The Cold Six Thousand (8 page)

Littell watched. A poster marked the mass—Jack K. in black borders.

Kids defaced it. Littell watched them—late this afternoon. He went to dinner later. He saw the work up close.

Jack had fangs. Jack had devil horns. Jack said, “I’m a homo!”

Mourners filed in. A breeze dumped the poster. A woman picked it up. She saw Jack’s picture. She cringed.

A car cruised by. An arm shot out. A stiff finger twirled. The woman sobbed. The woman crossed herself. The woman squeezed rosary beads.

The Statler was low-rent. The Bureau booked cheap rooms. The view compensated.

Pete was late. Pete was with the backup cop. The cop had details. The cop had a map printed up.

Littell watched the church. It diverted him. It subsumed Arden.

They talked for six hours. They skirted IT. He coded a message: I KNOW. I KNOW you KNOW. I don’t care how you KNOW. I don’t care what you DID.

She coded a message:
I won’t probe your stake
. No one said, “Jack Ruby.”

They talked. They omitted. They codified.

He said he was a lawyer. He was ex-FBI. He had an ex-wife and an ex-daughter somewhere. She studied his facial scars. He told her flat-out: My best friend put them there.

Le frère Pete—un Frenchman sanglant
.

She said she traveled. She said she held jobs. She said she bought and sold stocks and made money. She said she had an ex-husband. She did not state his name.

She impressed him. She knew it. He coded a response: You’re a pro. You dissemble. I don’t care.

She knew Jack Ruby. She used the word “roust.” He skirted it. He offered advice. He told her to find a motel.

She said she would. He gave her
his
hotel number. Please call me. Please do it soon.

He wanted to touch her. He didn’t. She touched his arm once. He left her. He drove to the Bureau.

The office was empty—no agents about—Mr. Hoover made sure. He rifled drawers. He found the Tippit file.

Pete was late. Littell skimmed the file. It rambled and digressed.

Dallas PD was far right: Klan kliques and John Birch. Diverse splinter groups: The NSRP/the Minutemen/the Thunderbolt Legion.

Tippit was “klanned up.” Tippit joined the Klarion Klan Koalition for the New Konfederacy. The DPD boss was Maynard D. Moore. Moore was an FBI snitch. Moore’s handler was Wayne Tedrow Sr.

Tedrow Senior: “Pamphleteer”/“Fund Raiser”/“Entrepreneur”/“Extensive Las Vegas holdings.”

Unique stats—familiar—Mr. Hoover’s “Führer manqué.”

Littell skimmed up. Littell logged stats. Tedrow Senior ran eclectic.

He raised right-wing cash. He might know Guy B. Guy scrounged right-wing funds. Some fat cats greased the hit fund.

Littell skimmed down. Littell logged stats. Littell logged a possible connection.

Guy’s backup cop—friend of J. D. Tippit—odds on Maynard D. Moore.

Odds on: Mr. Hoover knew it. Mr. Hoover guessed the connection.

Littell skimmed up. Tedrow Senior’s CV expanded.

All-Mormon staff. Ties at Nellis AFB. Tight with the Gaming Control Board. One son: a Vegas policeman.

Senior withheld data from Junior. Junior worked the intel squad. Junior kept board files. Junior withheld data from Senior. Senior “assisted” Mr. Hoover. Senior “dispensed propaganda.”

Per: Martin Luther King/the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.

Littell skimmed pages. Littell took notes. Howard Hughes loved Mormons. They had “germ-free” blood. Tedrow Senior was Mormon. Tedrow Senior had Mormon connections.

Littell rubbed his eyes. The doorbell rang. He got up and opened the door.

Pete walked in. Pete grabbed the desk chair. Pete sprawled out tall.

Littell shut the door. “How bad?”

Pete said, “Bad. The map looks good, but he won’t pop Oswald. He’s crazy, but I can’t fault him for brains.”

Littell rubbed his eyes. “Maynard Moore, right? That’s his name.”

Pete yawned. “Guy’s slipping. He usually plays his names closer than that.”

Littell shook his head. “Mr. Hoover made him. He had a file on Tippit. He assumed that Moore had to be somewhere close.”

“That’s your interpretation, right? Hoover didn’t get that specific.”

“He never does.”

Pete cracked his knuckles. “How scared are you?”

“It comes and goes, and I wouldn’t mind some good news.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “Rogers made it down to Juarez. The pro got down, but the Border Patrol detained him and ran a passport check. Guy said he’s a French national.”

Littell said, “Guy’s talking too much.”

“He’s scared. He knows Carlos is thinking, ‘If I went with Pete and Ward’s crew, none of this shit would have happened.’ ”

Littell cleaned his glasses. “Where is he?”

“He drove back to New Orleans. His nerves are shot, and he’s popping digitalis like a fucking junkie. All this shit is on him, and he knows it.”

Littell said, “And?”

Pete cracked a window. Cold air blew in.

“And what?”

“There’s more. Guy wouldn’t be going back unless he had an excuse to hand Carlos.”

Pete flicked his cigarette out. “Jack Ruby knows. He brought one of his flunkies and some women up to the safe house. They saw the targets and guns. Guy’s saying we should clip them. I think he’ll tell Carlos that, so he can buy his way out of the shit.”

Littell coughed. His pulse zoomed. He held his breath.

“We can’t take out four people that close to the hit. It’s too obvious.”

Pete laughed. “Shit, Ward, say it. I’ve got no balls for clipping civilians, so why should you?”

Littell smiled. “Ruby aside.”

Pete shrugged. “Jack’s no skin off my ass either way.”

“The women, then. That’s what we’re talking about.”

