The Cold Six Thousand (65 page)

He flew home. The ride bumped. He worried Barb and Wayne.

Barb sniffed white horse. Wayne knew it. Wayne grieved. Wayne loves Barb. Wayne eschews women. Wayne’s a watcher. Wayne’s a martyr. Wayne’s woman-fucked.

Warn Wayne. Tell Barb soft:
I know you—just me
.

The plane landed. Vegas glowed radioactive. Pete cabbed to the Cavern. Pete unlocked the suite.

The cat jumped him. He picked him up. He kissed him. He saw the note.

It’s flat on the wall. It’s taped high. It’s his eye-level.

Pete tore the note up. Pete kicked walls and shelves. Pete hugged the cat. Pete let the cat claw his shirt.

(Las Vegas, 11/29/66)

M
oe Dalitz said, “Look.”

Littell checked the window. Littell saw nuts below. Ten floors down. Nuts with cameras. Nuts with kids in tow.

Moe said, “They think Hughes sleeps in a coffin. They figure he’ll wake up at dusk and sign autographs in his cape.”

Littell laughed. Littell went ssshhh. Hush now—biz-in-progress.

Ten yards up. Two tables—Mormons meet front men.

Moe grinned. “It’s my fucking hotel and my fucking king-size conference room. I’m supposed to whisper in my own joint?”

A Mormon glanced over. Moe smiled and waved.

“Goyishe shitheels. Mormons are roughly synonymous with the Ku Klux Klan.”

Littell smiled. Littell steered Moe. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.

“Would you like an update?”

Moe rolled his eyes. “Tell me. Use words of one syllable only.”

“Short and sweet, then. I think we’ll get our price. They’re discussing undistributed profits tax now.”

Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.

“I know you don’t like him, but that well-known goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior is essential to our plans. We need his union, and we need to keep his ex-buddies and Mormons in general running skim on those charter flights. Now, we’ve got the papers and TV bribed to do this
‘Hughes is cleaning out Mob influence in Vegas’ number, which makes me think we should recruit some
more
clean Mormon skim guys, because Hughes will insist on hiring Mormons to work the key fucking managerial positions, and I do not want any old-line skim people hanging around looking conspicuous when we can have some well-scrubbed shitheel Mormons,
especially
since the skim ante is about to go way up.”

Littell brainstormed. Littell checked the window. He saw nut swarms. He saw newsmen. He saw clowns with snack carts.

“The publicity heat will be going up, too.”

Moe lit a cigarette. Moe popped digitalis.

“Tell me what you’re thinking. Go to two syllables if you have to.”

Littell brainstormed—one quick brain draft. Propose it/convince Moe/refine the draft. Gift Mr. Hoover/earn a gift reciprocal/earn back to BLACK RABBIT.

Moe rolled his eyes. “A trance you’re in. Like the Vegas sun finally got to your head.”

Littell coughed. “Are you still buffered from your old-line skim people?”

“The ones we replaced? The ones we shitcanned for the Mormons?”

“Right.”

Moe rolled his eyes. “We always buffer. It’s how we survive.”

Littell smiled. “Let’s give some of them up to the Feds, as soon as Mr. Hughes takes over a few hotels. It will buttress our publicity campaign, it will make Mr. Hoover happy, it will tie the Feds here up in litigation.”

Moe dropped his cigarette. Moe singed deep-pile carpet. Moe toed the butt flat.

“I like it. I like all deals that fuck disenfranchised personnel.”

“I’ll call Mr. Hoover.”

“You do that. You say hi and give him our best regards, in your best lawyer way.”

Voices boomed eight tables up—tax rates/tax incentives. Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked eight yards. They bypassed two tables.

“I know you been through this with Carlos and Sam, but I want you to hear it from my perspective, which is we do not want a fucking repeat of the 1960 election. We want to back a strong guy who’ll come down hard on all this agitation and civil unrest and stand firm in Vietnam, as well as leave us the fuck alone. Now, per the aforementioned goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior, let me say this. We’ve heard that he’s no longer schlepping hate pamphlets, that he’s cleaned up the seedier aspects of his act, and that him and his Mormons are getting tight with that well-known political retread Richard M. Nixon, who has always hated the Reds
a good deal more than he’s hated the so-called Mafia. We want you to talk to Wayne Senior and get an indication as to whether Nixon will run, and if he says yes, you know what we want and what we’re willing to pay.”

Voices boomed ten tables up—tax nuts/tax credits.

