The Cold Six Thousand (7 page)

(Dallas, 11/23/63)

G
lut. Waste. Bullshit.

The hotel copped pleas. The hotel blamed Lee Oswald.

The joint bulged—capacity-plus—newsmen shared rooms. They hogged the phone lines. They sapped the hot water. They swamped the room-service crew.

The hotel copped pleas. The hotel blamed Lee Oswald.

Our guests mourn. Our guests weep. Our guests watch TV. They stay in. They call home. They hash out The Show.

Wayne paced his suite. Wayne nursed an earache—that muzzle boom stuck.

Room service called. They said we’re sorry—we’re running late. Maynard Moore
didn’t
call. Durfee escaped. Moore let it ride.

Moore didn’t issue warrants. Moore didn’t issue holds. Moore wrote up the crap-game snafu. One guy lost a kneecap. One guy lost two pints of blood. One guy lost a toe.

Mr. Bowers lost a thumb. Wayne nursed the picture—all-nite reruns.

He tossed all night. He watched TV. He made phone calls. He called the Border Patrol. He issued crossing holds. Four units grabbed look-alikes and called him.

Wendell Durfee had knife scars—too fucking bad—the look-alikes had none.

He called Lynette. He called Wayne Senior. Lynette mourned JFK. Lynette said trite shit. Wayne Senior cracked jokes.

Jack’s last word was “pussy.” Jack groped a nurse and a nun.

Janice came on. Janice extolled Jack’s style. Janice mourned Jack’s hair. Wayne laughed. Wayne Senior was bald. Janice Tedrow—touché!

Room service called. They said we’re sorry. We know your supper’s late.

Wayne watched TV. Wayne goosed the sound. Wayne caught a press gig.

Newsmen lobbed questions. One cop went wild. Oswald was a “lethal loner!” Wayne saw Jack Ruby. He carried his dog. He passed out dick pens and French ticklers.

The cop calmed down. He said we’ll move Oswald tomorrow—late morning looks good.

The phone rang. Wayne killed the sound.

He picked up. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Buddy Fritsch, and it took me all day to get a call in to you.”

“Sorry, Lieutenant. Things are a bit crazy here.”

“So I gathered. I also gathered that you had a run-in with Wendell Durfee, and you let him get away.”

Wayne made fists. “Who told you?”

“The Border Patrol. They were checking on your fugitive warrant.”

“Do you want to hear my version?”

“I don’t want to hear excuses. I don’t want to know why you’re enjoying your luxury hotel suite when you should be out shaking the trees.”

Wayne kicked a footrest. It hit the TV.

“Do you know how
big
the border is? Do you know how many crossing posts there are?”

Fritsch coughed. “I know you’re sitting on your keester waiting for callbacks that won’t come if that nigger went to ground in Dallas, and for all I know you’re living it up with that six thousand dollars the casino boys gave you, without doing the job that they paid you for.”

Wayne kicked a rug. “I didn’t ask for that money.”

“No, you sure didn’t. And you didn’t refuse it, either, ’cause you’re the type of boy who likes to have things both ways, so don’t—”

“Lieutenant—”

“Don’t interrupt me until you outrank me, and let me tell you this now. You can go either way in the Department. There’s boys who say Wayne Junior’s a white man, and there’s boys who say he’s a weak sister. Now, if you take care of this, you’ll shut the mouths on those latter boys and make everyone
real
proud of you.”

His eyes teared up. “Lieutenant …”

“That’s better. That’s the Wayne Junior I like to hear.”

Wayne wiped his eyes. “He’s down at the border. All my instincts tell me that.”

Fritsch laughed. “I think your instincts are telling you lots of things, so I’ll tell you this. That file I gave you was Sheriff’s, so you see if DPD has a
file. That nigger’s got to know some other niggers in Dallas, or my name isn’t Byron B. Fritsch.”

Wayne grabbed his holster. His blocked ear popped.

“I’ll give it my best.”

“
No
. You find him and kill him.”

A door guard let him in. Some Shriners tagged along. The stairs were jammed. The halls were crammed. The lifts were sardine-packed.

People bumped. People chomped hot dogs. People spilled coffee and Cokes. The Shriners pushed through. They wore funny hats. They waved pens and autograph books.

Wayne followed them. They plowed camera guys. They pushed their way upstairs.

They made floor 3. They made the squadroom. It was
double-packed
.

Cops. Newsmen. Misdemeanants cuffed to chairs. Pinned-out ID: shields/stars/press cards.

Wayne pinned his badge on. The noise hurt. His blocked ear repopped. He looked around. He saw the squad bay. He saw cubicles and office doors.

