The Cold Six Thousand (25 page)

(Las Vegas, 2/7/64)

T
he Lincoln gleamed. New paint/new chrome/new leather.

The car jazzed him. The car distracted him. He kept seeing Lynette. Flaps and sheared ribs. Durfee’s knife severed bone.

Pete cruised. Pete tried gadgets. The lighter worked. The heater worked. The seats reclined.

Vegas looked good. Cool air hits mountains and sunshine. Secure-the-Vote Day—one down so far.

He muscled Webb Spurgeon. He explained stat-rape statutes. He detailed consent laws. Spurgeon gulped. Spurgeon kowtowed. Spurgeon pledged votes.

All good so far. One down—two to go.

Pete drove by Monarch Cab. Pete got electrified. Dollar signs boogied and bipped.

Cabs peeled in. Cabs peeled out. Cabs refueled. Drivers ate pills. Drivers drank lunch. Drivers palmed waistband gats.

Monarch Cab.
Maybe:
Tiger Kab redux.

A cash base. A racket hub. Bent personnel. Monarch as Tiger—hold that heady thought.

Pete cruised. Pete meandered. Pete hit West LV. Pete checked out that vacant lot.

There’s the trailer. The paint’s gone. The shell’s cracked. The siding’s all scorched.

A kid walked up. Pete jollied him. The kid sermonized.

The trailer smell bad. That be wrong. Somethin’ dead be inside. This
dude torch it. The stink go. He burn the stink out. No cops come. No firemen. Somethin’ dead
still
be in there.

The kid buzzed off. Pete scoped the trailer. A breeze kicked up. The trailer creaked. Paint chips cracked and blew.

Pete cruised. Pete meandered. Pete drove south. Pete hit Duane Hinton’s house.

He parked. He walked up. He knocked on the door. He pulled out Wayne’s snapshot.

There’s a fat whore bound and gagged. She’s sucking a handball.

Hinton opened the door. Pete flashed the photo eye-level.

Hinton plotzed. Pete grabbed his hair. Pete raised one knee. Pete broke his nose up.

Hinton went down. Bones cracked. Cartilage blew.

Pete decreed:

Vote our way. Do not touch whores. Do not hurt whores. Do not kill whores—OR I’LL KILL YOU.

Hinton tried to talk. Hinton gagged. Hinton bit through his tongue.

(Little Rock, 2/8/64)

D
evoted wife. Schoolteacher. Loving daughter.

The preacher ran on. The casket sat ready. Lakeside Cemetery: cheap burials and segregated plots.

The Sprouls wore black. Janice wore black. Wayne Senior wore blue. The Sprouls stood alone. Wayne stood alone. Daddy Sproul watched him.

Soldier boy. Yankee. She was seventeen. You wooed her. She killed your baby. You made her do it.

Loving spirit. Sacred child. Blessed in Christ’s name.

The service was short. The casket was cheap. The plot was low-rent. The Tedrows shipped the body home. The Tedrows lost control.

Lynette despised religion. Lynette loved movie stars and John Kennedy.

A chauffeur stood around. A Negro man. Tall like Wendell Durfee.

The preacher braced Wayne pre-service. The preacher counseled him.

I feel your loss. I know your grief. I
understand
.

Wayne said it: “I’m going to kill Wendell Durfee.”

God’s will. The ides of fate. Snatched in her prime.

The plots adjoined Central High. He met Lynette there. Soldiers and rednecks. Negro kids scared.

The chauffeur stood around. The chauffeur filed his nails. The chauffeur wore a hair net. He had Durfee hair. He had Durfee skin. He had Durfee’s lank frame.

Wayne watched him. Wayne retouched his hair. Wayne retouched his skin. Wayne made him Wendell D.

The preacher prayed. The Sprouls wept. The Tedrows stood calm. The chauffeur buffed his nails.

Wayne watched him.

He burned his face. He smashed his teeth. He fed him Big “H.”

(Las Vegas, 2/9/64)

T
he DI count room.

Money
—coin bins and hampers stuffed. A swivel spy-camera hooked up.

Your host—Moe Dalitz.

The count men were out. The camera was off. Money sat waist-high. Littell sneezed—the fumes were bad—sting off cash dye and tin.

Moe said, “It’s not that complicated. The count guys are in cahoots with the camera guys. The camera goes on the fritz, accidental on purpose, so the count guys can get the skim out and retally it. You don’t need a college education.”

Mesh hampers—laundry-size. Forty hampers/forty grand per.

Moe dipped in. Moe snagged ten grand—C-notes all.

“Here, for your civil-rights deal. What’s their fucking motto, ‘We Shall Overcome’?”

Littell grabbed the cash. Littell packed his briefcase.

“The skim interests me.”

