The Cold Six Thousand (52 page)

He went by his banks yesterday. He withdrew tithe money. He cut tithe checks. He mailed them. He worried a phone call.

He called Bayard Rustin. He lied off Bogalusa. He did it to protect himself. He did it to protect Pete and Wayne.

He’d read the papers. He saw the news. The church blew “accidental.” No one linked Chuck. No one linked WILD RABBIT.

He called Bayard. He dittoed the news. He said a gas main blew. He cited fake sources. Bayard expressed gratitude. Bayard expressed belief.
He
lied.
He
lied deftly.
He
acted late.

The church blew. His late fees accrued—fees for
his
dead and maimed.

He saw the maimed. Some Feds saw him. Said Feds might inform Mr.
Hoover. He got drunk. He killed Chuck. He got sober. He still wanted it. He still tasted it. Liquor signs glowed.

He killed Chuck. He slept twelve hours. He woke up to this: End it. Leave the Life. Cut and run when you can.

Sam said yes. Sam gave his blessing. Sam had stipulations. Carlos might say yes. Carlos might have stipulations.

Tithes/stipulations/election years.

He served Mr. Hoover. They colluded. It spawned BLACK RABBIT. It spawned WILD RABBIT. It spawned dead and maimed. He killed Chuck. Pete braced WILD RABBIT. It was catch-up penance. It was wholly insufficient.

The lake glowed. Cruise boats cruised. He saw bow lights. He saw dance bands. He saw women.

Jane was war now. Jane outflanked him. Jane
knew
him before he
knew
her. She knew he stole. She knew he bagged money. She knew he played covert tapes.

She went through his papers. He caught her at it. They retreated. They quashed talk. They quashed confrontations.

Jane had plans. He
knew
it. She might want to hurt him. She might want to use him. She might want to know him more.

It scared him. It moved him. It made him want her more.

A boat drew close. A band played. A blue dress twirled. Janice wore dresses like that.

She was still bawdy. It was still good. She still served up stories and sex.

She dished Wayne Senior. The details scared him. Wayne Senior was FATHER RABBIT. Janice dished him. Janice loathed him. Janice still felt his hold.

The boat cruised by. The blue dress vanished. Littell called the Sands. Janice was out. Littell called the DI. Littell checked his messages.

One message: Call Lyle Holly—he’s at the Riv. Shit—WHITE RABBIT wants you.

Littell got the number. Littell put the call off. Littell prepped a tape. Littell grabbed a spool.

Sam scared him. Sam waxed profane. Bobby/cocksucker/rue the fucking day.

Littell prepped his tape-rig. Littell memory-laned.

Chicago, 1960—the Phantom loves Bobby. Chicago, 1965—Bobby lives on tape.

(Las Vegas, 7/20/65)

T
iger teemed.

Scribes pressed Sonny—give us quotes—rag that punk Cassius X. Sonny ignored them. Sonny quaffed Chivas. Sonny pawed mink coats.

Donkey Dom stole them. Donkey Dom sold them. Donkey Dom name-dropped. I pop fur shops/I bone Rock Hudson/I poke Sal Mineo.

His bun boy sulked. His bun boy griped hypocritical. His bun boy pimped drag queens full-time.

Wayne watched. Barb watched.

Dom shagged calls. His bun boy buzzed drivers. They juked the noon rush. Sonny bought mink mittens. Sonny bought mink jockstraps. Sonny bought mink earmuffs.

A scribe said, “Are those furs hot?”

Sonny said, “Your mama’s hot. I’m your daddy.”

A scribe said, “Why don’t you join the civil-rights movement?”

Sonny said, “ ’cause I ain’t got no dog-proof ass.”

The scribes yukked. Wayne yukked. Barb walked out to the lot. She popped pills. She chased them. She chugged flat 7-Up.

Wayne walked out. Wayne braced her in close.

“Pete’s rotating back. You start flying the second he’s gone.”

Barb stepped back. “Think about what
you
do, and tell me you disapprove then.”

Wayne stepped close. “Look who we sell to.”

“Look at
me
. Do I look like one of the junkie whores you’ve created?”

“I’m looking. I’m seeing lines you didn’t have a year ago.”

Barb laughed. “I’ve earned them. I’ve got fifteen years in the Life.”

Wayne stepped back. “You’re dodging me.”

“No. I’m just saying I’ve been around longer, and I know how things work better than you.”

“Tell Pete that. He won’t buy it, but tell him anyway.”

Barb stepped close. “You’re hooked, not me. You’re hooked on the Life, and you still don’t know how it works.”

Wayne stepped close. They bumped knees. Wayne smelled Barb’s soap.

“You’re just pissed that there’s no place in it for you.”

