The Cold Six Thousand (53 page)

Bruvick nodded. Bruvick scoped the booze shelf.

“You’re a hump. You wasted my liquor.”

Pete smiled. Pete aimed. Pete cocked his piece. Pete shot Bruvick’s chair.

The legs sheared. The chair crashed. Wood shattered. Bruvick tumbled. Bruvick yelped. Bruvick rosaried.

Pete blew smoke rings. “Carlos set up your charter business. What happened to Arden then?”

The boat pitched. Bruvick dropped his beads.

“She didn’t trust Carlos. She didn’t want to owe him, so she split to Europe. We worked out a pay-phone thing and kept in touch that way.”

Pete coughed. “She came back to the States. She couldn’t give up the Life.”

“Right. She landed in Dallas. She got in trouble there, like late in ’63. She wouldn’t say what happened.”

Pete flicked his cigarette. Pete nailed Bruvick flush.

“Come on, Danny. Don’t make me get ugly.”

Bruvick stood up. His knee went. He stumbled. He braced the wall. He slid back and sat.

He rubbed his knee. He snuffed Pete’s cigarette.

“That’s straight. She wouldn’t tell me what happened. All I know is she hooked up with Littell, then around that time Carlos found her. He said we’d both be safe if she watchdogged Littell, but he still refused to square us with Jimmy.”

Solid. Confirmed. Two-front blackmail. Jimmy’s contract/the safe-house snafu. Arden—that first name unique.

Carlos
knows
Arden. Carlos makes her
name
. Carlos distrusts Littell. Carlos finds Arden. Carlos plants Arden. Arden spies on Littell.

It vibed solid—90%—it vibed incomplete.

Pete said, “I don’t want Littell to get hurt.”

Bruvick stood up. His bad knee held.

“I don’t think Arden does, either. She’s playing out some weird thing with him.”

He called Carlos. He got Frau M. He left a message:

I braced D.B.—Danny the boat man—tell Carlos that. Tell him I’ll be by. Say I’d love to chat.

He drove to New Orleans. He stopped in libraries. He studied books en route.

Boats:

Galleys/bridges/radar/trawl decks/scuppers/masts.

He studied the nomenclature. He studied engine stats. He studied maps. Pine Island/Cape Sabel/Key West. Pit stops—Cuba due south.

He detoured. He cruised by Port Sulphur. He saw Tiger Kamp South. He saw the troops. He saw Flash and Laurent. He met Fuentes and Arredondo. They talked night raids. They talked scalp runs. They talked insurgency.

Wayne was in Saigon—one fast rotation—one scheduled run back. Wayne loves to WATCH. Wayne wants to GO. Wayne wants to SEE Cuba up close.

Flash had a plan. I’ll do a speedboat run. I’ll drop Fuentes and Arredondo. Fast—off the north shore—Varcadero Beach.

They reinfiltrate. They build drop zones. They recruit internal. They speedboat back. They funnel arms. They bounce off the Keys. They pull a boat hitch. They lug guns. They fly fast and low. They shuttle. They duck radar—six runs a week.

Pete said no. Pete said why: It’s high mileage/it wastes two men/it’s low capacity.

Flash said, “
Que
?”

Laurent said, “
Quoi
?”

Fuentes said, “
Que pasa
?”

Pete talked hold nets. Pete talked gunwales. Pete talked fuel efficiency.

Pete talked
boats
.

Carlos said, “Sure, she’s my watchdog. Tell me Ward don’t play angles, then tell me I don’t need one.”

Galatoire’s was dead. They hogged a prime table. Carlos dipped his cigar. Mecundo meets anisette.

“Ward’s fund-book thing is a fucking extravaganza, and Arden is a brilliant
fucking bookkeeper. I’m protecting my franchise, and Ward gets some good cooze in the process.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “He’s in love with her. I don’t want him to get hurt.”

Carlos winked. “I don’t want
you
to get hurt. We go back like Ward and me go back. Some guys would have been miffed at what you did to Danny B., but I am not one of them.”

Pete smiled. “I copped to it, didn’t I? I called you.”

“That is correct. You did the wrong thing and covered your bets.”

“I just don’t want—”

“He won’t be. They’re good for each other. I know Arden, and Arden knows she can’t shit me. Arden tells me Ward’s not scheming against me, so I believe her. I’ve always had this feeling that Ward was skimming Howard Hughes, but Arden says it’s not so, so I believe her.”

Pete burped. Pete undid his belt—rich Creole food.

“Give me the warning. Let’s get it over with.”

Carlos burped. Carlos undid his belt—rich Creole food.

“Don’t tell Ward about this. Don’t make me peeved at you.”

“
This
”—still solid—still incomplete.

A waiter cruised by. Pete nixed a comped brandy.

Carlos belched. “What’s this about ‘ideas’?”

Pete cleared some plates. Pete laid his map out. Pete swamped the table.