Burglary/Bunco. Auto Theft/Forgery. Homicide/Arson/Theft.

He walked over. He tripped on a wino. A newsman laughed. The wino shook his cuff chain. The wino soliloquized.

Jackie needs the big
braciole
. Widows crave it.
Playboy
magazine says so.

Wayne hit a side hall. Wayne read door plates. Wayne saw Maynard Moore. Moore missed him. Moore stood in a storeroom. Moore cranked a mimeo press.

Wayne ducked by. Wayne passed a break room. Wayne heard a TV blare. A cop watched a press-room feed—live from downstairs.

Wayne checked doorways. Jack Ruby brushed by—leeched to a
very
big cat. He hung on him. He bugged him. He kvetched:

“Pete, Pete,
pleeease.
”

Wayne veered by a fish tank. Fish howled within. A perv stuck his dick through the mesh. He stroked it. He wiggled it. He sang “Some Enchanted Evening.”

Wayne doubled back. Wayne found the file room. A stand-up space with twelve drawers—two marked “KAs.”

He shut the door. He popped the “A to L” drawer. He found a blue sheet:

Durfee, Wendell (NMI).

He skimmed it. He got repeat shit and one new KA:

Rochelle Marie Freelon—DOB 10/3/39. Two kids by Whipout Wendell. 8819 Harvey Street/Dallas.

Two file notes:

12/8/56: Rochelle harbors Wendell/the Sheriff wants him/he’s got nine bench warrants due. 7/5/62: Rochelle violates
her
parole.

She leaves Texas. She drives to Vegas. She visits Wistful Wendell D. No vehicle stats/recent contact/two cubs by Wendell D.

Wayne copied the data. Wayne replaced the file. Wayne drawered loose sheets up. He walked out. He cruised hallways. He passed the break room.

The TV snagged him. He saw
something weird
. He stopped. He leaned in. He looked.

There’s a fat man. He’s facing a mike. One hand’s in a splint.
One
hand—tight gauze—no
thumb
.

A band ID’d him: “Witness Lee Bowers.”

Bowers talked. Bowers’ voice broke.

“I was in the tower right before he was shot … and … well … I sure didn’t see anything.”

Bowers blipped off. A cartoon ad blipped on. Bucky Beaver yap-yap-yapped. The fuck hawked Ipana toothpaste.

Wayne went cold—Popsicle chills—ice down his shorts.

A cop said, “You okay, hoss? You look a little green at the gills.”

Wayne borrowed a DPD car. Wayne went out alone.

He got directions. Harvey Street was Darktown. Cops called it the Congo and Coonecticut.

Bowers and Moore—reprise that—do it very slooow.

Wayne tried—it was easy—it was shortbread cake.

Moore was crazy. Moore was bent. Moore drank jar brew. He might push uppers. He might book bets. Bowers might be bent too. They fell out. Moore got pissed. Moore cut hisself a thumb.

Wayne hit Darktown. Wayne found Harvey Street. It was the shits—shacks and hen coops—connected dirt yards.

8819: Dead still and dark.

He parked out front. He hit his brights. He nailed the one window: No window shades/no furniture/no drapes.

Wayne got out. Wayne grabbed a flashlight. Wayne circled the shack. He cut through the backyard. He bumped furniture.

Big piles—yard-sale dimensions. Sofas and chairs—all cheap stuff.

He strafed it. His light roused a hen. She fluffed full. She made claws. She squawked.

Wayne kicked a cushion. A light hit
him
. A man laughed.

“It’s my property now. I got a receipt that says so.”

Wayne covered his eyes. “Did Wendell Durfee sell it to you?”

“That’s right. Him and Rochelle.”

“Did he say where they were going?”

The man coughed. “Out of your redneck jurisdiction.”

Wayne walked up. The man was fat and high yellow. He twirled his flashlight. The beam jumped.

Wayne said, “I’m not DPD.”

The man tapped his badge. “You’re that Vegas guy looking for Wendell.”

Wayne smiled. Wayne unpinned his coat. Wayne repinned his belt. The man flipped a porch switch. The yard lit up. A pit bull materialized.

Brindle flecks and muscle. Jaw power for two.

Wayne said, “Nice dog.”

The man said, “He liked Wendell, so I liked him too.”

Wayne walked up. The pit licked his hand. Wayne scratched his ears.

The man said, “I don’t always go by that rule, though.”

The pit made a fuss. The pit reared and batted his paws.

“Because I’m a policeman?”

“Because Wendell told me how your town works.”

“Wendell tried to shoot me, Mr.…”

“It’s Willis Beaudine, and Wendell tried to shoot you because you tried to shoot him. Now, tell me that Casino Council didn’t give you some recreation money when they put that bounty on Wendell.”

