Read The Cold Six Thousand Online
Authors: James Ellroy
The Cold Six Thousand (74 page)
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 3/14/68. Bug-extract transcript. Marked: “Confidential”/“Stage-1 Covert”/“Eyes Only”: Director, SA D. C. Holly.
Location: Card room/Grapevine Tavern/St. Louis/listening-post-accessed. Speaking: Norbert Donald Kling & Rowland Mark DeJohn, paroled felons (Armed Robbery/Bunco/GTA) & presumed organized-crime associates. (Conversation 0.9 minutes in progress.)
NDK: This is rich. I grab the pay phone this morning and who do I get?
RMDJ: Jill St. John?
NDK: No.
RMDJ: What’s her name? That cooze with the go-go boots.
NDK: No.
RMDJ: Norb, shit—
NDK: It’s Jimmy Ray. He starts talking shit and says he joined
a French cult in L.A. He dives muff and gets sucked off all day, and he needs money to support all his slaves, and did I know if there was a time limit on the bounty, ’cause he’s got his hands full with his slaves right now and he don’t know when he can get free.
RMDJ: That is hilarious. Jimmy’s got his hands full, all right.
NDK: One hand, at least. At Jeff City he’d geez meth and jack off for two days at a pop. He’d read these fucking pussy books and orbit. He said the fucking pictures were talking to him.
RMDJ: Jimmy’s got delusions of grandeur.
NDK: Yeah, but he hates niggers.
(Non-applicable conversation follows.)
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 3/15/68. Bug-extract transcript. Marked: “Confidential”/“Stage-1 Covert”/“Eyes Only”: Director, SA D. C. Holly.
Location: Suite 301/El Encanto Hotel/Santa Barbara/listening-post-accessed. Speaking: Senator Robert F. Kennedy, Paul Horvitz (senate staff mbr.), Unidentified Male #1. (Conversation 3.9 minutes in progress.)
RFK: … simple and matter-of-fact. That’s the way my brother announced. (Pause/3.4 seconds.) Paul, you time the statement. Read it aloud, but don’t try to imitate me.
(Laughter/2.4 seconds.)
PH: About the position paper. Do we publish—
UM #1: You want the abbreviated version, right? The long form’s too dense, and the press guys will have to cut too much.
RFK: Condense it and let me read the final draft. And be damn sure there’s nothing in there about organized crime.
PH: Sir, I think that’s a mistake. It undercuts your credentials as Attorney General.
UM #1: Bob, shit. You know you’ll go after those guys ag—
RFK: I intend to, but I don’t intend to broadcast it.
UM #1: Shit, Bob. Good foes make for good campaigns. The war and Johnson are one thing, but—
PH: The Mob’s dead as a campaign issue, but—
RFK: I’ll do what I do, when I do it, but I’m not going to broadcast my intentions. Think “social justice,” “end the war” and “unite the country” and forget about the goddamn Mafia.
PH: Sir, do you think—
RFK: That’s enough. I’ve got enough on my mind without worrying about those sons-of-bitches.
(Non-applicable conversation follows.)
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 3/16/68. Bug-extract transcript. Marked: “Confidential”/“Stage-1 Covert”/“Eyes Only”: Director, SA D. C. Holly.
Location: Suite 301/El Encanto Hotel/Santa Barbara/listening-post-accessed. Speaking: Senator Robert F. Kennedy, Paul Horvitz (senate staff mbr.), Unidentified Male #1. (Conversation 7.4 minutes in progress.)
RFK: … a litigator I had at Justice. He was there for most of my moves against Carlos Marcello.
UM #1: Uncle Carlos. You deported him.
RFK: I dumped his fat ass in Central America.
PH: You’re tipsy, Senator. You rarely say “ass” when you’re sober.
RFK: I’m getting tipsy now because I won’t be able to get tipsy until November. (Laughter/6.8 seconds.)
RFK: I’m starting to feel like a fighter before he goes into training. I’m dumping all the stuff I won’t be able to talk about during the campaign.
PH: That litigator. What ab—
RFK: We were talking about the Outfit. I told him that one day I’d get my second shot, and devil take the hindmost.
PH: Is that from Shakespeare?
RFK: It’s from me. It means I’m going to make those sons-of-whores pay.
(Non-applicable conversation follows).