“You are not alone in that. Certain Federal agencies have been known to be curious.”

“Are you looking for couriers?”

Moe said, “No. We use civilians, exclusive. Squarejohns who owe casino markers. They run the skim and pay off their debts at 7½% of the transport.”

Littell shot his cuffs. “I was thinking of Mr. Hughes’ Mormons, or other trustworthy ones, at a 15% rate.”

Moe shook his head. “I don’t like to fuck with success, but I’ll hear you out anyway.”

Littell sneezed. Moe supplied a Kleenex. Littell wiped his nose.

“You’re going to sell Mr. Hughes some hotels. He’ll want his Mormons or
some
Mormons to run them. You’ll want your men, you’ll compromise, you’ll want to escalate your skim operations.”

Moe twirled a dime. “Don’t be a cock tease. You’ve got this tendency to string things out.”

Littell hugged his briefcase. “I want to enlist some Mormons, over time, and have them ready by the date you sell Mr. Hughes the hotels. You’d have a pool of potential inside men with skim experience.”

“That’s not enough inducement to pay 15%.”

“At face value, no.”

Moe rolled his eyes. “So, lay it out. Jesus Christ, don’t make me coax you.”

“All right. Mr. Hughes’ people travel on Hughes Aircraft charter flights. I could hire some Mormons to work for Mr. Hughes now, and you could ship the skim bulk and avoid airport security risks.”

Moe flipped the dime. Moe caught it heads-up.

“At face value, I like it. I’ll talk to the other guys.”

“I’d like to get started soon.”

“Take a breather. Don’t wear yourself out.”

“I’m sure that’s a good tip, but I’d—”

“Here’s a better one. Bet Clay over Liston. You’ll make a fucking mint.”

“Is the fight fixed?”

“No, but Sonny’s got some very bad habits.”

Littell flew to L.A.

He flew solo. He booked a Hughes plane. The Hughes fleet moored in Burbank. Cessna Twins—six seats each—ample skim space.

The flight ran smooth. No clouds and desert sparkling up.

Moe took the bait. Moe missed the dodge. Moe thought the dodge was pro-Drac. Wrong—the dodge was pro–civil rights.

Call it:

Bagmen. Potential “casino consultants.”
Hughes
men. All charter-flight cleared.

He could skim off the skim. He could feed Bayard Rustin. He could blunt Mr. Hoover’s damage. Wayne Senior ran Mormon thugs. Wayne Senior knew bagmen types.
He
could coopt them.

The long-term goal: damage abatement.

Mr. Hoover filmed Dr. King. Mr. Hoover tried to entrap him. Mr. Hoover dirt-fed his “correspondents”: congressmen/reporters/clergymen.

Mr. Hoover schooled them. Mr. Hoover taught them restraint. Let’s
collude and leak covert data. Let’s leak it smart. Don’t leak
strict
bug-and-tap data. Don’t jeopardize bug-and-tap mounts.

Mr. Hoover held dirt. Mr. Hoover leaked dirt. Mr. Hoover caused pain. Mr. Hoover hated Dr. King. Mr. Hoover exposed his one weakness:

Sadism.
Sustained
. Inflicted over TIME.

TIME worked two ways. There was TIME to inflict harm. There was TIME to countermand the effects.

The skim plan might work. The skim plan sparked a question: Hughes money—a potential tithe source?

The plane banked. Littell pared an apple. Littell sipped coffee.

Pete had Wayne’s files. Pete squeezed Spurgeon and Hinton. Spurgeon fed Pete some dirt. Key legislators and their pet charities—dirt per their philanthropy.

Pete said he bypassed Eldon Peavy. Peavy was cop-sanctioned. Peavy might balk at threats. Pete was disingenuous. Pete’s threats
worked
. Pete craved Monarch Cab. Pete was gauging a takeover shot.

The plane dipped low. Burbank showed sunshine and smog.

He’d lunched with Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior praised him—you saved my son.

Junior declined Senior’s help. Junior rebuffed his connections. Junior nixed good job offers. Junior nixed work in chemistry. Junior sought his own work. Junior found low-end employment.

The Wild Deuce Casino—night bouncer—6:00 to 2:00 a.m. The Deuce was rough. The Deuce welcomed Negroes. Junior welcomed pain.

Wayne Senior bought Littell’s lunch. Wayne Senior made nice. Wayne Senior said ugly things.

Wayne Senior derided the civil-rights movement. Wayne Senior brought up the King film.

Littell smiled. Littell made nice. Littell thought
I will make you all pay
.

Jane said, “I got a job.”

The terrace was cold. The view compensated. Littell leaned on the rail.

“Where?”

“Hertz rent-a-car. I’m doing the books for the West L.A. branches.”

“Did your Tulane degree help?”

