The Cold Six Thousand (21 page)

They were post-Klan now. They got law degrees and became cops.

Dwight was post-FBI. Dwight was
still
Fed. Dwight joined the Narcotics Bureau. Dwight was restless. Dwight jumped jobs. Dwight craved a bold new cop gig: Chief Investigator/U.S. Attorney’s Office/Southern Nevada District.

Dwight was hard. Lyle was soft. Lyle oozed Littell-like empathy.

Lyle built the story:

Ward Littell—ex-FBI. He was dismissed. He was disgraced. He was maimed by Mr. Hoover. He’s a Mob lawyer now. He’s closeted Left. He’s close to Mob money.

It was a sound text. Littell conceded it. Lyle laughed. Lyle said Mr. Hoover helped.

The deal was set. He had the money—Carlos and Sam donated it.

He told them straight—it’s Mr. Hoover’s gig—it’s non-Outfit/anti-SCLC.

Carlos and Sam loved it. Lyle talked to Bayard Rustin. Lyle gushed:

Ward Littell—my old pal. Ward’s kindred. Ward’s got cash. Ward’s pro-SCLC.

The ban-the-bomb crew walked. A YAF crew appeared. New signs: Bop the Beard and Krucify Khrushchev.

Bayard Rustin walked up.

A tall man—dressed and groomed—more gaunt than his mug shots.

He sat down. He crossed his legs. He cleared bench space.

Littell said, “How did you recognize me?”

Rustin smiled. “You were the only one not involved in the democratic process.”

“Lawyers don’t wave placards.”

Rustin cracked his briefcase. “No, but some make donations.”

Littell cracked his briefcase. “There’ll be more. But I’ll deny it if it ever comes to that.”

Rustin took the money. “Deniability. I can appreciate it.”

“You have to consider the source. The men I work for are not friends of the civil-rights movement.”

“They should be. Italians have been persecuted on occasion.”

“They don’t see it that way.”

“Perhaps that’s why they’re so successful in their chosen field.”

“The persecuted learn to persecute. I understand the logic, but I don’t accept it as wisdom.”

“And you don’t ascribe ruthlessness to all people of that blood?”

“No more than I ascribe stupidity to your people.”

Rustin slapped his knees. “Lyle said you were quick.”

“He’s quick himself.”

“He said you go back.”

“We met at a Free-the-Rosenbergs rally. It must have been ’52.”

“Which side were you on?”

Littell laughed. “We were shooting surveillance film from the same building.”

Rustin laughed. “I sat that one out. I was never a real Communist, despite Mr. Hoover’s protestations.”

Littell said, “You are by his logic. You know what that designation codifies, and how it allows him to encapsulate everything that he fears.”

Rustin smiled. “Do you hate him?”

“No.”

“After what he put you through?”

“I find it hard to hate people who are that true to themselves.”

“Have you studied passive resistance?”

“No, but I’ve witnessed the futility of the alternative.”

Rustin laughed. “That’s an extraordinary statement for a Mafia lawyer to make.”

A wind stirred. Littell shivered.

“I know something about you, Mr. Rustin. You’re a gifted and compromised man. I may not have your gifts, but I suspect that I run neck-and-neck in the compromise department.”

Rustin bowed. “I apologize. I try not to second-guess people’s motives, but I just failed with you.”

Littell shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. We want the same things.”

“Yes, and we both contribute in our own ways.”

Littell buttoned his coat. “I admire Dr. King.”

“As much as any Catholic can admire a man named Martin Luther?”

Littell laughed. “I admire Martin Luther. I made that compromise when I was more of a man of faith.”

“You’ll be hearing some bad things about our Martin. Mr. Hoover has been sending out missives. Martin Luther King is the devil with horns. He seduces women and employs Communists.”

Littell put his gloves on. “Mr. Hoover has numerous pen pals.”

“Yes. In Congress, the clergy, and the newspaper field.”

“He believes, Mr. Rustin. That’s how he makes them believe.”

Rustin stood up. “Why now? Why did you decide to undertake such a risk at this time?”

Littell stood up. “I’ve been visiting Las Vegas, and I don’t like the way things are run there.”

Rustin smiled. “Tell those Mormons to loosen the chains.”

They shook hands. Rustin walked off. Rustin whistled Chopin.

The park glowed. Mr. Hoover bestows all gifts.

(Las Vegas,1/15/64)

P
icture loop:

The dead whore/the eyeball/Wendell Durfee with fangs.

Pictures and flash dreams. No sleep and rolling blackouts. Two fender-benders at the wheel.

The pictures looped on. Thirty-six hours’ worth. Bad rain offset them.

