The Cold Six Thousand (5 page)

Sap shots. Hard steel meets plywood and glue.

Jeff shook. Jeff gulped. Jeff picked a hangnail.

Wayne said, “Let’s try this. You work at Dr Pepper. You got paid today.”

“That’s right. If I’m lyin’, I’m—”

“And you made your probation payment.”

“You ain’t woofin’ I did.”

“Now, you’ve got some money left. It’s burning a hole in your pocket. Wendell’s your gambling buddy. There’s some kind of payday crap game that you can point me to.”

Jeff sucked his hangnail. Jeff gullllped.

“Then how come I ain’t at that game right now?”

“Because you lent Wendell most of your money.”

Glass broke. Wayne made the sound: One sap shot/one TV screen fucked.

“Wendell Durfee. Give him up, or I tell Tex that you’ve been porking little white kids.”

Jeff lit a cigarette. Jeff choked on it. Jeff coughed smoke out.

“Liddy Baines, she used to go with Wendell. She knowed I owed him money, an’ she came by an’ said he was lookin’ to get down to Mexico. I gave her all but five dollars of my check.”

Wood cracked. The walls shook. The floor shook.

“Address?”

“Seventy-first and Dunkirk. The little white house two up from the corner.”

“What about the game?”

“Eighty-third and Clifford. The alley by the warehouse.”

Wayne opened the door. Jeff stood behind him. Jeff got in a runner’s crouch. Moore saw Wayne. Moore bowed. Moore winked.

The TV was dead. The shelf shrine was dust. The walls were pulp and spit.

It got real.

Moore had a throwdown piece. Moore had a pump. A coroner owed him. He’d fudge the wound text.

Wayne went dry. Wayne got pinpricks. Wayne’s nuts shriveled up.

They drove. They went Darktown-deep. They went by Liddy Baines’ shack. Nobody was home—Liddy, where you at?

They hit a pay phone. Moore called Dispatch. Moore got Liddy Baines’ stats: No wants/no warrants/no vehicle extant.

They drove to 83rd and Clifford. They passed junkyards and dumps. Liquor stores and blood banks. Mohammed’s Mosque #12.

They passed the alley. They caught a tease: Streetlights/faces/a blanket spread out.

A fat man rolled. A plump man slapped his forehead. A thin man scooped cash.

Moore stopped at 82nd. Moore grabbed his pump. Wayne pulled his piece. Moore popped in earplugs.

“If he’s there, we’ll arrest him. Then we’ll take him out to the sticks and cap him.”

Wayne tried to talk. His throat closed. He squeaked. Moore winked. Moore yukked haw-haw.

They walked over. They cleaved to shadows. They crouched. The air dried up. The ground dropped. Wayne lost his feet.

They hit the alley. Wayne heard jive talk. Wayne saw Wendell Durfee.

His legs went. He stumbled. He toed a beer can. The dice men perked up.

Say what
?

Who
that
?

Mama
, that you
?

Moore aimed. Moore fired. Moore caught three men low. He sprayed their legs. He diced their blanket. He chopped their money up.

Muzzle boom—twelve-gauge roar—high decibels in tight.

It knocked Wayne flat. Wayne went deaf. Wayne went powder blind. Moore shot a trashcan. The sucker
flew
.

Wayne rubbed his eyes. Wayne got partial sight. Dice men screamed. Dice men scattered. Wendell Durfee ran.

Moore aimed high. Moore sprayed a wall. Pellets bounced and whizzed. They caught Durfee’s hat. They sliced the band. They blew the feather up.

Durfee ran. Wayne ran.

He aimed his piece up and out. Durfee backward-aimed his. They fired. Blips lit the alley. Shots cut the walls.

Wayne
saw
it. Wayne
felt
it. Wayne didn’t
hear
shit.

He fired. He missed. Durfee fired. Durfee missed. Barrel flames. Sound waves. No
real
sound worth shit.

They ran. They stopped. They fired. They sprinted full-out.

Wayne popped six shots—one full cylinder. Durfee popped eight shots—one full-load clip.

The flares stopped. No light. No directional signs—

Wayne stumbled.

He slid. He fell. He hit gravel. He ate alley grit. He smelled cordite. He licked cigar butts and dirt.

He rolled over. He saw roof lights. He saw cherry lights twirl. Two prowl cars—
behind
him—DPD Fords.

He caught some sounds. He stood up. He caught his breath. He walked back. His feet scraped. He heard it.

Moore stood there. Cops stood there. The dice men lay prone. They were cuffed/shackled/fucked.

Shredded pants. Pellet burns and gouges—cuts to white bone.

They thrashed. Wayne heard partial screams.

