Read The Cold Six Thousand Online
Authors: James Ellroy
The Cold Six Thousand (68 page)
The closet was hot. They popped sweat. They stripped to socks and shorts.
They sat still. They killed the lights. Their watch dials ran fluorescent.
11:18. 11:29. 11:42.
Poof—doorway light. Off the bedroom—stage right.
Pete squared the camera. Otash rolled film. More light/bedroom fixtures/beams overhead.
Sal walked in. Bayard squeezed in tight. They laughed. They touched. They brushed hips. Bayard kissed Sal. Otash went ugh. Sal kissed Bayard back.
Pete squared the camera. Pete nailed the bed. Pete got Ground Zero in mid-shot.
Sal said, “Martin gives a good speech, but you’re handsom—”
Sal stopped. Sal stopped what the—
His voice fluttered. His voice echo-chambered. His voice woofered. His voice tweetered. His voice bounced high and wide.
FUCK—
Overfeed. Overamp. Microph—
Bayard tweaked. Bayard hinked. Bayard looked around fast. Bayard yodeled. Bayard yelled, “Hell-o!” Bayard got echoes back.
Sal grabbed his neck. Sal blitzed a kiss. Sal squeezed his ass. Bayard shoved him. Sal hit the bed. A mattress-mike snapped.
It hit the floor. It bounced. It rolled. It stopped.
Pete said, “Shit.”
Otash said, “Fuck.”
Bayard yelled—“Hell-o, J. Edgar!”—Bayard got echoes back.
Sal grabbed a pillow. Sal hid his face. Sal nellied out. Sal kicked his legs nonstop.
Bayard looked around. Bayard saw the mirror. Bayard ran up.
He hit the glass.
He gouged his hands.
He tore his hands up.
(Silver Spring, 1/6/67)
B
ank work:
The B. of A. South of D.C. Tithe tunnel 3.
Littell wrote a deposit slip. Littell wrote a withdrawal slip. Littell scrawled an envelope.
Seven grand—one Drac-pilfered deposit. Five grand—one tithe withdrawn. A donation from “Richard D. Wilkins”—tithe pseudonym 3.
Littell got in line. Littell saw a teller. Littell showed his slips and bankbook. The teller smiled. The teller ran his paperwork. The teller metered his check.
He checked his book balance. He creased the check. He sealed the envelope. He walked outside. He dodged snowdrifts. He found a mail chute.
He dropped the letter. He checked for tails. Standard procedure now.
Negative. No tails extant. He
knew
it.
He stood outside. It felt good. The cold air revived him. He was tired. He’d been running—all-Bureau ops.
He toured sixteen cities. He did sixteen bug jobs. He bugged sixteen Mob meeting spots. He worked solo. Fred T. was booked. Fred T. had work with Fred O. He had off-time himself. It was Drac-approved. Drac’s Mormons filled his spot.
Said Mormons haggled in Vegas. They said sell us the DI. They said sell us more hotels.
He flew loops. He did bug jobs. He called Moe D. Moe was jazzed. Moe said we’ll bilk Drac—I
know
it.
He flew circuits. Chicago/K.C./Milwaukee. St. Louis/Santa Barbara/L.A. He nursed plans. He hit L.A. He acted.
He went through Jane’s file. He sifted dirt. He culled dirt on second-line hoods—all East Coast men.
It was prime Arden data. It detailed hijacks and Mob hits. It was non-tangential. It was non-fund-book-related. It was not related to: Carlos/Sam G./John Rosselli/Santo/Jimmy/et al.
He typed out the facts. He wrote succinct. He print-wiped the paper. He flew back out. He traveled. He bugged more meet spots. He hit Frisco/Phoenix/Philly. He hit D.C. and New York.
He stayed in Manhattan. He booked a hotel room. He used a pseudonym. He altered his appearance. He cosmeticized.
He bought a beard. It was dark blond and gray. It was superb quality. It covered his scars. It reshaped his face. It aged him ten years.
He met Bobby once. He met Bobby three days pre-Dallas. Bobby would remember him. Bobby knew his look.
He bought work clothes. He bought contact lenses. He surveilled Bobby’s billet: The UN Towers/old brick/off 1st Avenue.