“Speedboat runs waste man-hours. You can’t move ordnance in bulk. I want to refit and camouflage Bruvick’s boat and run it out of Bon Secour. I want to move guns in quantity and pull terror missions.”

Carlos checked the map. Carlos lit his cigar. Carlos burned a big hole in Cuba.

(Las Vegas, 8/7/65)

L
yle Holly: Dwight Holly built small. BLUE to WHITE RABBIT. A Hoosier/a loudmouth/a fraud.

They met at the DI. They sat in the lounge. Lyle was blunt. Lyle was coarse. Lyle was buzzed at noon.

Lyle said, “I think I’m schizophrenic. I work for the SCLC, I work for Mr. Hoover. I’m on Black Rabbit one minute, voting-rights drives the next. Dwight says I’m psychically unhinged.”

Littell sipped coffee. Littell smelled Lyle’s scotch.

“Did Mr. Hoover send you in to spy on me?”

Lyle slapped his knees. “Dwight suggested it. He knew I was coming to Vegas, so what the hell.”

“Is there anything you’d like me to reveal?”

“Shit, no. I’ll tell Dwight that the Ward I saw is the same Ward I allegedly knew back in Chicago, except now he’s just as schizo as I am, and for all the same reasons.”

Littell laughed. Sammy Davis Jr. walked by. Lyle stared at him.

“Look at that. He’s ugly, he’s got one eye, and he’s colored
and
Jewish. I heard he gets lots of white pussy.”

Littell smiled. Lyle waved to Sammy. Sammy waved back.

Lyle sipped Johnnie Red. “Marty gives this speech in New York. He’s got a captive audience of liberal Jews with deep pockets. He starts attacking the Vietnam War and pissing all the hebes off with words like ‘genocide.’ He’s going outside his civil-rights bailiwick and biting the hand that feeds him.”

Pete was in Laos. Wayne was in Saigon. The war hid them there. He
called Carlos. Carlos talked up Pete. Carlos said they’d just schemed plans for Cuba.

Littell said let me retire. Carlos said okay. Carlos dittoed Sam’s consent. Carlos talked up the ’68 election.

Lyle sipped scotch. Peter Lawford walked by. Lyle stared at him.

“He used to pimp for Jack Kennedy. That makes us comrades-in-arms. I get Marty all his white snatch, and sometimes I dig up young meat for Bayard Rustin. Mr. Hoover’s got a photo of Bayard with a dick in his mouth. He made a dupe for President Johnson.”

Littell smiled. Lyle hailed a waitress. Lyle shagged a quick refill.

“Dwight said they blew that church up with C-4 explosive. Bayard told me it really
was
a leaky gas main, which makes me think
you
told him.”

Littell sipped coffee. “I told him, yes.”

Lyle sipped scotch. “Crusader Rabbit’s a white man. I’ll tell Dwight that.”

Littell smiled. Lyle grinned. Lyle pulled out a checkbook.

“I feel lucky. You think you can cash a check into play chips for me?”

“How much?”

“Two grand.”

Littell smiled. “Put my initials and ‘suite 108’ on the check. Tell the cashier I’m a permanent resident.”

Lyle smiled. Lyle wrote the check. Lyle got up and walked—half-steady.

Littell watched.

Lyle weaved. Lyle slurped scotch. Lyle trekked the casino. Lyle braced the teller’s cage. Lyle passed the check. Lyle got his chips.

Littell watched. Littell let some thoughts stir—CRUSADER RABBIT/White Man/gas main.

Lyle braced a roulette stand. Lyle stacked his chips. Red chips—hundreds—two G’s. The wheelman bowed. The wheelman twirled. The wheel spun. The wheel stopped. The wheelman raked chips.

Lyle slapped his forehead. Lyle moved his lips. Littell watched. Littell read his lips. Lyle said, “Oh, shit.”

Schizo/comrades/young meat.

Lyle might keep
private
files. Said files might indict. Said files might indict BLACK RABBIT.

Lyle looked around. Lyle saw Littell. Lyle waved his checkbook. Littell waved and nodded.

Lyle walked to the cage. Lyle grabbed the grate. Lyle wrote a check. Lyle fumbled chips.

Their waitress walked by. Littell stopped her.

“My friend’s on the floor. Bring him a triple Johnnie Walker.”

She nodded. She smiled. Littell gave her ten bucks. She walked to the bar. She poured the drink. She trekked the floor. She hit the roulette stands. She saw Lyle and fueled him.

Lyle guzzled scotch. Lyle stacked his chips. Red chips—hundreds—big stacks.

The wheelman bowed. The wheelman twirled. The wheel spun. The wheel stopped. The wheelman raked chips.

Lyle slapped his forehead. Lyle moved his lips. Littell watched. Littell read his lips. Lyle said, “Oh, shit.”

Littell walked over. Littell passed the waitress. Littell slid her ten bucks. She nodded. She
got it
. She smirked.

Lyle walked up. Lyle killed his drink. Lyle chewed the ice.