Wayne muscled a Monarch Cab man. Wayne stole some bennies. Wayne called Lynette’s school and left a message:

Don’t go home—stay with a friend—I’ll call back and explain.

He ate bennies. He guzzled coffee. It juiced him. It drained him. It torqued his picture loop.

He staked out Truman and “J.” He ran file checks. He glommed mug shots. He got dirt on Leroy Williams and Curtis Swasey.

Pimps. Dice fools. Twelve arrests/two convictions. Vagrants with no known address.

He stayed up—half a day/a night/a full day. He watched the carport. He watched the clubs—the Nook/Woody’s/the Goose.

He watched crap games. He scoped bar-b-que lines. He saw wisps. He saw Wendell Durfee. He blinked and vaporized him.

He sat in his car. He watched the alley. It paid off two hours back.

Curtis exits a shack. The rear door flanks the alley. Curtis dumps shit in a trash can. Curtis runs straight back.

He waited. He sat in his car. He watched the alley. Dig this one hour back:

Leroy exits the shack. Leroy dumps shit in a trash can. Leroy runs straight back.

Wayne ran up then. Wayne dumped the can. Wayne saw a plastic sheet. White dust was stuck to it—white powder dregs.

He tasted it. It was Big “H.”

He circled the shack. Crimped foil covered the windows. He pulled a piece up. He saw Curtis and Leroy.

That was 5:15 p.m. It was 6:19 now.

Wayne watched the shack. Wayne saw wisps and light. Light cut through rips in the foil.

The rain was bad. Fucking monsoon dimensions. Pictures looped on:

Dallas. Pete and Durfee. Pete says, “Kill him”—this sound loop two days strong.

You should have killed him
then
. He’s a homing pigeon. You should have
known
.

KILL HIM. KILL HIM. KILL HIM. KILL HIM. KILL HIM.

The car sat on mud. The roof leaked. Rain seeped in. He owed Pete. Pete’s call saved him. Pete’s call diverted him.

Fuck Buddy Fritsch—fuck his file job—Hinton pays for the whore.

He detoured once—ten hours back. He drove by the trailer. Said trailer reeked. The whore sat and decomped.

Pictures: The blood peel/the maggots/pellets caked in blood.

Wayne watched the shack. The rain blitzed his view. Time decomped. Time redacted.

The back door opens. A man exits. He walks. He walks
this
way. He gets
close
.

Wayne watched. Wayne popped the passenger door. There—it’s Leroy Williams.

He’s got no hat. He’s got no umbrella. He’s got sodden duds.

Leroy walked by. Wayne kicked the door out. It hit Leroy flush. Leroy yelped. Leroy hit the mud. Wayne jumped on out.

Leroy stood up. Wayne pulled his piece and butt-punched him. Leroy fell and grazed the car.

Wayne kicked him in the balls. Leroy yelped. Leroy thrashed. Leroy fell down. He said mothersomething. He pulled a shiv. Wayne slammed the door on his hand.

He mashed his fingers. He pinned them. Leroy screamed and dropped the knife. Wayne popped the wind wing. Wayne reached in and popped the glove box.

He dug around. He grabbed his duct tape. He pulled up a piece. Leroy screamed. The rain ate the noise. Wayne eased off the door.

Leroy flexed his hand. Bones sheared and stuck out. Leroy screamed loud.

Wayne grabbed his conk. Wayne tape-muzzled him. Leroy squirmed. Leroy yelped. Leroy flailed his fucked hand.

Wayne taped him—three circuits—Number 2 duct. He kicked him prone. He cuffed his wrists. He threw him in the backseat.

He got in the front seat. He hit the gas. He swerved through mud and alley trash. The rain got worse. His wipers blew. He drove by feel.

He notched a mile. He saw a sign. He flashed—the auto dump—it’s close—it’s two clicks downwind.

He drove fifty yards. He cranked a hard right. He braked. He pulled in. He wracked the axle on the pavement.

He hit his brights. He lit the place large: Rain/epidemic rust/a hundred dead cars.

He set the brake. He pulled Leroy up. He ripped up the tape. He ripped off skin and half his mustache.

Leroy yelped. Leroy coughed. Leroy burped bile and blood.

Wayne hit the roof light. “Wendell Durfee. Where is he?”

Leroy blinked. Leroy coughed. Wayne smelled the shit in his pants.

“Where’s Wendell Durf—”

“Wendell say he got somethin’ to do. He say he be back to get his stuff and leave town. Cur-ti, he say Wendell got bidness.”

“What business?”

Leroy shook his head. “I don’t know. Wendell’s bidness is Wendell’s bidness, which ain’ my bidness.”

