The Cold Six Thousand (67 page)

(Las Vegas, 12/5/66)

W
ayne picked the lock.

He worked two picks. He tweaked the bolt. He jiggled hard right. Deadbeat patrol/room 6/Desert Dawn Motel.

Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s got two last names. Sirhan Sirhan.”

The door popped. They stepped inside. Wayne toed the door shut. Check the four-wall dump-site.

Soiled bed. No rugs. Horse-race posters/jockey silks/racing forms stacked.

Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s a track nut.”

The room smelled. Scents mingled. Spilled vodka and stale chink. Stale cheese spread and cigarettes.

Wayne checked the dresser. Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne sifted junk. Acne swabs/booze empties/cigarette butts.

Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s a pack rat.”

Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne perused. Wayne sifted junk. Racing forms and tip logs. Scratch sheets and hate tracts.

Cheap-paper tracts. Non–Wayne Senior stock. Text and cartoons—anti-Jew stuff.

Dollar-sign skullcaps. Bloody prayer shawls. Fangs dripping pus. “The Zionist Pig Order”/“The Vampire Jew”/“The Jewish Cancer Machine.” Jews with claw hands. Jews with pig feet. Jews with scimitar dicks.

Wayne skimmed text. Said text waxed repetitious. The Jews fucked the Arabs. The Arabs vowed payback.

Sonny said, “Motherfucker don’t like the hebes.”

The text rambled. Typos reigned. Longhand margin notes crawled. “Kill Kill Kill!”/“Death to Israel!”/“Zionist Pig-Suckers Must Die!”

Sonny said, “Motherfucker’s got a grievance.”

Wayne dropped the tracts. Wayne shut the drawers. Wayne kicked a chair back.

“We’ll give him two hours. He owes Pete a grand and change.”

Sonny chewed a toothpick. “Barb split on Pete. Frankly, I seen it coming.”

“Maybe I got to her.”

“Maybe Pete’s evil ways did. Maybe she said, ‘Quit selling hair-o-wine to Sonny’s fellow niggers or I’ll leave your white ass, you honky motherfucker.’ ”

Wayne laughed. “Let’s call her and ask.”

“
You
call. You the motherfucker who’s in love with her and too mother-fucking scared to say boo.”

Wayne laughed. Wayne chewed his nails. Wayne tore a nail back.

The Pete thing hurt. Pete bruised his balls. Pete trimmed his balls back. He was wrong. Pete was right. He knew it.

He called Wayne Senior. They talked. Wayne Senior pledged Work. “Good work”/“in time”/“soon.” He might take it. He might not. He owed Pete rotations: Saigon/Mississippi/the funnel.

Sonny said, “Let’s go to L.A. We’ll find Wendell Durfee and shoot his black ass.”

Wayne laughed. Wayne chewed his nails. Wayne tore hangnails back.

Sonny said, “Let’s kill some street nigger and say it’s Wendell. It’ll put the fucking quietus on all that shit you carrying around.”

Wayne smiled. The door jiggled—whazzat?

The door stuck. The door popped. A doofus walked in. A young guy/all swarthy/thick rat’s-nest hair.

He saw them. He trembled. He crap-your-pants cringed.

Sonny said, “Ahab the A-rab. Where’s your camel, motherfucker?”

Wayne shut the door. “You owe the Golden Cavern eleven-sixty. Fork up or Brother Liston will hurt you.”

The doofus cringed.
Don’t hurt me
. His shirttail hiked up. Wayne saw a belt piece. Wayne snatched it fast. Wayne dumped the clip.

Sonny said, “How come you got two last names?”

Sirhan gestured. His hands moved mile-a-minute. He made geek semaphore.

“Forgive me … I take falls … race horses … many headaches … I forget I lose money if I don’t take medicine.”

Sonny said, “I don’t like you. You starting to look like Cassius Clay.”

Sirhan spieled some Arab shit. Sirhan spieled singsong. Sonny threw a left. Sonny hit the wall. Sonny tore plaster.

Wayne twirled the gun. “Brother Liston knocked out Floyd Patterson and Cleveland ‘Big Cat’ Williams.”

Sonny threw a right. Sonny hit the wall. Sonny tore plaster. Sirhan moaned. Sirhan exhorted Allah. Sirhan dumped his pockets fast.

Booty: ChapStick/pen/car keys. C-notes/fives/dimes.

Wayne grabbed the money. Sonny said, “What you got against the kikes?”

Wayne hit the Cavern. Wayne unlocked his room. Wayne saw a letter on the dresser.

He opened the envelope. He smelled Barb straight off.

Wayne reread the letter. Wayne caught subscents. There’s the Ponds and lavender soap. He kissed the letter. He locked up his room. He walked to the lounge.

There’s Pete.

He’s drinking. He’s smoking. The cat’s on his lap. He’s watching the Bondsmen—Barb’s combo sans Barb.

Wayne shagged a waiter. Wayne passed him the letter. Wayne tipped him five bucks. Wayne pointed to Pete. The guy understood.

The guy walked over. The guy dropped the letter. Pete tore at the envelope.

He read the letter. He wiped his eyes. The cat clawed his shirt.

(Beverly Hills, 1/3/67)

S
igns:

Mau-Mau shit. Peace doves. Nigger hands clasped.

Said signs blitzed walls. Said walls ran high. The ballroom soared up. Said ballroom welcomed oreos—race-mixer deelites.

There’s celebs and pols. There’s spook matrons. There’s Marty the K. There’s Burl Ives. There’s Banana Boat Belafonte.