He braced the doorman. The doorman knew Bobby. The doorman said Bobby rotates. Bobby runs south to D.C. Bobby runs back to New York.
Littell watched. Littell waited. Bobby showed two days in. Bobby brought a young aide north.
A thin boy. Dark hair and glasses. Said boy looked bright. Said boy adored Bobby. Said boy’s adulation glowed.
They walked the East Side. Constituents waved. The boy rebuffed hecklers and creeps. Littell tailed them. Littell got close. Littell heard Bobby speak.
The boy had a car. Littell got the plate stats. Littell ran them through the DMV. He got Paul Michael Horvitz/age 23/address in D.C.
Littell called Horvitz. Littell dropped hints. Littell said he had information. Horvitz bit. They arranged a meet—on for tonight in D.C.
Tellers walked out. A guard locked the bank. Snow fell. It felt cold. It warmed him.
He prepped. He worked up mannerisms. He culled a new wardrobe. He dredged up a drawl.
One tweed suit. One soft chambray shirt. Beard/lisp/fey posture.
He showed early. He named the spot: Eddie Chang’s Kowloon. The lighting was murky. Said lighting would camouflage.
He got a booth. He sprawled invertebrate. He ordered tea. He watched the door. He checked his watch.
There’s Paul.
It’s 8:01. He’s punctual. He’s youthful and sincere. Littell geared up—be aged/be fey.
Paul glanced around. Paul saw couples. Paul saw one solo act. He walked back. He sat down. Littell poured him tea straight off.
“Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“Well, your call intrigued me.”
“I was hoping it would. Young men like you get all sorts of dubious overtures, but this is certainly not one of them.”
Paul dumped his overcoat. Paul untied his scarf.
“Senator Kennedy gets the overtures, not me.”
Littell smiled. “That’s not what I meant, son.”
“I got your meaning, but I chose to ignore it.”
Littell sprawled. Littell drummed the table.
“You look like Andrew Goodman, that poor boy who died in Mississippi.”
“I knew Andy at the COFO School. I almost went down myself.”
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Are you from there?”
“I’m from De Kalb. It’s a smidge between Scooba and Electric Mills.”
Paul sipped tea. “You’re some sort of lobbyist, right? You knew you couldn’t get to the senator, so you thought you’d find yourself an ambitious young aide.”
Littell bowed—courtly/très South.
“I know that ambitious young men will risk looking foolish and go out on a snowy night on the off-chance that something is real.”
Paul smiled. “And you’re ‘real.’ ”
“My documents are wholly real, and one thorough reading will convince you and Senator Kennedy of their authenticity.”
Paul lit a cigarette. “And yours?”
“I claim no authenticity, and would prefer that my documents speak for themselves.”
“And your documents pertain to?”
“My documents pertain to misdeeds perpetrated by members of organized crime. I will supplant the initial batch with subsequent parcels and deliver them to you in discreet bunches, so that you and/or Senator Kennedy can investigate the allegations at your leisure and your discretion. My only requirement is that there be no public disclosure pertaining to any information I give you until late 1968 or early 1969.”
Paul twirled his ashtray. “Do you think Senator Kennedy will be President or President-elect then?”
Littell smiled. “From your mouth to God’s ears, although I was thinking more of where I’ll be then.”
Wall vents popped. The heat came on. Littell broke a sweat.
“Do you think he’ll run?”
Paul said, “I don’t know.”
“Does he remain committed to the fight against organized crime?”
“Yes. It’s very much on his mind, but he feels uncomfortable going public with it.”
Littell popped sweat. His tweeds broiled. His faux beard slipped. He splayed his hands. He cupped his chin. It played effete. It stopped the slip.
“You can depend on my loyalty, but I would prefer to remain anonymous in all our transactions.”
Paul stuck his hand out. Littell passed the notes.
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 1/8/67. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript (OPERATION BLACK RABBIT Addendum.) Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director, BLUE RABBIT.
DIR: Good afternoon.
BR: Good afternoon, Sir.
DIR: I read your memo. You attribute the failure of a Stage-2 operation to faulty condensor plugs.
BR: It was a technical failure, Sir. I would not blame Fred Otash or BIG RABBIT.
