The Cold Six Thousand (12 page)

“Then I’ll go there. It’s a kid marriage that you’re bored with, and you know it.”

“Like you and my mother?”

“That’s right.”

“I’ve heard it before. You’re here and you’ve got what you’ve got. You’re not a cluck selling real estate in Peru, Indiana.”

“That’s right. Because I knew when to fold my hand with your mother.”

Wayne coughed. “You’re saying I’ll meet my Janice and walk like you did.”

Wayne Senior laughed. “Shitfire. Your Janice and my Janice are one and the same.”

Wayne blushed. Wayne’s ears fucking singed.

“Shitfire. Just when I think I’ve lost sway with my boy, I light him up like a Christmas tree.”

A shotgun blew somewhere. It roused some coyote yells.

Wayne Senior said, “Someone lost money.”

Wayne smiled. “He probably lost his stake at one of your joints.”

“
One of
? You know I only own one casino.”

“The last I heard, you had points in fourteen. And the last time I checked, that was illegal.”

Wayne Senior twirled his stick. “There’s a trick to lying. Hold to the same line, regardless of who you’re with.”

“I’ll remember that.”

“You will. But you’ll remember who told you right about the same time.”

A flying bug bit Wayne. Wayne swatted it.

“I don’t see your point.”

“You’ll remember that your father told you, and speak some godawful truth out of pure cussedness.”

Wayne smiled. Wayne Senior winked. He twirled his stick. He dipped it. He ran his stick repertoire.

“Are you still the only policeman who cares about those beat-up colored whores?”

“That’s right.”

“Why is that?”

“Pure cussedness.”

“That and your spell in Little Rock.”

Wayne laughed. “You should have been there. I broke every states’ rights law on the books.”

Wayne Senior laughed. “Mr. Hoover’s going after Martin Luther King. He’s got to find himself a ‘fallen liberal’ first.”

“Tell him I’m booked up.”

“He told me Vietnam’s heating up. I said, ‘My son was in the Eighty-Second Airborne. But don’t hold your breath for him to re-enlist—he’d rather fight rednecks than Reds.’ ”

Wayne looked around. Wayne saw a chip bucket. Wayne grabbed some Land o’ Gold reds.

“Did you tell Buddy to send me to Dallas?”

“No. But I’ve always thought a cold money run would do you some good.”

Wayne said, “It was enlightening.”

“What did you do with the money?”

“Got myself in trouble.”

“Was it worth it?”

“I learned a few things.”

“Care to tell me?”

Wayne tossed a chip. Wayne Senior pulled his hip piece. He shot the chip. He nailed it. Plastic shards flew.

Wayne walked inside. Wayne detoured by the dressing room. Janice shot him a view.

Bare legs. A dance step. Streaked-hair allure.

(Las Vegas, 12/6/63)

D
allas tweaked him. He should have killed Junior. Junior should have killed the spook.

Vegas sparkled—fuck death—should-haves meant shit. Nice breeze/nice sun/nice casinos.

Pete cruised the Strip. Pete logged distractions:

The Tropicana course. Cocktail carts abundant. Drive-ins. Carhops on skates. Uplift abundant.

Pete made two circuits. Shit popped out:

Some nuns hit the Sands. They spot Frank Sinatra. They swoon and piss Frank off. They shvitz up his Sy Devore suit.

Grief by the Dunes:

Two cops grab two spics. The spics bleed very large. The scene vibes busboy brouhaha. Juan fucked Ramon’s sister. Ramon had first dibs. Shivs by the low-roller buffet.

Nice mountains. Neon signs. Jap-tourist shutterbugs.

Pete made three circuits. The Strip show wore thin. Pete re-tweaked Dallas.

BE USEFUL: Sacred fucking text. The Hughes deal would take years. Ward said so. Carlos agreed. Carlos said Pete
should
push dope in Vegas—but—the other Boys have to agree.

Ward was
très
smart. The Arden move was
très
dumb. Ward tripped on his dick—at a
très
bad time.

Ward was in D.C. and New Orleans. Jimmy H. wanted him. Carlos beckoned. Carlos wants to snip loose ends. Carlos wants Ward’s take. Carlos trusts Ward—but Ward always ridicules slaughter.

Arden saw the hit team. Arden knew Betty Mac. Arden knew Hank Killiam.
A
très
safe bet: Carlos wants to clip them. A
très
safe bet: Ward calls it rash.

A bug was spreading. Call it the Mercy Flu. Call it the Me-No-Kill Blues.

He should have killed Junior. Junior should have killed the shine.

He watched Junior work. He climbed an adjacent hill. He got a covert view. Junior diced Maynard Moore. Junior cut through his brain pan. Junior pulled slugs. His knife slipped. He ate bone chips. He hacked them out and rocked steady.