Moore walked over. Moore said something. Moore yelled.

Wayne caught “Bowers.” His ears popped. He caught whole sounds.

Moore flashed his sandwich bag. Moore spread the flaps. Wayne saw blood and gristle. Wayne saw a man’s thumb.

(Dallas, 11/23/63)

W
indow wreaths / flags / ledge displays. 8:00 a.m.—one day later—the Glenwood Apartments loves Jack.

Two floors. Twelve front windows. Flowers and JFK toys.

Littell leaned on his car. The facade expanded. He got the sun. He got Arden Smith’s car. He got her U-Haul.

He borrowed a Bureau car. He ran Arden Smith. She came back clean. He got her vehicle stats. He nailed her Chevy.

She felt dirty. She saw the hit. She ran from the PD. That U-Haul said
RUNNER
.

She lived in 2-D. He’d checked the courtyard. Her windows faced in—no flags/no trinkets/no shrine.

He worked to midnight. He cleared an office space. Floor 3 was bedlam. Cops grilled Oswald. Camera crews roamed.

His bum ploy worked. Rogers walked. The bums escaped clean. He saw Guy B. He told him to brace Lee Bowers.

He read the wit statements. He read the DPD notes. They played ambiguous. Mr. Hoover would issue a mandate. Agents would secure it. Single-shooter evidence would cohere.

Lee Oswald was trouble. Guy said so. Guy called him “nuts.”

Lee didn’t shoot. The pro shooter did. Said pro shot from Lee’s floor perch. Rogers shot from the fence.

Lee knew Guy’s cutout. Cops and Feds worked him all night. He named no names. Guy said he knew why.

The kid craved attention. The kid was fucked-up. The kid craved the solo limelight.

Littell checked his watch—8:16 a.m.—sun and low clouds.

He counted flags. He counted wreaths. The Glenwood loved Jack. He knew why. He used to love Jack. He used to love Bobby.

He never met Jack. He met Bobby once.

He tried to join them. Kemper Boyd pushed his case. Bobby disdained his credentials. Boyd spread his loyalty. Boyd worked for Jack and Bobby. Boyd worked for the CIA.

Boyd got Littell a job. Ward, meet Carlos Marcello.

Carlos hated Jack and Bobby. Jack and Bobby spurned Littell. He built his own hate. He fine-tuned the aesthetic.

He hated Jack. He
knew
Jack. Scrutiny undermined image. Jack was glib. Jack had pizzazz. Jack had no rectitude.

Bobby defined rectitude. Bobby
lived
rectitude. Bobby punished bad men. He hated Bobby now. Bobby dismissed him. Bobby spurned his respect.

Mr. Hoover bugged Mob hangouts. Mr. Hoover picked up hints. He smelled the hit. He never told Jack. He never told Bobby.

Mr. Hoover knew Littell. Mr. Hoover dissected his hatred. Mr. Hoover urged him to hurt Bobby.

Littell had evidence. It indicted Joe Kennedy for long-term Mob collusion. He met Bobby—for one half hour—just five days back.

He stopped by his office. He played him a tape. The tape nailed Joe Kennedy. Bobby was smart. Bobby might link tape to hit. Bobby might gauge the tape as a threat.

Do not talk Mob Hit. Do not stain the name Kennedy. Do not stain sainted Jack. Feel complicitous. Feel guilty. Feel baaaad.

Your Mob Crusade killed your brother. We killed Jack to fuck you.

Littell watched a newscast. Late last night—Air Force One hits D.C. Bobby walks out. Bobby walks calm. Bobby consoles Jackie.

Littell killed Kemper Boyd. Carlos ordered it. Littell shot Boyd on Thursday. It hurt. He owed the Boys. It cancelled his debt.

He saw Bobby with Jackie. It hurt more than Boyd.

Arden Smith walked out.

She walked out fast. She lugged a satchel. She carried skirts and sheets. Littell walked over. Arden Smith looked up. Littell flashed his ID.

“Yes?”

“Dealey Plaza, remember? You witnessed the shooting.”

She leaned on the U-Haul. She dropped the satchel. She weighed down the skirts.

“I watched you at the squadroom. You measured your chances and made your move, and I have to say I’m impressed. But you’ll have to explain why you—”

“My information was redundant. Five or six people heard what I did, and I wanted to put the whole thing behind me.”

Littell leaned on the car. “And now you’re moving.”

“Just temporarily.”

“Are you leaving Dallas?”

“Yes, but that has nothing to do—”

“I’m sure it has nothing to do with what you saw in the motorcade, and all I’m interested in is why you stole your preliminary statement and driver’s license from the witness log and left without permission.”