DIR: The blameworthy one is thus Fred Turentine, the reptilian “Bug Man to the Stars,” a lowly minion of Otash and BIG RABBIT.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: I gain no succor from foisting blame on a hired hand. I gain only dyspeptic fury.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Give me some good news to allay my agitation.
BR: Otash was very good on the post-op. He leaned on Mineo and warned him to keep quiet. I would strongly suggest that PINK RABBIT will not risk personal ridicule or bad publicity for the SCLC by going public with word on the shakedown.
DIR: I was looking forward to the film. Bayard and Sal, O bird thou never wert.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Let’s discuss CRUSADER RABBIT.
BR: He did a superb job on the installations, Sir.
DIR: Did you have him spot-tailed?
BR: On three occasions, Sir. He’s tail-savvy, but my men managed to sustain surveillance.
DIR: Expand your answers. I have a lunch date in the year 2010.
BR: CRUSADER RABBIT was not spotted doing anything remotely suspicious.
DIR: Besides installing illegal bug-mounts at our behest.
BR: Including Bobby Kennedy’s place in Santa Barbara, Sir.
DIR: Thrillingly ironic. CRUSADER bugs his savior and my bete noire. Unwitting complicity of a high order.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: How long will it take to recruit men to man the listening posts?
BR: A while, Sir. We’ve got sixteen locations.
DIR: To continue. Update me on WILD RABBIT.
BR: He’s doing well, Sir. You’ve seen the results. We keep getting mail-fraud indict—
DIR: I know what we keep getting. I know that we do not come close to getting anything remotely resembling satisfaction in the matter of one Martin Luther King, aka RED RABBIT, aka the Minstrel Antichrist. Our attempts to dislodge him and subsume his prestige have consumed tens of thousands of man-hours and have garnered nil results. He has turned us into dung beetles and rare, indigenous African birds who peck through elephant shit, and I am woefully sick and tired of waiting for him to discredit himself.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: You’re a rock, Dwight. I can always count on you to say “Yes, Sir.”
BR: I would like to seek more radical means to nullify RED RABBIT. Do I have your permission to bring in a trusted friend and explore the possibilities?
DIR: Yes.
BR: Thank you, Sir.
DIR: Good day, Dwight.
BR: Good day, Sir.
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 1/14/67. Telephone call transcript. Taped by: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: “FBI-Scrambled”/“Stage-1 Covert”/ “Destroy Without Reading in the Event of My Death.” Speaking: BLUE RABBIT, FATHER RABBIT.
BR: Senior, how are you? How’s the connection?
FR: I’m hearing some clicks.
BR: That’s my scrambler. The beeps mean we’re tap-proof.
FR: We should be talking in person.
BR: I’m down in Mississippi. I can’t get away.
FR: You’re sure it’s—
BR: It’s fine. Jesus, don’t go cuntish on me.
FR: I won’t. It’s just that—
BR: It’s just that you think he’s got superhuman powers, and he
doesn’t. He can’t read minds and he can’t tap scrambled frequencies.
FR: Well, still …
BR: Still, shit. He’s not God, so quit acting like he is.
FR: He’s something similar.
BR: I’ll buy that.
FR: Did he—
BR: He said yes.
FR: Do you think he knows what we’re planning?
BR: No, but he’ll be glad to see it happen, and if he thinks it’s us, he’ll make sure the investigation obfuscates.
FR: That’s good news.
BR: No shit, Sherlock.
FR: People hate him. King, I mean.
BR: Those that don’t love him, yeah.
FR: What about the bug—
BR: We’re A-OK on that front. I talked him into letting me wire sixteen spots. He’ll read the transcripts, hear the hate building and get his rocks off.
FR: There’s a scapegoat aspect here.
BR: That is correct. Guinea hoods hate coloreds and civil-rights fucks, and they love to talk about it. Hoover hears the hate, the whole thing starts feeling inevitable, pow, then it happens. The whole Mob-hate thing serves to muddy the waters and gets him thinking that it’s too big to mess with.
FR: Like Jack Kennedy.
BR: Exactly. It’s coming, it’s inevitable, it’s accomplished and it’s good for business. The nation mourns and hates the clown we give them.
FR: You know the metaphysic.
BR: We all went to school on Jack.
FR: How long will it take to get the bugs in place?
BR: About six weeks. You want the punch line? I had Ward Littell do the mounts.