He checked Junior out. Three intel squads: L.A./New York/Miami. His guys said Junior checked
him
out.

His contacts hated Junior. They said Wayne Senior was a stud. They said Wayne Junior was a geek.

Junior passed him the mercy bug. Junior let the nigger live. Junior misread his options. The nigger vibed stupe. The nigger vibed homing pigeon. The nigger might home back here.

Pete cruised. Pete checked lounge marquees. Pete got the gestalt.

Name acts. No-name acts. Dick Contino/Art & Dottie Todd/the Girlza-poppin’ Revue. Hank Henry/the Vagabonds/Freddy Bell & the Bellboys. The Persian Room/the Sky Room/the Top o’ the Strip.

Jack “Jive” Schafer/Gregg Blando/Jody & the Misfits. The Dome of the Sea/the Sultan’s Lounge/the Rumpus Room.

Call it: Toilets and carpet joints. Some high-end rooms. Call it for keeps:

Find Barb a spot. Find her some nonunion backup. Scotty & the Scabs or the Happy Horseshitters—a fixed rate and a cut.

Pete parked in the Sands lot. Pete hit some casinos—the Bird/the Riv/the DI. He caught a lull. Shit stood out boldfaced.

He played blackjack. He observed:

A pit boss bops on a card cheat. The fuck wears a card-sleeve prosthesis. The fuck shoots cards out his cuffs.

He saw Johnny Rosselli. They schmoozed. They talked up the Hughes deal. Johnny praised Ward Littell—dig the threat implied.

Ward’s crucial to our plans. You’re muscle—you’re not.

Johnny said
ciao
. Two call girls hovered. It vibed three-way.

Pete walked. Pete hit the Sands/the Dunes/the Flamingo. Pete dug the low lights and thick rugs.

Sparks shot off his feet. His socks bipped and buzzed.

He hit bars. He drank club soda. He honed his cave vision. He watched barmen work. Call girls ducked him. He was 6’5”/230. He vibed strongarm cop.

What’s this:

A barman pours pills—six in a shot glass—a waitress picks up.

He braced the barman. He flashed a toy badge. He growled very gruff.
The barman laughed. His son wore a badge like that. His son ate Cocoa Puffs.

The man oozed style. Pete bought him a drink. The man spritzed on Vegas and dope.

Horse/weed/cocaine—verboten. The fuzz enforced the trifecta. The Mob enforced the No-“H” Law.

They tortured pushers. They killed them. Local hypes copped in L.A. Local hypes rode the Heroin Highway.

Pills were cool: Red devils/yellow jackets/high hoppers. Ditto liquid meth sans spike. Drink it—don’t shoot it—fear the spike-phobic fuzz.

The fuzz sanctioned pills. Two Narco units—Sheriff’s/LVPD. Pills got pipelined in: T.J. to L.A./L.A. to Vegas. Local quacks consigned pills. They fed barmen and cabbies. They fed pill fiends Vegaswide.

The West LV coons craved white horse. Said coons itched to ride. The No Horse Rule de-horsed them and kept them de-satisfied.

Pete walked. Pete hit the Persian Room. Pete watched Dick Contino rehearse. He knew Dick. Dick played squeeze-box gigs for Sam G. Dick owed the Chicago Cartel. The Boys attached his check. The Boys bought his food. The Boys paid his rent and bought his kids’ threads.

Dick pitched a tale of woe—woe is me—lots of woe and no tail. Pete slid him two C’s. Dick spritzed the Vegas lounge scene.

The Detroit Boys ran the local. The steward took bribes. He usurped the prime snatch. He suborned them to hook. They worked the Lake Mead cruise boats. Lounge kids kept rough hours. They ate breakfast exclusive. The lounge scene ran on Dexedrine and pancakes.

Pete walked. Pete caught Louis Prima in rehearsal. An old geek chewed his ear off.

Pops booked no-name acts. Pops father-henned the girls if they blew him. Pops told them who to avoid:

Shvartze pimps. “Talent scouts.” Cockamamie “producers.” Skin-mag men and schmucks with no address.

Pete thanked him. Pops bragged. Pops relived his salad days as a pimp. I ran trim—the best in the west—I scored for the late JFK.

Pete broke three C-notes. Pete glommed sixty five-spots.

He grabbed a scratch pad. He wrote down his phone number sixty fucking times. He hit a liquor store. He bought sixty short dogs. He grabbed his sap and drove to West Vegas.

He cruised in slow. He wore the sap. He held his automatic. He saw:

Dirt streets. Dirt yards. Dirt lots. Shack chateaus abundant.

Tar-paper pads with cinder-block siding.
Beaucoup
churches/one mosque.
ALLAH IS LORD!
signs. Allah signs revised to
JESUS!

Lots of street activity. Jigs cooking bar-b-que in fifty-gallon drums.