Littell coughed. “I’ll call him when I get a—”

“You call him in the vicinity of the next five minutes. You meet him and lay it out. You get him to plant the seed with the Nixon people, and you tell him
you’ll
be the guy to sit down with Nixon, if and when that shifty cocksucker runs.”

Littell said, “Jesus Christ.”

Moe said, “Your goyishe savior. A presidential cat in his own right.”

Voices boomed ten tables up—Negro hygiene/Negro sedation.

The T-Bird—hole 10.

Play crawled. Duffers hacked. Oldsters bumped carts. Littell sipped club soda. Littell watched hole 9.

Women dumped shots. Women blew putts. Women sprayed sand. Ball beaters all—no Janice types.

He called Wayne Senior. He made the meet. He called Mr. Hoover. He got an aide. He promised news. He promised hard data. Mr. Hoover was out. The aide said he’d find him. The aide called back. The aide said:

Mr. Hoover’s busy. Talk to SA Dwight Holly—he’s in Vegas now.

Littell agreed. Littell assessed.

Mr. Hoover loves Dwight. Dwight’s
his
assessor. Dwight will see you and assess. Work Dwight/work said assessment/work back to BLACK RABBIT.

A breeze strafed through. Golfers blew shots. Putts blew way wide. Littell brainstormed. Littell watched hole 9.

Work Wayne Senior. Glean data. His union broke laws. His union ignored civil-rights codes. Glean said data. Leak it to Bobby. Maybe now/maybe later/maybe ’68.

He’d be free. He’d be “retired.” Bobby might run for Prez. Funnel the leaks/buffer the leaks/cloak the source disclosure.

Littell watched hole 9. Wayne Senior played up.

He dumped his approach. He hit the trap. He chipped out wide. He three-putted. He laughed. He left his golf pals.

He walked over brisk. Littell arranged a lawn chair.

“Hello, Ward.”

“Mr. Tedrow.”

Wayne Senior leaned on the chair. “Things run dense with you. Every word has its meaning.”

“I’ll state my case briefly. I’ll have you back on the tee in five minutes.”

Wayne Senior smirked. Wayne Senior grinned aw-shucks.

“I thought we might work at a thaw. We could commiserate over a certain woman and go from there.”

Littell shook his head. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“That’s a shame, because Janice certainly does.”

A ball shanked close. Wayne Senior ducked.

Littell said, “My people will be needing some men to work at Mr. Hughes’ hotels, along with some new couriers. I’d like to go through your union files and look for prospects.”

Wayne Senior twirled his putter. “
I’ll
pick the men. The last time we did business, my men quit the union and I lost my percentage.”

Littell smiled. “I reinstated it.”

“You reinstated it reluctantly, and you’re the last man on God’s green earth that I’d let in my files. Dwight Holly thinks you’re a bad man to trust with information, and I would guess that Mr. Hoover concurs.”

Littell cleaned his glasses. Wayne Senior blurred.

“I was told that you’ve become friends with Richard Nixon.”

“Dick and I are getting close, yes.”

“Do you think he’ll run in ’68?”

“I’m sure he will. He’d prefer to run against Johnson or Humphrey, but he’ll buck the younger Kennedy if he has to.”

Littell smiled. “He’ll lose.”

Wayne Senior smiled. “He’ll
win
. Bobby isn’t Jack by a long shot.”

A ball rolled up. Littell grabbed it.

“If Mr. Nixon runs, I’ll ask you to arrange a meeting with me. I’ll state my clients’ requests, gauge his response, and take it from there. If Mr. Nixon agrees to honor the requests, he’ll be compensated.”

Wayne Senior said, “How much?”

Littell said, “Twenty-five million.”

(New Hebron, 11/30/66)

K
lantics:

Klan klowns hauled guns. Klan klowns oiled guns. Klan klowns klipped koupons.

They sat around. They worked inside. They ducked a hailstorm outside. The Führer Bunker—ripe with farts and gun residue.

Wayne lounged. Bob Relyea dipped numbers. Bob Relyea bitched.

“My fucking contacts are getting lazy. They want to burn the serial codes as part of the deal, that’s fine with me, even though Pete don’t like it. But doing the job myself is another fucking thing.”

Wayne watched. Wayne yawned. Bob dabbed M-14s. Bob dabbed pumps. Bob dabbed bazookas. He wore rubber gloves. He swiped a brush. He smeared caustic goo.

Wayne watched. The goo ate numbers—three-zero codes.

Bob said, “My contacts boosted some Army trucks near Memphis. There’s this little town called White Haven, where all the caucasoids moved to to get away from the spooks. Half the town’s Army EM.”