FR: Dwight, Jesus.
BR: I had my reasons. One, he’s the best bug man around. Two, we may need him somewhere down the line. Three, I needed to throw him a bone to keep him in the game.
FR: Shitfire. Any game with Littell in it is a game to fix from the get-go.
BR: I threw Hoover a bone. He hates Bobby K. almost as much
as he hates King, and he shares all his dirt with LBJ. I had Littell bug one of Bobby’s hotel suites.
FR: I’m getting chills, Dwight. You keep dropping the “Mister” off “Hoover.”
BR: Because I trust scrambler technology.
FR: It’s more than that.
BR: Okay, it’s because he’s slipping. Why mince words? King’s the one guy he wanted to break the most, and King’s the one guy he can’t break. Here’s another punch line for you. Lyle liked King. He worked against him and admired him anyway, and I’m starting to feel the same way. That grandiose cocksucker is a jigaboo for the ages.
FR: I’ve heard everything now.
BR: No, you haven’t. Try this. Hoover’s a hophead.
FR: Dwight, come—
BR: That Dr. Feelgood guy flies down from New York every day, on the Bureau’s time-card. He gives Hoover a pop of liquid methamphetamine mixed with B-complex vitamins and male hormones. The old boy fades about 1:00 p.m. and perks up like a dog in heat around 2:00.
FR: Jesus.
BR: He’s not God or Jesus. He’s slipping, but he’s still good. We’ve got to be careful around him.
FR: We need to start thinking about a fall guy.
BR: I want to bring in Fred Otash and Bob Relyea to help us look. I’ve gotten tight with Otash, he’s solid, and he’s got juice on the coast. Bob’s your rabbit, so you know the score there. That hump knows every expendable race-baiter in the south.
FR: I’ve got an idea. It might help to facilitate things.
BR: I’m listening.
FR: We should do some hate-mail intercepts on King and the SCLC, to see if we can find a guy who’s sent them letters. I know the Bureau’s doing mail covers, so I think we should bring in a man to go through the covered mail, photograph it and return it to the covering agent, on the sly.
BR: It’s a good idea, if we can find a man we can trust.
FR: My son.
BR: Shit. Don’t give me that.
FR: I’m serious.
BR: I thought you and the kid were estranged. He was moving dope with Pete Bondurant, and you two were on the outs.
FR: We’ve reconciled.
BR: Shit.
FR: You know how he hates coloreds. He’d be perfect for the job.
BR: Shit. He’s too volatile. You recall that little run-in I had with him?
FR: He’s changed, Dwight. He’s a brilliant kid, and he’d be perfect for the job.
BR: I’ll buy brilliant. I bought him his first chemistry set in 1944.
FR: I remember. You said he’d figure out how to split the atom.
BR: You’ve reconciled, you trust him, I concede he’d be good. That said, we don’t want him to know what we’re building up to.
FR: We’ll muddy things. We’ll have him cull mail on King, plus one liberal and one conservative politician. He’ll think I’m just building my intelligence base.
BR: Shit.
FR: He’ll be good. He’s the right man for—
BR: I want a wedge. I’ll bring him in, as long as we’ve got something on him. I know he’s your son, but I’m still going to insist.
FR: Let’s see if we can hand him Wendell Durfee. He’s allegedly in L.A., which means I could put my LAPD contacts on him covert. You know what Wayne will do if he finds him.
BR: Yeah. And I could make like I still hate him and squeeze him with that.
FR: It might work. Shitfire, it will work.
BR: Durfee’s a long shot. He might take time and we might tap out on him.
FR: I know.
BR: We need to bring in our mail guy within the next six weeks.
FR: I’ll bring Wayne in. We’ll work on Durfee in the meantime.
BR: That fucks up the wedge aspect.
FR: Not in the long run.
BR: What are you saying?
FR: We don’t need a wedge for his mail work. We’ve got to have one in place when I tell him he’ll be there for D-Day.
BR: Jesus Christ.
FR: My son doesn’t know it, but he’s been waiting his whole life for this.
BR: In your words, “Shitfire.”
FR: That about says it.
BR: I’ve got to go. I want to get some coffee and think this all through.
FR: It’s going to happen.
BR: You’re damn fucking right it is.