Wayne leaned close. Wayne grabbed his hair. Wayne smashed his face on the door. Leroy screamed. Leroy expelled teeth. Wayne crawled over the seat.

He pinned Leroy down. He taped him full-body. He grabbed his cuff chain. He popped the door. He pulled him out. He dragged him to a Buick. He pulled his piece and shot six holes in the trunk.

He dumped Leroy in. He piled on spare tires. He slammed the trunk lid.

He was soaked. His shoes squished. His feet were somewhere else. He saw wisps. He knew they weren’t real.

The rain let up. Wayne drove back. Wayne parked in the same alley spot. He got out. He circled the shack. He unpeeled a foil strip.

There’s Cur-ti. He’s with another guy. The guy’s got Cur-ti’s face. The guy’s Cur-ti’s brother.

Cur-ti sat on the floor. Cur-ti jived. Cur-ti crimped bindles. Cur-ti cut dope.

His brother tied off. His brother geezed. His brother untied on Cloud 9. His brother lit a Kool filter-tip.

He burned his fingers. He smiled. Cur-ti giggled. Cur-ti cut dope.

He twirled his knife. He mimed a gutting stroke. He said, “Sheeit. Like a dressed hog, man.”

He twirled his knife. He mimed a shaving stroke. He said, “Wendell likes it trimmed. Cuttin’ on bitches always been his MO.”

He said, “His and hers, man. He lost his gun, so he gets to get in close.”

Wayne HEARD it. It clicked in synaptic. Wayne SAW it—instant picture loops.

He ran. He slid. He stumbled. He fell in the mud. He got up and stumble-ran. He got in the car. He stabbed with his key. He missed the keyhole.

He got it in. He turned it. He stripped gears. The wheels spun and kicked the car free.

Lightning hit. Thunder hit. He outran the rain.

He slid through intersections. He ran yellows and reds. He banged railroad tracks. He grazed curbs. He scraped parked cars.

He got home. He brodied on the front lawn. He stumbled out and ran up. The house was dark. The door lock was cracked. His key jammed in the hole.

He kicked the door in. He looked down the hall. He saw the bedroom light. He walked up and looked in.

She was naked.

The sheets were red. She drained red. She soaked through the white.

He spread her. He cinched her. He used Wayne’s neckties. He gutted her and shaved her. He trimmed off her patch.

Wayne pulled his gun. Wayne cocked it. Wayne put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

The hammer clicked empty. He shot his full six at the dump.

The storm passed through. It dumped power lines. Stoplights were down. People drove crazy.

Wayne drove deliberate. Wayne drove very slow.

He parked by the shack. He grabbed his shotgun. He walked up and kicked the door in.

Cur-ti was packing dope. Cur-ti’s brother was watching TV. They saw Wayne. They nodded. They grinned smack-back.

Wayne tried to talk. Wayne’s tongue misfired. Cur-ti talked. Cur-ti talked hair-o-wine slow.

“Hey, man. Wendell’s gone. You won’t see us harboring—”

Wayne raised his shotgun. Wayne swung the butt.

He clipped Cur-ti. He knocked him down. He stepped on his chest. He grabbed six bindles. He stuffed them in his mouth.

Cur-ti gagged. Cur-ti bit plastic. Cur-ti bit at Wayne’s hand. Cur-ti ate plastic and dope.

Wayne stepped on his face. The bindles snapped. His teeth snapped. His jaw snapped loose.

Cur-ti thrashed. Cur-ti’s legs stiffed. Blood blew out his nose. Cur-ti spasmed and bit at Wayne’s shoe.

Wayne goosed the TV. Morey Amsterdam hollered. Dick Van Dyke screamed.

The brother cried. The brother begged. The brother talked in tongues. The brother tongue-talked smacked-out on the floor.

His lips moved. His mouth moved. His lids fluttered. His eyes rolled back.

Wayne hit him.

He broke his teeth. He broke his nose. He broke the gun butt. His lips moved. His mouth moved. His eyeballs clicked up. His eyes showed pure white.

Wayne picked the TV up. Wayne dropped it on his head. The tubes burst and exploded. They burned his face up.

The power lines were rerigged. The streetlights worked fine. Wayne drove to the dump.

He pulled in. He aimed his brights. He strafed the Buick. He got out and opened the trunk.

He untaped Leroy. He said, “Where’s Durfee?” Leroy said, “I don’t know.”

Wayne shot him—five rounds in the face—point-blank triple-aught buck.

He blew his head off. He blew up the trunk. He blew out the undercarriage. He blew the spare tires up.

He walked to his car. Smoke fizzed out the hood. He’d run it dry. The crankcase was shot.

He tossed the shotgun.

He walked home.

He sat by Lynette.