, “Fuck you.”

Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the chest.

Sol said, “Fuck you.”

Pete said, “Say yes twice. That’s all we want.”

Sol said, “Fuck you.”

Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the arms.

Sol said, “Fuck you.”

Wayne sapped him. Pete flashed him. The bulb was bright. The bulb was hot. The bulb burned his face.

Wayne raised his sap. Wayne swung it. Pete stopped him short.

“One yes to me, one to Mr. Tedrow. Pull your crew. Do my people some liquor-board favors.”

Sol said, “Fuck you.”

Pete cued Wayne. Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the arms/the ribs. Sol balled up. Sol rolled. Sol clipped the hood ornament. Sol snapped a wiper blade.

Sol coughed. Sol choked. Sol said, “Fuck you, yes, okay.”

Pete pulled the lamp up. The light bounced and fizzed.

“That’s two ‘yes’s,’ right?”

Sol opened his eyes. Sol had singed brows. Sol had scorched lids.

“Yeah, two. You think I want this as a steady diet?”

Pete pulled his flask—Old Crow bond—instant headache relief.

Sol grabbed it. Sol drained it. Sol coughed and flushed—Man-o-Manischewitz, that’s good!

He winced. He rolled off the hood. He stood straight up. He grabbed the lamp. He bent the neck. He flashed light on Wayne.

“Your father told me some things about you, sonny boy.”

Wayne said, “I’m listening.”

“I could tell you some things about that sick hump.”

Wayne bent the lamp down. The light bounced and fizzed.

“You can tell me. I won’t hurt you.”

Sol coughed. Sol hacked phlegm—thick and blood-infused.

“He said you had it bad for his wife. Like a little pervert puppy.”

Wayne said, “And?”

“And you never had the gumption to act.”

Pete watched Wayne. Pete watched his hands. Pete got in close.

Wayne said, “And?”

“And Daddy shouldn’t preach, ’cause he’s a sick hump as far as his wife is concerned.”

Pete watched Wayne. Pete blocked his hands. Pete closed in close.

Wayne said, “And?”

Sol coughed. “
And
Daddy has Mommy screw these guys that he wants
to cultivate,
and
Mommy had this unauthorized thing with a colored musician named Wardell Gray,
and
Daddy beat him to death with his cane.”

Wayne swayed. Sol laughed. Sol flipped his tie in his face.

“Fuck you. You’re a punk. You’re a hump like your daddy.”

(Las Vegas, 9/14/64)

T
he Golden Gorge—11:00 p.m.

Twelve rooms. Sleepy braceros. Room #5—empty. Room #4—trysted up.

They showed at 9:00. They brought two cars. Kinman brought liquor. Janice brought the key.

Wayne watched. Wayne walked the parking lot. Wayne brought tools. Wayne brought lockpicks and a penlight.

Pervert pup. Hump like your—

The lot was dead. No loungers/no muchachos/no drunks flaked in cars. Room #5—no windows. Room #4—dark.

Wayne braced door 5. Wayne got his tools out. Wayne flashed the locks.

Eleven brown doors. One
green
door as standout. One pervert-pup joke.

Wayne worked the picks. Wayne rotated clockwise and counter. Wayne tapped both locks.

His hands jumped. He dripped sweat. He gored his thumbs. Clockwise/reverse it/go count—

The top lock snapped.

He popped one tumbler. He wiped his hands. He popped one mo—

The bottom lock snapped.

Wayne wiped his hands. Wayne leaned on the door. Wayne rode the door and stepped in.

He shut the door. He flashed the room. It was small. It smelled familiar.

Old smells—
embedded
. Wayne Senior’s booze. Wayne Senior’s tobacco.

Wayne flashed the floor. Wayne flashed the walls. Wayne got the gestalt.

A chair. A sideboard. One ashtray/one bottle/one glass. One mirror-peek. Room #4 access. A wall speaker/soundproof wall pads/a sound switch.

Wayne sat down. Wayne made the chair—surplus from Peru, Indiana. The peek was dark. Room #4 was dark. Wayne poured a drink.

He downed it. It singed. He rode the burn out. The peek was 3-by-3. The standard cop size—the stock mirror-mount.