Barb stepped back. “You’re going to do things that you won’t be able to live with.”

“Maybe I have already.”

“It gets worse. And you’ll do worse things, just to prove you can take it.”

Test run:

Four collections. Four junkie deadbeats. Sonny’s collection debut.

Said junkies annexed a church basement. Said junkies had squatters’ rights. Their pastor skin-popped Demerol. Said junkies geezed up in church.

Wayne drove. Sonny cleaned his nails with a switchblade. Sonny sipped scotch. West LV sizzled. Folks soaked in kiddie pools. Folks lived in air-cooled cars.

Wayne said, “I killed a colored guy in Saigon.”

Sonny said, “I killed a white guy in St. Louis.”

There’s the church. It’s dilapidated. It’s sandblasted. It’s neon-signed. Dig the prayer hands and crosses. Dig the Jesus rolling dice.

They parked. They walked back to the basement door. They picked the lock. They walked in.

They saw four junkies. They’re crapped out on car seats—scavenged off old Cadillacs. They saw spoons and matchbooks. They saw spikes and tube ties. They saw bindles and white dregs.

There’s a hi-fi. There’s some LPs. It’s all gospel wax.

The junkies reposed—one per seat—the land of Naugahyde Nod. They saw Sonny. They saw Wayne. They snickered. They giggled. They sighed.

Wayne said, “Go.”

Sonny whistled. Sonny stomped. Sonny stormed Naugahyde Nod.

“You motherfuckers have got ten seconds to quit fucking with this house of worship and pay up what you owe.”

One junkie giggled. One junkie scratched. One junkie chuckled. One junkie yawned.

Wayne turned on the hi-fi. Wayne flipped a disc. Wayne laid the needle down. It was loud shit. It was ecstatic—Crawdaddy’s Christian Chorale.

Wayne said, “Go.”

Sonny kicked the car seats. Sonny dumped the junkies. Sonny threw the junkies down. They squirmed. They squealed. They evacuated Naugahyde Nod.

Sonny kicked them. Sonny picked them up. Sonny dropped them. Sonny grabbed the car seats. Sonny aimed. Sonny dropped them on their heads.

They squealed. They screeched. They howled and bled.

Sonny slapped them. Sonny picked their pockets. Sonny tossed pocket trash. One guy turned his pockets out. One guy ran pleas.

Sonny picked him up. Sonny dropped him. Sonny kicked him. Sonny bent down. Sonny caught his pleas.

Sonny stood up. Sonny smiled. Sonny signaled Wayne. Crawdaddy crescendoed. Wayne pulled the plug and walked up.

Sonny smiled. “As of spring, Wendell Durfee was running a string of wetback whores in Bakersfield, California.”

(Bon Secour, 7/22/65)

B
oats:

Charter jobs. Teak hulls and big motors. Forty slips / thirty bare / thirty boats out.

Pete strolled dockside. Pete scoped slip 19. There’s the
Ebbtide
. It runs fifty feet. Dig those high gunwales.

Nice shit. Mounted poles and cargo space. Spiffy brass fittings.

A guy worked on deck. He was mid-size. He ran mid-forties. He had a bum leg. He had a bad limp.

It was hot. The air dripped. Clouds densified. Mobile Bay—Shitsville—bait shacks and congestion.

Pete strolled deckside. Pete scoped slip 19.

He traced Jane’s call. He flew in. He ran checks. “Dave Burgess” owned the
Ebbtide
. “Dave Burgess” chartered out. “Dave Burgess” knew guys in New Orleans. Add 2 and 2. Add D.B. “Dave Burgess” was Danny Bruvick.

The T&C Corp owned the
Ebbtide
. Carlos owned T&C. Carlos
was
New Orleans.

He bribed a cop. He checked phone sheets. He ran phone checks. “Burgess” was good. “Burgess” used pay phones—right off the dock.

“Burgess” called Carlos. “Burgess” called Carlos frequent. “Burgess” called Carlos four times last month.

Pete walked slip 19. “Burgess” scrubbed fishhooks. Pete stepped on deck. “Burgess” looked up.

He tweaked a bit. He perked a bit. His antennae twitched.

That speargun—
watch
.

“Burgess” reached for it. “Burgess” grabbed. “Burgess” nailed the grip. Pete aimed. Pete kicked out. Pete nailed the grip.

The speargun skittered. “Burgess” said, “Shit.”

Pete walked up. Pete grabbed the speargun. Pete popped the spear out to sea.

“Burgess” said, “Fuck.”

Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece.

“You’re thinking ‘Jimmy Hoffa sent this guy,’ and you’re wrong.”

“Burgess” sucked a thumbnail. “Burgess” flexed his hand. Pete checked the boat out. The boat enticed. The boat seduced.