Pete watched. Pete smoked. His tux fit tight. Otash watched. Otash smoked. His tux fit right.

Ballroom accoutrements—dais and lectern. Ballroom seats and ballroom fare. Steam trays leaking steam—chicken à la coon deelite.

Cops mingled. Their cheap suits stood out. Waiters roamed. Waiters schlepped trays. Waiters flogged deelites.

Pete worked the Fuck-It Diet. Pete noshed meatballs. Pete noshed pâté. Pete noshed pygmy deelites.

There’s Mayor Sam Yorty. There’s Governor Pat Brown. There’s Bayard Rustin—he’s tall and thin—dig that tartan tux. There’s Sal Mineo—he’s hovering—dig that swish lollapalooza.

There’s Rita Hayworth. Who let
her
in? She vibes dipsomaniac.

Otash said, “Has it occurred to you that we stand out here?”

Pete lit a cigarette. “Once or twice.”

“Rita looks soused. I had a two-second thing with her, about ten years ago. Redheads tend to age bad, Barb excepted.”

Pete watched Rita. Rita saw Otash. Rita went ugh and stepped back.

He flew to Sparta. He spent Christmas. He shacked up with his wife. They made love. They fought. Barb ragged his “war enterprise.”

Barb quit sniffing “H.” Barb quit popping pills. Barb glowed non-Ritalike. Barb goosed his pulse. Barb wrung him out. Barb told him straight: I hate dope. I hate lounge work. I hate Vegas. I won’t back down. I won’t go back.

He regrouped. He compromised. He punted. He said I’ll work in Milwaukee. I’ll push white horse there. We’ll live in Sparta full-time.

Barb howled. Barb said never.

They talked. They fought. They made love. He regrouped. He repunted. He recompromised. He said I’ll split Vietnam. I’ll dump Tiger Kamp on John Stanton. John to run it/Wayne to rotate/Mesplède to assist.

Barb tweaked him. Barb said you
love
Wayne. Barb said he hit me. Okay—he
knows
you—you win.

They talked truce. They notched points. They nailed details. He said I’ll stay in Vegas. I’ll run Tiger Kab and the Cavern. I won’t touch the dope. I’ll just surveille shipments in.

I have to—the heat’s up—Drac brought publicity. I’ll work in Vegas and rotate to you in Sparta.

Barb bought the plan. Said plan stressed Vietnam. Said plan stressed his exclusion.

They made love. They sealed the pact. They fucking snowmobiled. Fucking Sparta, Wisconsin—Lutherans and trees.

Pete scoped the ballroom. Pete watched the floor. Sal M. looked over. Sal M. looked away.

Dom’s bun boy filed missing-persons. LVPD worked the case. It got some ink. Cops checked out the Cavern. Pete bribed them. They dumped the case resultant.

Otash watchdogged Sal. Sal learned his script. It was simple shit: I just
loooove
civil rights! Otash worked with Dwight Holly. They redid Sal’s pad. They ripped out a closet. They hung 1-way glass and rigged a camera. Said camera faced Sal’s bed.

Fred T. assisted. Fred T. bugged lamps. Fred T. bugged walls. Fred T. bugged mattress springs.

Pete scoped the ballroom. Pete watched the floor. Celebs hobnobbed. Celebs sucked up to King.

Otash said, “You see the paper? Jack Ruby died.”

“I saw it.”

“You guys went back. Sam G.’s dropped a few hints.”

Sal looked over. Pete cued him—
go in strong now
.

Sal shagged a waiter. Sal cadged a drink. Sal chugalugged. Sal flushed bright. Sal mingled. Sal walked.

Fruit Alert—Bayard Rustin—fruit fly at ten o’clock high. Bayard’s got backscratchers—Burl Ives plus two—Sal’s moving in tight.

Sal sees Bayard. Bayard sees Sal. Two smiles and wet lips aflutter. Strings swell. “Strangers in the Night.” “Some Enchanted Evening.”

Burl’s pissed. Who’s
this
punk?
I’m
old-line Left. Sal said hi. Sal drifted off. Bayard eye-tracked his ass.

Otash said, “Contact.”

A bell rang. It’s chow time. Hold for pygmy banquet fare.

Cliques dispersed. The guests hit the tables. Sal eye-tracked Bayard. Sal sat nearby.

Bayard saw him. Bayard wrote a napkin note. Pat Brown passed it down. Sal read it. Sal blushed. Sal passed a note back.

Pete said, “Liftoff.”

They killed time.

They walked next door. They hit Trader Vic’s. They quaffed mai-tais. They noshed rumaki sticks.

Cops passed through. Cops dished updates.

Dinner’s done. King’s talking. King’s dripping foam at the mouth. He’s Red. He’s a puppet. I know it. The peaceniks love him. It burns me. My son’s in Vietnam.

A TV kicked on. The barman flipped channels. The barman shut off the sound. There’s war news on three channels. There’s choppers and tanks. There’s Commie King on two more.

Pete checked his watch. It was 10:16. Hold for fruit flies on high. Otash wolfed a puu-puu platter. His cummerbund swelled.

10:28:

Sal walks in. Sal sits down. Sal ignores them.

10:29:

Bayard walks in. Bayard sits down. Bayard greets Sal: Child, how
are
you! I’m
such
a fan!

Otash got up. Pete got up. Pete grabbed a shrimp spear for the road.

Setup:

They hit Sal’s pad. They aired out the closet. They prepped the camera. They loaded film. They waited. They sat still.