Wayne hit the switch. Wayne heard Kinman moan. Wayne heard Janice moan counterpoint.

Janice moaned arch. Janice moaned smut-actress style—Stag Loop 101.

Wayne poured a drink. Wayne downed it. Wayne rode the burn out. Kinman came—ooo-ooo-ooo. Janice came concurrent. Janice came mezzo-falsetto—smut meets the Met.

Wayne heard soft talk. Wayne heard giggles. Wayne heard speaker warp. A light went on. Room #4 flared.

Janice got out of bed. Janice stood up nude. Janice walked to her side of the mirror. She lingered. She posed. She grabbed her cigarettes off a dresser.

Wayne leaned in tight. Janice blurred. Wayne leaned way back to reframe. Kinman said something. Kinman murmured sweet talk. Kinman was oblivious. Kinman knew fuck-all.

Janice rubbed her appendix scar. Janice tossed her hair.

Her breasts swayed. Her hair tousled. She raised steam. She dripped sweat. She smiled. She licked a finger. She wrote “Junior” on the mirror.

(Dallas, 9/21/64)

J
im Koethe was queer.

He bolstered his crotch. He prowled fag bars. He brought boys home. Home was Oak Cliff—bumfuck Big D. Home was the Oak View Apartments.

Three floors. Outside walkways. All courtyard and streetside views.

Pete hogged a bus bench. Pete watched the pad. Pete carried a treat bag. 1:16 a.m.—fruit alert.

Koethe had a date. Koethe poked his dates for two hours. Pete knew Koethe. Pete knew Koethe’s routine.

Wayne read the Dallas papers. Wayne passed a clip on. It pertained to Koethe’s “book.” It pertained to Koethe’s pal Maynard Moore. Pete flew to Dallas. Pete tailed Koethe. Pete played scribe. Pete called Koethe’s editor.

The guy ragged Koethe. Koethe was a jack-off. Koethe was Mr. Pipe Dream. Sure—they went to Ruby’s crib. Sure—they talked to his roommate. But—the talk was all bullshit. The talk was all jive.

Conspiracy—shit. Read the Warren Report.

The guy was convincing
—but—Jim Koethe knew Maynard Moore
.

A bus pulled up—some late-night express. Pete waved it on.

He killed four days. He tailed Koethe. He grooved Koethe’s routine. Koethe loved the Holiday. Koethe loved Vic’s Parisian. Koethe loved Gene’s Music Room. Koethe sipped sidecars. Koethe prowled the johns. Koethe buzz-bombed young flesh.

Oak Cliff was the shits. Oak Cliff was a ghost zone. Betty Mac/Ruby’s pad/the Oswald-Tippit tiff.

Koethe’s date walked out. Koethe’s date walked bowlegged. He
swished by the bench. He checked Pete out. He went uugh and swished away.

Pete put his gloves on. Pete grabbed his treat bag. Koethe lived in 306—one light extant.

Pete took the side stairs. Pete walked up slow. Pete checked the walkways. No outdoor noise/no indoor noise/no visible wits.

He walked over. He braced the door. He tapped the knob. He popped the lock-catch. He opened the door. He walked in. He saw a dark room. He caught sounds and shadows.

Shower noise—down a side hall—off a doorway. Steam and light at that spot.

Pete stood still. Pete strained his eyes. Pete got indoor sight. He saw a living room–office. He saw file drawers. He saw a kitchenette.

Down the hall: A bathroom and bedroom.

Pete dropped his treat bag. Pete crouched. Pete walked down the hall. The shower stopped. Steam whooshed out. Jim Koethe walked through it.

He wore a towel. He turned right. He walked into Pete.

They bumped. Koethe went EEK! Koethe went butch. Koethe snapped to some martial-arts pose.

His towel fell. His equipment dangled. He wore a dick extender. He wore cock rings.

Pete laughed. Pete came in low.

Koethe kicked. Koethe missed. Koethe stumbled and tripped. Pete kicked him. Pete nailed his nards good.

Koethe jackknifed. Koethe re-posed. Koethe tried some karate shit. He flailed. He threw fists. He positioned.

Pete judo-chopped him. Pete nail-raked his face.

Koethe screamed. Pete grabbed his neck. Pete held it and snapped it. Pete felt his hyoid bone shear.

