The Cold Six Thousand (23 page)

Holly straddled a chair. “Someone hipped you to Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers.”

Wayne coughed. “I told you. I have an informant.”

“Whose name you refuse to reveal.”

“Yes.”

“And your intent was to find and apprehend Wendell Durfee.”

“Yes.”

Brown said, “You wanted to apprehend him, to make up for not doing it in Big D.”

“Yes.”

“Then, son, here’s what bothers me. How did Durfee know that you were the officer sent down to Dallas to extradite him?”

Wayne coughed. “I told you before. I rousted him a few times when I worked Patrol. He knew my face and my name, and he saw me when we exchanged shots in Dallas.”

Fritsch said, “I’ll buy that.”

Gilstrap said, “I will, too.”

Brown said, “I won’t. I think something happened between you and Durfee. Maybe in Dallas, maybe up here before they sent you down. I don’t see him coming all the way up here, presumably to kill you and get his incidental jollies on your wife, unless he had a personal motive.”

Tex was good. Tex was better than the Sheriff’s man. Pete chased the dice men. The cops chased him. They popped Pete. They filed paper. The Sheriff’s man knew shit-all about it.

Brown said, “Your business up here is your business. I wouldn’t care about any of this, except for the proximity of a missing Dallas officer named Maynard D. Moore, who you reportedly did not get along with.”

Wayne shrugged. “Moore was dirty. If you knew him, you know that’s true. I didn’t like him, but I only had to work with him for a few days.”

“You said ‘knew.’ You think he’s dead, then?”

“That’s right. Durfee or one of his asshole Klan buddies killed him.”

Gilstrap said, “We’ve got two APBs out on Durfee. He won’t get far.”

Brown hovered. “You’re saying Officer Moore was in the Ku Klux Klan?”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t like the sound of that accusation. You’re defaming the memory of a brother officer.”

The Sheriff’s man laughed. “This is hilarious. He kills three Negroes and gets on his high horse about the KKK.”

Brown coughed. “DPD has been anti-Klan from the get-go.”

“Bullshit. You all get your sheets cleaned at the same laundry.”

“Boy, you are wearing me thin.”

“Don’t call me ‘boy,’ you redneck faggot.”

Brown kicked a chair. Fritsch picked it up.

Gilstrap said, “Come on. This line of talk is getting us nowhere.”

Holly rocked his chair. “Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers were moving heroin.”

Wayne said, “I know that.”

“How?”

“I saw Curtis rolling bindles.”

“I’ve had them under spot surveillance. They were pushing in Henderson and Boulder City, and they were making plans to push in West Vegas.”

Wayne coughed. “They wouldn’t have lasted two days. The Outfit would have clipped them.”

Fritsch rolled his eyes. “He goes from the Klan to the Mob.”

Gilstrap rolled his eyes. “You’ve got the Mob in Vegas like you’ve got the Klan in Dallas.”

Wayne rolled
his
eyes. “Hey, Buddy, who bought you your speedboat? Hey, Bob, who got you that second mortgage?”

Fritsch kicked the wall. Gilstrap kicked a chair. Brown picked it up.

Holly said, “You’re not making any friends here.”

Wayne said, “I’m not trying to.”

Fritsch said, “You’ve got the sympathy vote.”

Gilstrap said, “You’ve got the chain of events.”

The Sheriff’s man coughed. “You’re trying to apprehend a fugitive cop-killer. You learn that your wife may be jeopardized, so you rush home and
find her dead. Your actions from that point on are entirely understandable.”

Brown hitched up his pants. “It’s your prior relationship with Durfee that I don’t understand.”

Holly said, “I concur.”

Fritsch said, “Look at it our way. We’re trying to give the DA a package. We don’t want to see an LVPD man go down for three murders.”

Gilstrap said, “Let’s talk turkey. It’s not like you killed three white men.”

Brown cracked his knuckles. “Did you kill Maynard Moore?”

“Fuck you.”

“Did Wendell Durfee take part in the killing? Is that what all this derives from?”

“Fuck you.”

“Did Wendell Durfee witness the killing?”

“Fuck you.”

Holly pulled his chair up. Holly bumped Wayne’s chair.

“Let’s discuss the condition of the shack.”

Wayne shrugged. “I only saw the bindles I shoved in Curtis Swasey’s mouth. I did not see any other narcotics or narcotics paraphernalia.”

Holly smiled. “You anticipated the intent of my question very nicely.”

Wayne coughed. “You’re a narcotics agent. You want to know if I stole the large quantity of heroin that you think the victims had. You don’t care about the murders or my wife.”