She brushed her hair back. “Look, Mr.—”

“Littell.”

“Mr. Littell, I tried to do my citizen’s duty. I went to the police department and tried to leave an anonymous statement, but an officer detained me. Really, I’d had a shock, and I just wanted to go home and start packing.”

Her voice worked. It was firm and southern. It was educated.

Littell smiled. “Can we go inside? I’m uncomfortable talking out here.”

“All right, but you’ll have to forgive my apartment.”

Littell smiled. She smiled. She walked ahead. Kids ran by. They shot toy guns. A boy yelled, “Don’t shoot me, Lee!”

The door was open. The front room was chaos. The front room was packed and dollied.

She shut the door. She squared off chairs. She grabbed a coffee cup. They sat down. She lit a cigarette. She balanced the cup.

Littell pulled his chair back. Smoke bothered him. He pulled his notebook. He tapped his pen.

“What did you think of John Kennedy?”

“That’s an odd question.”

“I’m just curious. You don’t seem like someone who’s easily charmed, and I can’t picture you standing around to watch a man drive by in a car.”

She crossed her legs. “Mr. Littell, you don’t know me. I think your question says more about you and Mr. Kennedy than you might be willing to admit.”

Littell smiled. “Where are you from?”

“Decatur, Georgia.”

“Where are you moving to?”

“I thought I’d try Atlanta.”

“Your age?”

“You know my age, because you checked me out before you came here.”

Littell smiled. She smiled. She dropped ash in her cup.

“I thought FBI men worked in pairs.”

“We’re short-handed. We weren’t planning on an assassination this weekend.”

“Where’s your gun? All the men in that office had revolvers.”

He squeezed his pen. “You saw my identification.”

“Yes, but you’re taking too much guff from me. Something isn’t quite right here.”

The pen snapped. Ink dripped. Littell wiped his hands on his coat.

“You’re a pro. I knew it yesterday, and you just pushed too hard and confirmed it. You’re going to have to convince me—”

The phone rang. She stared at him. The phone rang three times. She got up. She walked to the bedroom. She shut the door.

Littell wiped his hands. Littell smeared his trousers and coat. He looked around. He broke down the room. He quadrant-scanned.

There—

A chest on a dolly. Four drawers all packed.

He got up. He checked the drawers. He brushed socks and underwear. He brushed a slick surface—card-size plastic—he pulled it out.

There—

A Mississippi driver’s license—for Arden Elaine
Coates
.

A P.O. box address. Date of birth: 4/15/27. Her
Texas
DL listed 4/15/26.

He put it back. He shut the drawers. He sat down fast. He crossed his legs. He doodled. He made mock notes.

Arden Smith walked out. Arden Smith smiled and
posed
.

Littell coughed. “Why did you watch the motorcade from Dealey Plaza?”

“I heard you had the best view there.”

“That’s not quite true.”

“I’m just saying what I heard.”

“Who told you?”

She blinked. “I wasn’t told. I read it in the paper when they announced the route.”

“When was that?”

“I don’t know. A month ago, maybe.”

Littell shook his head. “That isn’t true. They announced the route ten days ago.”

She shrugged. “I’m bad at dates.”

“No, you’re not. You’re good at them, just like you’re good at everything you try.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know
me.
”

Littell stared at her. She popped goose bumps.

“You’re scared, and you’re running.”

“
You’re
scared, and this isn’t a real FBI roust.”

He
popped goose bumps. “Where do you work?”

“I’m a freelance bookkeeper.”

“That’s not what I asked you.”

“I structure deals to get businessmen out of trouble with the IRS.”

“I asked, ‘
Where do you work
?’ ”

Her hands jumped. “I work at a place called the Carousel Club.”

His hands jumped. The Carousel/Jack Ruby/Mob guy/bent cops.

He looked at her. She looked at him. Their brainwaves crossed.

(Dallas, 11/23/63)

S
hit security. Fucked-up / negligent / weak.

Pete toured the PD. Guy scored him a pass. He didn’t need it. Some geek sold dupes. Said geek sold weed and pussy pix.

The ground doors stood open. Geeks hobnobbed. Door guards posed for pix. Camera cords snaked up the sidewalk. News vans jammed up the street.

Reporters roamed. Let’s bug the DA. Let’s bug the cops.
Lots
of cops—Feds/DPD/Sheriff’s—all motormouthed.

Oswald’s pink. Oswald’s Red. Oswald loves Fidel. He loves folk music. He loves dark trim. He loves Martin Lucifer Coon. We know it’s him. We got his gun. He did it alone. I think he’s queer. He can’t piss with men in the room.