Wayne sneezed. The caustics stung. Wayne lounged and drifted. Wayne Senior/job deals/“Hate Smart.”

Bob said, “What do you call a monkey sitting in a tree with three niggers? You call him the Branch Manager.”

The Klan klods howled. Bob booted snuff. Bob dipped M-14s. Pete kalled the kompound. Pete found Wayne an hour back. Pete reworked Wayne’s rotation.

Don’t surveille the gun run. Don’t boat to Cuba. Fly to Vegas/meet Sonny/muscle a deadbeat.

Bob packed guns. Flash was due—kadre on kall. The karavan—New Hebron to Bay St. Louis.

Wayne stood up. Wayne toured the hate hut. Dig the wall-mounted shivs. Dig the Rebel drapes. Dig the wall photos: George Wallace/Ross Barnett/Orval Faubus.

Dig the group shots. There’s the Regal Knights. There’s a jail pic—three cons in the “Thunderbolt Legion.”

Said cons wore jail garb. Said cons grinned. Said cons signed their names: Claude Dineen/Loyal Binns/Jimmy E. Ray.

Bob said, “Hey, Wayne. You ever talk to your daddy?”

He drove north. He flew Memphis to Vegas. He thought about Janice. He thought about Barb. He thought about Wayne Senior.

Janice aged strong. Good genes and will meet carnal desires. Barb aged fast. Bad habits and will meet fucked-up desires. Wayne Senior looked old. Wayne Senior looked good. Wayne Senior had hate-smart desires.

Janice limped. She’d fuck harder now. She’d outgun her handicap. She’d compensate.

The plane touched down. Wayne got off bleary—1:10 a.m.

He walked down the ramp. He trailed some nuns. He dodged skycaps with dollies.

There’s Pete. He’s by the gate. He’s perched by some bag carts. He’s
smoking
.

Wayne hitched up his garment bag. Wayne walked over bleary.

“Put that fucking cigarette—”

Pete pushed a bag cart. It hit Wayne’s knees. It capsized him. It knocked him flat. Pete ran over. Pete stepped on his chest.

“Here’s the warning. I don’t care what you feel for Barb or what you think she’s doing to herself. Hit her again and I’ll kill you.”

Wayne saw starbursts. Wayne saw sky. Wayne saw Pete’s shoe. He sucked air. He ate jet fumes. He got breath.

“I was telling her something you won’t, and I fucking did it to help you.”

Pete flicked his cigarette. Pete burned Wayne’s neck. Pete dropped a note on his chest.

“Take care of it. You and Sonny. Barb’s gone, so we’ll pretend this never happened.”

A nun walked by. Said nun shot a look—you pagans stop that!

Pete walked off. Wayne sat up. Wayne got more breath. Two punks strolled by. They saw Wayne recumbent. They giggled it up.

Wayne stood up. Wayne dodged skycaps and bag carts. Wayne hit a phone booth.

He dropped coins. He dialed. He got a buzz tone. He got three rings. He got
Him
.

“Who’s calling at this ungodly hour?”

Wayne said, “I want that job.”

(Las Vegas, 12/1/66)

O
nstage: Milt C. and Junkie Monkey.

Milt said, “What’s all this tsuris with Howard Hughes?”

Junkie Monkey said, “I heard he’s a swish. He moved in to get next to Liberace.”

The crowd yocked. The crowd roared.

Milt said, “Come on. I heard he was shtupping Ava Gardner.”

Junkie Monkey said, “
I’m
shtupping Ava. She traded up from Sammy Davis. Sammy’s on the golf course. This square comes up to him and says, ‘What’s your handicap?’ Sammy says, ‘I’m a one-eyed shvartze Jew. Nobody will sell me a house in a nice neighborhood. I’m trying to effect a peace accord between Israel and the Congo. I’ve got no place to hang my Sy Devore beanie.’ ”

The crowd yocked. Milt moved his lips. Milt puppet-talked bad. Pete watched. Pete smoked. Pete mourned Barb.

She was three days gone. She didn’t call. She didn’t write.
He
didn’t call.
He
didn’t write. He braced Wayne instead.

It was bullshit. Wayne was right. He knew it. Barb split. He exploited it. He indulged. He smoked. He ate burgers. He worked the Fuck-It Diet. He boozed. He caught Milt. He caught Barb’s crew. The Bondsmen sans Barb—Shit City.

The lounge was packed. Young stuff mostly. Milt drew hip kids.

Junkie Monkey said, “Frank Sinatra saved my life. His goons were stomping me in the Sands parking lot. Frank said, ‘That’s enough, boys.’ ”