Holly shook his head. “That’s not entirely true. You know I’m friends with your father. I’m sure he cared for Lyn—”

“My father despised Lynette. He doesn’t care for anyone. He only respects hard-ons like you. I’m sure he’s full of warmth for your days in Indiana and your good times with Mr. Hoover.”

Holly leaned in. “Don’t turn me into an enemy. You’re getting there already.”

Wayne stood up. “Fuck you and fuck my father. If I wanted his help, I’d be out now.”

Holly stood up. “I think I’ve got what I need.”

Gilstrap shook his head. “You’re playing kamikaze, son. And you’re bombing your own goddamn friends.”

Fritsch shook his head. “You can cross me off that list. We do our best to keep Vegas clean, while you go out and kill three niggers, which is going to bring out every civil-rights chimpanzee in captivity.”

Wayne laughed. “
Vegas? Clean
?”

The cops walked out. Wayne took his pulse. It ran 180-plus.

(Las Vegas, 1/17/64)

T
he room was cold. A heat coil blew. It chilled down the jail.

Littell read his notes.

Wayne Junior was good. He diverted Sergeant Brown. He deflected his attack. Pete briefed Littell beforehand. Pete dropped a bomb: Wayne Junior knows about Dallas.

Pete liked Wayne Junior. Pete mourned Lynette. Pete took the blame. Pete stopped there. Pete implied a Dallas snafu.

Littell checked his notes. The smart call: Wayne Junior killed Maynard Moore. The details played schizzy. Wendell Durfee played in somehow.

Wayne Junior had the board files. Littell needed them. Littell might need Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior called him. Wayne Senior made nice. He said I want to help my son. He said I want
him
to ask.

He informed Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior said no. He told Wayne Senior that. It angered him. That was good. He might need Wayne Senior. The “no” knocked him flat.

Wayne Junior was good. Wayne Junior pissed off Dwight Holly. Littell called Lyle Holly. They talked last night. They discussed the Bayard Rustin meet. Lyle said Dwight was mad. The killings fucked with him. Wayne Junior deep-sixed his surveillance.

He chatted Lyle up. He said, “I’m Junior’s lawyer.” Lyle laughed. Lyle said, “Dwight never liked you.”

Littell checked his notes. The room was cold. His breath fogged and steamed. Bob Gilstrap walked in. Dwight Holly followed him. They sat down and kicked back.

Holly stretched. His coat gapped. He wore a blued .45.

“You’ve aged, Ward. Those scars put some years on you.”

“They’re hard-earned, Dwight.”

“Some men learn the hard way. I hope you have.”

Littell smiled. “Let’s discuss Wayne Tedrow Junior.”

Holly scratched his neck. “He’s a punk. He’s got all of his daddy’s arrogance and none of his charm.”

Gilstrap lit a cigarette. “They broke the mold on Senior and him. I’ve never been able to figure either one of them.”

Holly laced his hands. “Something happened with him and Durfee. Where or when, I don’t know.”

Gilstrap nodded. “That likelihood is what scares me.”

A vent thumped. The heat kicked on. Holly hack-coughed.

“The kid mouths off to me and passes his bug on.”

Gilstrap said, “You’ll survive.”

Holly said, “Let’s cut the shit. I’m the only one who doesn’t want to bury this.”

“It’s not your agency he hung out to dry.”

“Shit, he hung
me
out.”

The room warmed up. Holly took his coat off.

“Say something, Ward. You look like the cat who ate the canary.”

Littell popped his briefcase. Littell showed the Vegas
Sun
. There’s a headline. It runs 40 points. There’s a subhead 16:

“POLICEMAN HELD IN TRIPLE SLAYING—CIVIL-RIGHTS PROTESTS FEARED.”

“NAACP: ‘KILLINGS SPRINGBOARD TO EXPLICATE RACISM IN LAS VEGAS.’ ”

Gilstrap said, “Shit.”

Holly laughed. “Big words and colored bullshit. Give them a dictionary and they think they run the world.”

Littell tapped the paper. “I don’t see your name, Dwight. Is that a blessing or a curse?”

Holly stood up. “I see where this is going, and if it
does
go there, I’ll go to the U.S. Attorney. Civil-rights abridgement and obstruction of justice. I’ll look bad, you’ll look worse, the kid will do time.”

A vent thumped. The heat kicked off. Holly walked out.

Gilstrap said, “The cocksucker means it.”

“I don’t think so. He goes back too far with Wayne Senior.”

“Dwight don’t go back, Dwight goes forward. Wayne Senior could squawk and go to Mr. Hoover, who’d most likely pooh-pooh it because, according to my sources, he’s got a real soft spot for Dwight.”