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 3/17/68. 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: You pulled me out of a meeting. I assume you have news of some import.
BR: We hit on CRUSADER RABBIT. One of my men tailed him to a bank in Silver Spring, Maryland. He has a dummy account there. I got a bank writ and checked his transaction record.
DIR: Continue.
BR: The account was opened under a pseudonym. CRUSADER uses it for one purpose, to send checks to the SCLC. I cross-checked our bank-account covers on the SCLC and determined that checks from four other accounts, in different cities and states, have been regularly sent in. They go back to ’64 and they all bear CRUSADER’s handwriting. He’s got a different alias for each account, and he’s donated close to a half million dollars total.
DIR: I am astounded.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: He’s embezzled the money or stolen it from some convenient source. His salaries would not sustain that degree of largesse.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: He’s indulging the Catholic concept of penance. He’s atoning for the sins he’s committed under my flag.
BR: It gets worse, Sir.
DIR: Tell me how. Fulfill my worst fears and most justified suspicions.
BR: An agent spot-tailed him in D.C. two days ago. He was heavily disguised and almost unrecognizable. He met a Kennedy staffer named Paul Horvitz at a restaurant and spent two hours with him.
DIR: More atonement. A roundelay that will not go unpunished.
BR: What do you want me—
DIR: Let CRUSADER continue to atone for his sins. Send copies of the March 15th and March 16th El Encanto bug tapes to Carlos Marcello, Sam Giancana, Moe Dalitz, Santo Trafficante and every other Mob patriarch in the United States. They should know that Prince Bobby has long-range plans for them.
BR: It’s a bold and inspired gambit, Sir.
DIR: Good day, Dwight. Go with God and other felicitous sources.
BR: Good day, Sir.
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 3/18/68. New York
Times
headline:
RFK ANNOUNCES BID FOR DEMOCRATIC PRESIDENTIAL NOMINATION
March 19, 1968–June 9, 1968(Saigon, 3/19/68)
Y
ou’re back.
It’s vivid. It’s vicious. It’s Vietnam.
See the troop swarms. See the displaced slopes. See said gooks talking Tet. See the boarded temples. See the truck convoys. See the antiaircraft guns.
You’re back. Dig it. Saigon ’68.
The cab crawled. Trucks hemmed it in. Gun trucks/food trucks/troop trucks. Tailpipe fumes windshield-high. Fume grit in your eyes.
Pete watched. Pete smoked. Pete chewed Tums.
He breached the truce. He flew overnight—Frisco/Tan Son Nhut. He lured Barb to Frisco. He pitched it as romance. He cloaked his truce override.
She nailed him. She said you’re going back—I know it. He copped out. He said let me go. He said let me brace Stanton.
She said no. He said yes. It went waaaay bad. They yelled. They threw shit. They gouged walls. They scared the desk clerks. They scared the bellboys. They scared the hotel staff.
Barb split to Sparta. He roamed San Francisco. The hills bonked his heart. He drove to the airport. He sat in the bar. He saw some Carlos cats: Chuck “the Vice” Aiuppa and Nardy Scavone.
They hailed him. They bought him drinks. They got tanked and bragged. They said they clipped Danny Bruvick. It was a twosky. They clipped Danny’s ex Arden-Jane. They supplied details. They supplied sound effects.
Pete walked out. Pete caught his plane. Pete ate Nembutal. He slept. The plane pitched. He saw vices snap heads.
The cab crawled. The driver grazed monks. The driver monologued: Tet kill many. Tet fuck things up. Tet kill GIs. Victor Charles naughty! Victor Charles evil! Victor Charles
baaad!
The cab pitched. The cab lurched. Pete gagged on truck fumes. Pete’s knees bumped his head.
There’s the Go-Go. It’s still gook graffitied. You’re back. It’s still ARVN-guarded. There’s two Marvs door-posted. You’re back.
Pete grabbed his duffel. Pete grabbed Wayne’s satchel—beakers and test tubes prewrapped. Drop them off/check the lab/hit Hotel Catinat.
The driver braked. Pete got out and stretched. The Marvs snapped to. Said Marvs knew Pete—
le frog grand et fou
.
They saluted. Pete walked in the Go-Go. Pete smelled white horse residue. Piss and sweat/stale excrement/cooked dope residue.