Jane smiled. “It got me the extra thousand a year I asked for.”

She used hard vowels. She eschewed slurs. She dropped her southern drawl. She’d reworked her voice and diction—he just noticed it.

She said, “It feels good to rejoin the work force.”

Hard g’s. Regionless. Pure consonants.

Littell smiled. Littell popped his briefcase. Littell pulled out six sheets.

He landed. He drove to Hughes Tool. He stopped at the bookkeeping pool and stole forms.

Invoices. Bill sheets. All standard paper.

He got in. He got out. He shaped his upcoming lie.

“Would you look at these when you get a chance? I need your advice on a few things.”

Jane scanned the sheets. “They’re all boilerplate. Cost-outs, overruns, that kind of thing.”

Hard
b
’s and
p
’s. Lazy
o
’s deleted.

“I want to discuss embezzling techniques and how to use these forms. There’s going to be a buildup in Vietnam, and Mr. Hughes will probably be awarded some contracts. He’s afraid of embezzlements, and he asked me to study up.”

Jane smiled. “Did you tell him your girlfriend’s an embezzler?”

“No. Just that she keeps a good secret.”

“God, the way that we live.”

Short
a
’s and
e
’s. Crisp inflections.

Jane laughed. “Have you noticed? I gave up my accent.”

Jane read in bed. Jane dozed off early. Littell played his tapes.

He got crazy. Two times of late. He ran two crazy risks.

He passed through D.C. He wired Doug Eversall. He squeezed him. He cajoled him. He paid him five G’s.

Eversall taped Bobby. Two more times total—two crazy risks. Eversall balked then. Eversall cut Littell off.

That’s it. Shove your threats. I refuse to hurt Bobby. You’re sick. You’re fucked up. Bobby’s your sickness.

Littell retreated:

That’s it. No more. I promise you. I’ll lie to Carlos. I’ll say we failed.

Eversall walked then. Eversall tripped. His high shoe buckled and slid. Littell helped him up. Eversall slapped him. Eversall spat in his face.

Littell played the 1/29 tape. Low static/spool hum.

Bobby planned trials. Eversall took notes. Bobby yawned and digressed. His potential Senate run. The VP spot. That “cornpone son-of-a-bitch Lyndon Johnson.”

Bobby had a cold. Bobby waxed profane. LBJ was a “dipshit.” Dick Nixon was a “numbnuts” with a “kick-me sign.” Mr. Hoover was a “psycho fruitcake.”

Littell pressed Rewind. The tape reversed. Littell played the 2/5 tape.

Here’s Bobby—reverent now.

He toasted Jack. He quoted Housman: “To an Athlete Dying Young.” Eversall sniffled. Bobby laughed—“Don’t go soft on me.”

A new man spoke. Static fizzed his words. Littell heard his garbled “Hoover and King.”

Bobby said, “Hoover’s scared. He knows King’s got balls like J.C.”

(Las Vegas, 2/10/64)

M
onarch rocked.

The noon rush / mucho calls / ten cabs out. The hut rocked—Eldon Peavy had guests.

Sonny Liston. Four bad-boy jigs. Conrad & the Congoites or Marvin & the Mau-Maus.

Pete watched.

He dipped his seat. He ran the heat. He did arithmetic. Peavy had twenty cabs. Peavy ran three shifts. Add airport runs and deadheads.

The hut rocked. A driver hawked fur coats. The Mau-Maus mauled them. Sonny fanned a roll. Peavy peeled bills off.

The Congoites capered. They fondled fur. They manhandled mink. They chewed up chinchilla.

Sonny looked bad. The Clay fight boded. Sonny had the odds. Sam G. demurred. Sam liked Clay. Sam said Sonny had habits.

It was cold. Brrr—Vegas winters. Pete shivered and goosed the heat.

Texas was cold. Florida ditto. He just got back from his trip. He didn’t find Hank K. He didn’t find Wendell Durfee. He traveled alone. He schemed a trifecta.

Plan A: Find and clip Hank. Plan B: Detain Durfee. Plan C: Bring Wayne in to kill him.

No tickee/no washee. No find/go seek.

He got back. He called Ward. He pitched him: I want to buy Monarch Cab. Ward nixed it. Ward said don’t bid. Ward said don’t extort ownership.

We
need
Peavy. We need his
votes
. Don’t scotch his gaming-board status. Sage fucking advice—Ward Littell–style.

Pete skimmed the radio. Pete watched the hut. Peavy quaffed gin. The Mau-Maus quaffed scotch-and-milk. Sonny dumped capsules. Sonny made lines. Sonny sniffed powder up.

Peavy walked out. Sonny strolled with him. The Congoites conga’d. They slurped milk. They grew white goatees. Spooks called scotch-and-milk “pablum.”