Nice:
Steel hull/grappling posts/fittings.
Nice:
Hardwood from the Philippines.

“Burgess” flexed his wrist. “She’s an old rum-runner. She’s got all the—”

Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece. Pete pointed below-deck. “Burgess” stood up. “Burgess” sighed. “Burgess” squared his bum leg and limped.

He wore shorts. Dig his scars. Dig his bullet-pocked knee.

He crossed the deck. He passed the wheelhouse. He took back stairs down. Pete tailed him. Pete scoped details.

Two wheel stands/control posts/full instruments. Teak walls/hall space/rear cabins. Rear engines/rear storage/rear cargo traps.

Pete walked ahead. Pete saw an office: two chairs/one desk/one booze shelf.

He pulled “Burgess” in. He grabbed a chair. He pushed “Burgess” down. He tucked “Burgess” in. He poured a libation.

The boat swayed. Pete sloshed Cutty. “Burgess” grabbed it. “Burgess” drained it. “Burgess” liquor-flushed.

Pete poured a refill. Pete poured big. “Burgess” refueled. “Burgess” sucked Cutty up.

Pete cocked his piece. “You’re Danny Bruvick. I’m Pete Bondurant, and we’ve got some friends in common.”

Bruvick burped. Bruvick flushed. Bruvick vibed lush.

Pete twirled his piece. “I want the whole story of you, ‘Arden,’ and Carlos Marcello. I want to know why Arden is shacked up with Ward Littell.”

Bruvick eyed the bottle. Pete poured him a pop. Bruvick refueled. The boat dipped. Bruvick doused his lap.

“You shouldn’t let me drink too much. I might get courageous.”

Pete shook his head. Pete pulled his silencer. Pete tapped his piece. Bruvick gulped. Bruvick pulled beads out. Bruvick rosaried.

Pete shot the Cutty. Pete shot the Gilbey’s. Pete shot the Jack D. Bottles spritzed. Teakwood cracked. Soft-points tore holes.

The room shook—sonic booms—the boat aftershocked.

Bruvick spazzed out. Bruvick squeezed his beads. Bruvick grabbed his ears.

Pete pulled his hands down. “Start with Arden. Give me her real name and lay out some perspective.”

Bruvick sneezed. Gunpowder tickled noses. Gun cordite stung.

“Her real name’s Arden Breen. Her old man was a labor agitator. You know, a Commie type.”

Pete cracked his knuckles. “Keep going.”

Bruvick tossed his hair. Glass shards flew.

“Her mother died. She got rheumatic fever. The old man raised Arden. He was a drunk and a whore chaser. He had a different name for every day of the week, and he raised Arden in whorehouses and union halls, meaning
bad
union halls, meaning the old man talked Red, but cut management deals every chance he got, which was—”

“Arden. Get back to her.”

Bruvick rubbed his knees. “She quit school early, but she always had a head for figures. She met these two whores who went to the bookkeeping school I went to in Mississippi and picked up some skills from them. She kept some whorehouse and union hall books, you know, gigs her old man got her. She’d work these classier houses and spy on the johns. She’d pump them for stock tips and shit like that. She was good at anything involving numbers and ledgers. You know, money calculations.”

Pete cracked his thumbs. “Get to it. You’re working up to something.”

Bruvick rubbed his bad knee. Scar tissue pulsed.

“She started working in some classier houses. She met this money guy Jules Schiffrin. He was tied in with—”

“I know who he was.”

“Okay, so she started tricking with him regular. He
kept
her, you know, and she met lots of people in the Life, and she helped him with these so-called ‘real’ pension-fund books that he was working on.”

Pete cracked his wrists. “Keep going.”

Bruvick rubbed his knee. “Her old man got killed in ’52. He screwed Jimmy H. on a management deal, so Jimmy had him clipped. Arden didn’t care. She hated the old man for his goddamn hypocrisy and the shitty way he raised her.”

The boat pitched. Pete grabbed the desk.

“Arden and Schiffrin. Spill on that.”

“Spill
what
? She learned what she could from him and broke it off.”

“And?”

“And she started hooking freelance, and got a thing going with Carlos. I met her in ’55. We had mutual friends in those whores who went to school with me. I was working the K.C. local. We got married and cooked up some plans.”

“Like ‘Let’s embezzle Jimmy.’ ”

Bruvick lit a cigarette. “I admit it wasn’t the smartest—”

“You got caught. Jimmy put a contract out.”

“Right. Some guys cornered me and shot me. I got away, but I almost lost my leg, and the fucking contract’s still out.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “Jimmy had the K.C. cops run Arden in. Carlos bailed her out and hid you. He didn’t fuck with Jimmy’s contract, because he wanted a wedge on you.”