Littell flipped the paper over. Littell squared the fold. There’s the hard news and AP pix: Police dogs/angry Negroes/tear gas.

Gilstrap sighed. “Okay, I’ll play.”

“Does the DA want to file?”

“Nobody wants that. We’re just afraid that we’re too far exposed already.”

“And?”

“And there’s two schools of thought. Bury it and ride out all the Commie bullshit, or file and take our lumps.”

Littell drummed the table. “Your department could get hurt very badly.”

Gilstrap blew smoke rings. “Mr. Littell, you’re leading me. You’re playing me and holding back your face cards.”

Littell tapped the paper. “Tell me Dallas doesn’t scare you. Tell me Junior didn’t fuck up there and give Durfee a motive to kill him. Tell me this won’t come out in court. Tell me you’re convinced that Junior didn’t kill Maynard Moore. Tell me you didn’t put a bounty on Durfee and pay Junior six thousand dollars to kill him. Tell me you want all this exposed and tell me Junior won’t expose it just to flush his life down the toilet.”

Gilstrap squeezed his ashtray. “Tell me Dallas PD will just go away.”

“Tell me Junior wasn’t smart enough to hide the body. Tell me the first cop who spots Durfee won’t kill him and eliminate DPD’s one potential witness.”

Gilstrap slapped the table. “Tell me how we
do
this.”

Littell tapped the paper. “I’ve read the accounts. There’s no specified sequence of events. All you have is four killings in one evening.”

“That’s right.”

“The evidence can be reworked to support self-defense. There may be a chance to divert demonstrations.”

Gilstrap sighed. “I don’t want to owe Wayne Senior.”

Littell said, “You won’t.”

Gilstrap stuck his hand out.

He brewed a plan. He called Pete and told him. Pete said okay. Pete asked one favor.

I want to see Lynette. It’s
my
fault. I fucked up in Dallas.

Buddy Fritsch had morgue shots. Littell looked at them. Durfee raped her. Durfee gutted her. Durfee shaved her.

He saw the pix. He studied them. He scared himself. He put Jane’s face on Lynette’s body.

He sent Pete a morgue pass. Pete said he’d talked to Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior pledged him his files.

Littell called east. Littell pulled strings. Littell buzzed Lyle Holly. He said the snuffs might hurt Dwight—so hear my plan now.

Call Bayard Rustin. Offer this advice: Do not protest the killings—call Ward Littell instead.

Rustin called him. Littell lied. Littell offered a rationale. A Negro man killed a white woman. Three more killings derived. The cop killed in self-defense. It’s all certified.

Rustin
got
it—don’t build hate—don’t martyr an angry white cop. Vegas wasn’t Birmingham. Negro junkies weren’t four girls in church.

Rustin was savvy. Rustin was gracious. Littell pledged more money. Littell praised Dr. King.

He met Rustin once. He charmed and entrapped him. He
used
him forthwith.

I
believe
. I have horrible debts. I’ll try to help more than I hurt.

(Las Vegas, 1/19/64)

H
e saw Lynette.

He saw the flaps. He saw the sheared ribs. He saw where the knife snapped bone. Wayne Junior didn’t blame him. Wayne Junior blamed himself.

Pete stood by the freeway. Pete ate gas fumes. Pete had a replacement sled—a boss new Lin
coon
.

A prowl car pulled up. A cop got out. He fed Pete three guns. Three calibers: .38/.45/.357 mag.

Throwdown guns. Taped and initialed: L.W./O.S./C.S.

The cop knew the plan. They had two crime scenes. They had viable blood—good Red Cross stock.

The cop split. Pete drove to Henderson. Pete hit a gun shop. Pete bought ammo.

He loaded the guns. He rigged silencers. He drove back to Vegas.

Wayne Junior was out. He saw him yesterday. The DA dumped his case. They met. They talked. They hit Wayne’s bank vault. Wayne dumped his board files and briefed him.

Spurgeon dug jailbait. Peavy was larcenous. Hinton whacked a nigger whore. Three board members—swing votes plus—good news for Count Drac.

Spurgeon vibed easy. Hinton vibed tough sell. Peavy vibed grief. Monarch Cab as Tiger Kab—hold that good thought.

Wayne looked frazzled. His eyes roamed. He strafed jigaboos. They ate lunch and talked.

Neutral shit—Clay versus Liston. Pete liked Liston in two. Wayne said three tops. A shine cleared their table. Wayne fucking seized up.

Pete drove to the car dump. The cop met him there. The dump was closed. The sun was up. A breeze wafted through.