The niteclub was
mort
. The niteclub was a dope den. It was ground-floor Hades. It was the river Styx boocoo.
Slopes on pallets. Tube tourniquets. Lighters. Cooking spoons. Dope balloons. Spikes. Fifty junkies/fifty dope beds/fifty launch pads.
Slopes cooked horse. Slopes tied off. Slopes geezed. Slopes swooned. Slopes grinned wide. Slopes sighed.
Pete walked through it. Marvs and Can Laos sold balloons. Marvs and Can Laos sold spikes. Pete walked upstairs—dig it—there’s the river Styx revived.
More slopes on pallets. More tube ties. More needles. More toe-crack injections. More arm and leg pops.
Pete walked upstairs. Pete hit the lab door. Pete saw a Can Lao cat. He saw Pete. He knew Pete—
le frog fou
.
Pete dropped the satchel. Pete talked Anglo-gook:
“Equipment. From Wayne Tedrow. I leave with you.”
The Can Lao smiled. The Can Lao bowed. The Can Lao reached and grabbed.
Pete said, “Open up. I check lab now.”
The Can Lao bristled. The Can Lao blocked the door. The Can Lao pulled a belt piece. The Can Lao snapped the slide.
The door popped open. A gook stepped out. Pete caught a view: trays/sorting chutes/bindles prepacked.
The gook bristled. The gook slammed the door. The gook blocked Pete’s view. The gook braced the Can Lao. They jabbered
en gook
. They eyed
le frog fou
.
Pete got goose bumps. Pete hinked out. Pete hinked out boocoo.
They sold balloons downstairs. They packaged two ways upstairs.
They sold bindle pops too. That implied wiiiiide distribution. That implied upscale use.
The gook walked downstairs. The gook walked fast. The gook slung a duffel bag. The Can Lao re-bristled. Pete bowed and smiled. Pete pidgin-gooked:
“Is alright. You good man. I go now.”
The Can Lao smiled. The Can Lao de-bristled. Pete waved bye-bye.
He walked downstairs. He held his nose. He grazed pallets and squashed turds. He walked outside. He looked around. He saw the gook.
He’s on the street. He’s walking south. He’s got that duffel bag.
Pete tailed him.
The gook walked the dock. The gook cut inland. The gook walked Dal To Street. It was hot. The street teemed. It’s a slopehead ant farm run amok.
Pete stood out. Pete duck-walked low. Pete shaved half his height. The gook walked fast. The gook plowed monks. Pete huffed keeping up.
The gook cut east. The gook bopped down Tam Long. The gook swung down a warehouse block. The sidewalk narrowed. Foot traffic thinned. Pete saw Can Laos straight up.
Can Lao classics—goons in civvies—perched outside a warehouse. Cabs out front—good numbers—cabs perched down the block.
The gook stopped. A Can Lao checked his duffel. A Can Lao got the door. The gook walked in the warehouse. A Can Lao slammed the door. A Can Lao double-locked.
Six buildings down. Side alleys between each one. One connecting alley in back.
Pete walked.
He cut sideways. He hit the back alley. He cut down six buildings. He walked half a block.
Six warehouses/all glazed cement/all three-story jobs.
He cut back streetside. He saw first-floor windows. He heard the Can Laos out front. The windows were covered/mesh over glass/burglar-proof stuff.
Pete checked a window. Pete saw light through glass.
He took a breath. He grabbed the mesh. He pulled it back. He made a space. He made a fist. He punched the glass out.
He saw pallets. He saw tourniquets. He saw white arms tied up. He saw GIs buy bindles. He saw GIs cook horse. He saw GIs shoot up.
He slept bad. He slept weird. Jet lag plus Nembutal. He dreamed bad. He saw vices and crossbars. He saw white kids geezing up.
He woke up. He got some focus. He de-raged. He called John Stanton. He said I’m fried. I can’t see straight. Let’s meet tomorrow night. Stanton laughed. Stanton said why not?
Pete sedated. Pete reslept. Pete roused and jumped up. Dream shots reran wide awake—all broken-glass shots.
That boy with the tattoos. That boy with the gone eyes. That boy with the spike in his shvantz.
Pete hired a cab. Pete hunkered low. Pete ran tail ops. Cab stakeout by Hotel Montrachet—John Stanton’s billet-drop.