“I’m down, but I’m not licked, and I’ve got resources.”

“You were always resourceful, Lyle.”

Lyle laughed. Lyle swayed half-blotto. Lyle burped.

“You’re patronizing me. It’s that saintly quality that Dwight hates about you.”

Littell laughed. “I’m no saint.”

“No, you’re not. Martin Luther Coon’s the only saint I know, and I’ve got some hair-curling shit on him.”

The waitress swooped by. Lyle grabbed his refill.

“Hair-curling. Or hair
-kinking
, in his case.”

Work him—slow now—ease in.

“You mean Mr. Hoover has shit.”

Lyle swirled scotch. “He’s got his, I’ve got mine. I’ve got a big stash at my place in L.A. Mine’s better, ’cause I’ve got daily access to Saintly Marty himself.”

Tweak him—slow now—ease in.

“Nobody has better intelligence than Mr. Hoover.”

“Shit, I do. I’m saving it for my next contract powwow. I tell my handler, ‘You want the goods, you raise my pay—no tickee, no washee.’ ”

Sammy Davis walked by. Lyle bumped into him. Sammy swerved. Sammy goofed—cat, you are blitzed!

Lyle swerved. Lyle slugged scotch. Lyle pinched a zit on his chin.

“White chicks dig him. He must be hung.”

Fumes glowed. Mash and smoke—86 proof. Littell salivated. Littell stepped away.

Lyle pulled two checkbooks—both embossed—“L.H.” and “SCLC.” He kissed them. He slung them. He drew them quick-draw style. He twirled them and aimed.

“I’ve got a lucky feeling, which means I just might have to float a loan from the civil-rights movement.”

Littell smiled. Lyle weaved. Lyle settled. Lyle walked off blitzed.

Littell watched.

Lyle braced the cage. Lyle showed a checkbook—blue for SCLC. Lyle wrote a check. Lyle kissed said check. Lyle fumbled chips.

Reds—ten stacks—five G’s.

Slow now—ease in—this is for real.

Littell walked to the phone stand. Littell grabbed a booth. He picked up. The line clicked active. He got service quick.

“Desert Inn. How may I help you?”

“It’s Littell, suite 108. I need an outside line to Washington, D.C.”

“The number, please.”

“EX4-2881.”

“Please hold. I’ll connect you.”

The line buzzed—long-distance coming—static popped and clicked. Littell looked around. Littell saw Lyle. Lyle’s at a crap table. Lyle’s stacking chips.

The shooter rolls. Lyle slaps his forehead. Lyle says, “Oh, shit.”

Static clicked. The call clicked in. Mr. Hoover said, “Yes?”

Littell said, “It’s me.”

“Yes? And the purpose of this unsolicited contact?”

“White Rabbit suggested a meeting. He arrived at the Desert Inn drunk. He’s running up a casino debt with SCLC money.”

The line fuzzed. Littell cleared the cord. Littell slapped the receiver. There’s Lyle. Lyle’s at the cage. Lyle’s ecstatic. Lyle’s got more chips.

Reds—high stacks—maybe ten G’s.

The line fuzzed. The line popped. The line cleared.

Mr. Hoover said, “Cut off his credit and get him out of Las Vegas immediately.”

The line fuzzed. The call faded. Littell heard hang-up clicks. There’s Lyle. Lyle’s at a crap table. Lyle’s in a crowd. Lyle’s stacking chips.

Sammy Davis bows. Sammy Davis prays. Sammy Davis rolls the dice. The crowd cheers. Lyle cheers. Sammy Davis genuflects.

Littell walked over. Littell pushed his way in.

Lyle crowded Sammy. Lyle played Sammy’s foil. Sammy goofed on the white freak. He winked at a blonde. He flicked lice off his coat. He went ick.

Red chips down—pass-line bets—all Lyle’s money. Good money—Lyle’s up twenty G’s.

Sammy gets the dice. Sammy holds them out. Lyle blows wet kisses. Sammy goofs on Lyle—he’s a Rat Pack reject—the crowd genuflects.

Sammy rolls. Sammy hits 7. Lyle hits forty G’s. The crowd cheers. Lyle hugs Sammy. Sammy grabs the dice.

Lyle blows on them. Lyle drools on them. Lyle genuflects. Sammy pulls a handkerchief. Sammy makes entertainment. Sammy wipes said dice.

Sammy rolls. Sammy hits 7. Lyle hits eighty G’s. The crowd cheers. Lyle hugs Sammy. Lyle snuffs his cigarette.

Sammy grabs the dice. Lyle shoves up close. Sammy steps way back. The blonde horns in. Sammy grabs her. Sammy rubs the dice on her dress.

The crowd laughs. Lyle says something. Littell caught “coon” or “kike.”

Sammy rolls. Sammy makes 9. Sammy craps dead out. Sammy shrugs—life’s a crapshoot, baby. The crowd claps and laughs.