The Wild Goose Bar/the Colony Club/the Sugar Hill Lounge. Streets named for Presidents and letters. Shit cars ubiquitous—ad hoc housing:

Two-tenant Chevys. Bachelor Lincolns. Bring-the-whole-family Fords.

Pete cruised slooooow. Uppity coons flipped him off. They scowled. They chucked beer cans. They dinged his fender skirts.

He stopped at a rib drum. A halfbreed served short ends. A chow line pressed in. They scoped Pete. They snickered. They sneered.

Pete smiled. Pete bowed. Pete bought them lunch.

He tipped the breed fifty. He passed out short dogs and fives. He passed out his phone-number slips.

A silence ensued. Said silence built. Said silence lapsed slooooow.

Say what, big man? Say what, daddy-o?

Pete talked:

Who sells shit? Who’s seen Wendell Durfee? Who’s hot to buck the No-Horse Law? Shouts overlapped—little gems—some nuggets in rebop & jive.

These busboys sell red devils. They works at the Dunes. Dig on fucking Monarch Cab. Them guys push whites and RDs. Monarch got soul. Monarch work West LV. Monarch go where other cabs won’t.

Dig on Curtis and Leroy—they gots plans—they wants to push horse. They baaaaaaaaad. They say fuck the rules. They say fuck them wop motherfuckers.

Shouts overlapped—more rebop/more jive. Pete yelled. Pete displayed charisma. Pete restored calm.

He told the breed to call the Wild Goose. He told the spooks to call HIM.

IF
you see Wendell Durfee.
IF
Curtis and Leroy move horse.

He pledged a fat reward. He got an ovation: YOU THE FUCKIN’ MAN!

He drove to the Wild Goose. Some spooks jogged along. They capered and waved their short dogs.

The Goose was packed. Pete replayed his act. The coons loved it. Pete cut through jive & rebop.

He got no dish on Curtis and Leroy. He got rumors on Wendell D. Wicked Wendell—worse than his rep—a rape-o/a shitbird/a heel. A homing pigeon—Vegas born-and-bred—a Vegas moth to the flame.

Shouts overlapped. Spooks ad-libbed. A spook defamed Wayne Tedrow Senior.

Slumlord Senior stiffed him. Slumlord Senior fucked him. Slumlord Senior raised his rent. The noise got bad. Pete got a headache. Pete dosed it with pork rinds and scotch.

The Senior talk tweaked him—a gem within jive. Junior worked the intel squad. Junior had the gaming board files.

The spook gained steam. The spook digressed off Senior. The spook sparked other spooks. They aired the Spook Agenda
wiiiiide
.

Jim Crow. Civil rights. Real-estate sanctions. Praise for Martin Luther King.

The vibe went bad. The spooks vibed lynch mob. Pete caught bum looks:

WE THE MAN! YOU the ofay exploiter!

Pete walked out. Pete moved fast. Pete caught some elbows.

He hit the sidewalk. A kid buffed his car. He tipped him. He pulled out. A Chevy pulled out on cue.

Pete caught the move. Pete checked his rearview. Pete made the driver:

Young/white/cop haircut. Some kind of kid fuzz.

Pete zigzagged. Pete blew a stop sign. The Chevy stuck tail-close. They hit LV proper. Pete stopped at a light. Pete set the emergency brake.

The Chevy idled. Pete walked back. Pete twirled his belt sap. The kid cop played cool. The kid cop twirled a play chip.

Pete reached in. Pete grabbed it. The kid cop guuuulped.

A red chip—$20—scrip for the Land o’ Gold. Shit—Wayne Senior’s joint.

Pete laughed. Pete said, “Tell Sergeant Tedrow to call me.”

(Washington, D.C., 12/9/63)

I
D work—old forms and smeared ink.

Littell worked. His kitchen table creaked. He knew paper and smudge art. The FBI taught him.

He smudged a birth-certificate form. He baked it on a hot plate. He sliced pen tubes and rolled smears.

The
old
Arden Smith/Coates—now the
new
Jane Fentress.

The apartment was hot. It helped dry forms. Littell rolled ink on a seal-stamp. He stole it from Dallas PD.

Arden was southern. Arden talked southern. Alabama had a lax driver’s-license policy. Applicants sent fees in. Birth certificates ditto. Written test forms went out.

They completed them. They mailed them in. They sent in a snapshot. They got their DL return mail.

Littell flew to Alabama—eight days back. Littell researched births and deaths. Jane Fentress was born in Birmingham. Her DOB was 9/4/26. Her DOD was 8/1/29.

He drove to Bessemer. He rented an apartment. He put “Jane Fentress” on the mailbox. Bessemer to Birmingham—twenty-two miles.

Littell switched pens. Littell spread fresh paper. Littell inked vertical lines.