Koethe gurgled. Koethe spasmed. Koethe choked on bile. Pete picked him up. Pete re-snapped his neck. Pete threw him in the shower.

He stood there. He caught his breath. He got a Godzilla-rate headache. He popped the medicine chest. He found some Bayer’s. He popped half a tin.

He prowled the pad. He dumped his treat bag. He dropped treats on rugs and chairs: Dildoes/reefers/bun-boy boox/Judy Garland LPs.

His headache dimmed—Godzilla to King Kong. He found some gin. He dosed it more—King Kong to Rodan.

He searched the pad. He tossed the pad. He faked a B&E. He trashed the bedroom. He trashed the kitchen. He searched the file sleeves. He found clips. He found notes. He found a folder marked “Book.”

Sixteen pages/typed text. Conspiracy—shit.

Pete skimmed the file. The story wandered. The gist cohered.

Wendell Durfee was a “dumb pimp.” He was “too dumb to kill Maynard Moore.” Moore had a temp job. Moore had a partner: Wayne Tedrow Junior/LVPD.

Koethe knew Sergeant A. V. Brown. Sergeant Brown said:

“There was bad blood between Moore & Junior. They got in a ruckus at the Adolphus Hotel. Moore allegedly failed to show up for a meeting with Junior. I think Junior killed him, but I’ve got no proof.”

Koethe knew a Fed man. Koethe quoted said Fed:

“Tedrow Senior ran snitch-Klan informants. Maynard Moore reported to him, so I think it’s a hell of a coincidence that Moore and Tedrow Junior got assigned together that weekend.”

Koethe riffed:

Moore knew J. D. Tippit. They were “Klanned-up.” Moore knew Jack Ruby. Moore dug on the Carousel Club.

Koethe riffed
off
Ruby. Koethe quoted a “Secret Source”:

“Jack brought some people by this safe house where the hit team was holed up. It might’ve been North Texas or Oklahoma, and it might’ve been some kind of motel or a hunting lodge. I think it was Jack and two women and maybe Hank Killiam. I think they saw some things they shouldn’t.”

Koethe riffed. Koethe listed Jack Ruby KAs. Starred names: Jack Zangetty/Betty McDonald/Hank Killiam. Koethe listed footnotes—newspaper-sourced:

Jack Zangetty disappears—Xmas ’63. Jack washes out of Lake Lugert. Betty McDonald/suicide—2/13/64. Hank Killiam/suicide—3/17/64.

Jim Koethe—verbatim: “Who was the other woman at the safe house?”

Koethe riffs. Koethe thinks the “hit team” disbanded. “They had to leave Dallas. They might have crossed the Mexican border.” Koethe secures a “Border-Patrol Source.” Said source secures a passport-stop list.

The dates: 11/23–12/2/63.

Koethe works the list. Koethe taps “Secret Sources.” Koethe runs 89 names. Koethe nails “a major suspect.”

Jean Philippe Mesplède/white male/age 41. Born: Lyon, France. Ex–French Army/ex–OAS trigger.

Mesplède has “right-wing ties.” Mesplède has “ties to Cuban exile groups.” Mesplède’s current address: 1214 Ciudad Juarez/Mexico City.

The pro shooter
was
French. Chuck Rogers said so. Chuck said he walked over the border.

Pete skimmed pages. The text decohered. Koethe’s logic went south.

Let’s link Oswald and Ruby. Let’s link Oswald and Moore. Let’s link Lady Bird Johnson. Let’s link Karyn Kupcinet.

Pete skimmed pages. Shit decohered. Let’s link Dorothy Kilgallen. Let’s link Lenny Bruce. Let’s link Mort Sahl.

Pete skimmed pages. Shit recohered—FUCK—

There’s a mug shot. It’s file exhibit A. It’s Kansas City PD sourced—3/8/56.

It’s Arden-Jane. Arden Elaine
Bruvick
then. Felony bounce—“Receipt of Stolen Goods.”

One mug shot. Attached notes. “Confidential” tips:

Jack Ruby’s bookkeeper splits Dallas. Her name is Arden
Smith
. She went to the safe house. She saw things she shouldn’t. She split Big D. for good.