Wayne sat on a porch step. The pit nuzzled him.

Beaudine said, “Dogs can be fooled, just like anyone else.”

“You’re saying Wendell and Rochelle made a run for Mexico.”

Beaudine smiled. “Them and their kids. You want my guess? They’re decked out in sombreros and having a ball this very second.”

Wayne shook his head. “It’s bad for coloreds down there. The Mexicans hate them like some people in Vegas do.”

Beaudine shook his head. “Like most or all, you mean. Like that dealer guy that Wendell cut. The same guy who won’t let coloreds piss in his washroom, the same guy who beat up an old woman for selling
Watchtowers
out of his parking lot.”

Wayne looked around. The yard furniture trapped dirt. The yard furniture stunk.

Spilled food. Liquor. Dog fumes. Chipped wood and stuffing exposed.

Wayne stretched. His blocked ear popped. He got This Craaazy Idea.

“Can you place a long-distance call for me?”

Beaudine hiked his belt. “Sure … I guess I could.”

“The Border Patrol station at Laredo. Make it person-to-person. Ask for the watch commander.”

Beaudine hiked his belt. Wayne smiled. Beaudine
snapped
his belt—hard.

Craaazy—

Beaudine walked inside. Beaudine hit some lights. Beaudine dialed a phone. Wayne nuzzled the pit. The pit kissed him. The pit swiped his tongue.

Beaudine pulled the phone out. The cord twanged. Wayne grabbed the receiver.

“Captain?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“Sergeant Tedrow, Las Vegas PD.”

“Oh, shit. I was hoping you’d call when we had some good news.”

“Is there
bad
news?”

“Yes. Your fugitive, a woman, and two children tried to cross at McAllen an hour ago, but were turned back. Your boy was intoxicated, and nobody made him in time. Lieutenant Fritsch sent us a teletype with his picture, but we didn’t make the connection until—”

Wayne hung up. Beaudine grabbed the phone. Beaudine snapped his belt—
hard
.

“This better be good. That was a two-dollar call.”

Wayne pulled out his wallet. Wayne forked up two bucks.

“If he tries to cross again, they’ll get him. But if he comes back here, you tell him I’ll walk him over myself.”

Beaudine hiked his belt. “Why would you take that kind of risk for Wendell?”

“Your dog likes me. Leave it at that.”

The Adolphus bar—all male at midnight. The big Jack postmortem.

Pro-Jack stools. Anti-Jack stools adjacent. Youth. Outer space.
Ich bin ein Berliner
.

Wayne sat between factions. Wayne heard hi-fi bullshit in stereo sound.

Cowboy trash—faux tall—big boots don’t count. They called Jack “Jack.” They took liberties—like they all fucked leprechauns in Hyannis.

Fuck them.
He
slept in Jack’s bed.
He
thrashed on Jack’s sheets.

Wayne got drunk. Wayne
never
got drunk. Wayne drank small-batch bond.

Shot 1 burned. Shot 2 played a picture: Lee Bowers’ thumb. Shot 3 gored his gonads. Dig
these
pix: Janice in halters and shorts.

Jack had hound blood. Wayne Senior said so. Martin Luther King fucked white chicks.

Shot 4—more pix:

Durfee tries to cross. The border cops lose him. Wayne fucked up. Wayne gets called home. Buddy Fritsch recruits a new man. Said man kills Wendell D.

Wayne fucked up. Fritsch fucks him for it. Fritsch fucks him off LVPD. Wayne Senior says don’t fuck my boy. The fucking ascends triumphant.

Shot 5:

The thumb/the alley chase/the crap-game snafu.

Jack put a man in orbit. Jack played chicken with Khrushchev. Jack put that shine in Ole Miss.

Maynard Moore walked in. He brought company. That Pete guy—the big guy with Jack Ruby.

Moore saw Wayne. Moore detoured up. Pete tagged along.

Moore said, “Let’s go find us that spook. My pal Pete hates spooks, don’t you, sahib?”

Pete smiled. Pete rolled his eyes. Pete goofed on dipshit Moore.

Wayne chewed ice cubes. “Fuck off. I’ll find him myself.”

Moore leaned on the bar. “Your daddy wouldn’t like that. It’d let him know the apple falls
real
far from the tree.”

Wayne tossed his drink. Moore caught it—hard in the eyes. Bourbon burned him—hi-test sting—triple-digit proof.

The cocksucker rubbed his eyes. The cocksucker squealed.

(Dallas, 11/24/63)

P
ete was late. Littell voyeurized.

His room was high up. The window framed a church. A midnight mass convened.