Pete cracked his thumbs. “I’m not negotiating on that. I already warned one of them off, but I couldn’t find the other one.”

“Give me their names.”

“Betty McDonald and Arden something.”

Littell touched his tie. Littell scratched his neck. Littell made his hands quash his nerves.

He twitched. He swallowed. He gulped. The room was cold. He shut the window.

“Oswald.”

“Yeah. If he goes, this all disappears.”

“When are they moving him?”

“Eleven-thirty. If he hasn’t named Guy’s cutout by then, we can put the skids to all this.”

Littell coughed. “I’ve arranged for a private interview. The ASAC said he hasn’t talked, but I want to make sure.”

Pete shook his head. “Bullshit. You want to get close to him. You want to run some kind of fucking absolution number on him, so you can do a number on yourself later.”

In nomine patris, et filii et spiritus sancti, Amen
.

“It’s nice to have someone who knows you.”

Pete laughed. “I wasn’t doubting you. I just want to work this fucking thing out.”

Littell said, “Moore. There’s no way he—”

“
No
. He knows too much, drinks too much and talks too much. After Oswald goes,
he
goes, and we draw the line at that.”

Littell checked his watch. Shit—1:40 a.m.

“He’s a policeman. He could get into the basement.”

“
No
. He’s too crazy. He’s working an extradition gig with a Vegas cop, and he gets in the guy’s face in the worst possible way. He’s not what we want.”

Littell rubbed his eyes. “What was the man’s name? The cop, I mean.”

“Wayne something. Why?”

“Tedrow?”

Pete said, “Yeah, and why do you care? He’s got nothing to do with any of this, and the fucking clock is ticking.”

Littell checked his watch. Carlos bought it for him. A gold Rolex/pure ostentat—

“Ward, are you in a fucking trance?”

Littell said, “Jack Ruby.”

Pete rocked his chair back. The legs squeaked.

Littell said, “He’s insane. He’s afraid of us. He’s afraid of the Outfit. He’s got seven brothers and sisters that we can threaten.”

Pete smiled. “The cops know he’s crazy. He carries a gun. He’s been all over the building all weekend, and he’s been saying somebody should shoot that Commie. Ten dozen fucking newsmen have heard him.”

Littell said, “He’s got tax troubles.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t want to say.”

A breeze kicked up. The windowpanes creaked.

Pete said, “And?”

“And what?”

“There’s more. I want to know why you’ll risk it, with a fucking psycho who knows both our names.”

Cherchez la femme, Pierre
.

“It’s a message. It tells everyone who went to that safe house to run.”

(Dallas, 11/24/63)

B
arb walked in. She wore his raincoat. The sleeves drooped. The shoulders sagged. The hem brushed her feet.

Pete blocked the bathroom. Barb said, “Shit.”

Pete checked her ring hand. Pete saw her wedding ring.

She held it up. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just getting used to it.”

Pete carried his ring. It came too small—fucking pygmy-size.

“I’ll get used to it when I get mine fitted.”

Barb shook her head. “Used to
it
. What
you
did.”

Pete snared his ring. Pete tried to squeeze his finger in. Pete jabbed at the hole.

“Say something nice, all right? Tell me how the late show went.”

Barb dumped his coat. “It went fine. The Twist is dead, but Dallas doesn’t know it.”

Pete stretched. His shirt gapped. Barb saw his piece.

“You’re going out.”

“I won’t be that long. I’m just wondering where you’ll be when I get back.”

“I’m wondering who else knows. I know, so there has to be others.”

His headache revived. His headache paved new ground.

“Everyone who knows has a stake. It’s what you call an open secret.”

Barb said, “I’m scared.”

“Don’t think about it. I know how these things work.”

“You don’t know that. There’s never been anything
like
this.”

Pete said, “It’ll be all right.”

Barb said, “Bullshit.”

Ward was late. Pete watched the Carousel Club.

He stood two doors down. Jack Ruby shooed cops and whores out. They paired off. They piled in cars. The whores jiggled keys.

Jack closed up the club. Jack cleaned his ears with a pencil. Jack kicked a turd in the street.

Jack went back inside. Jack talked to his dogs. Jack talked very loud.

It was cold. It was windy. Motorcade debris swirled: Matchbooks/confetti/Jack & Jackie signs.

Ward was late. Ward might be with “Arden.”

He left Ward’s room. He heard the phone ring. Ward made him run. He saw Ward and Arden. They didn’t see him. He told Ward the safe-house tale.

He said, “Arden.” Ward schizzed. He called Ward on Ruby. Ward played it oblique.

Fuck it—for now.

Jack’s dogs yapped. Jack baby-talked Yiddish. The noise carried outside. A Fed sled pulled up. Ward got out. His coat pockets bulged.

He walked up. He unloaded his pockets—rogue-cop show-and-tell.

Brass knucks/a sash cord/a pachuco switchblade.

“I went by the property room at the PD. Nobody saw me.”

“You thought it through.”

Ward restuffed his pockets. “
If
he doesn’t agree.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “We’ll cut him up and make it look like a heist.”

A dog yipped. Ward flinched. Pete blew on his cigarette. The tip flared red.

They walked up. Ward knocked on the door. Pete put on a drawl: “Jack! Hey, Jack, I think I left my wallet!”

The dogs barked. The door opened. There’s Jack. He saw them. He said, “Oh.” His mouth dropped and held.

Pete flicked his butt in. Jack gagged on it. Jack coughed it out wet.

Pete shut the door. Ward grabbed Jack. Pete shoved him. Pete frisked him. Pete pulled a piece off his belt.

Ward hit him. Jack fell down. Jack curled up and sucked air.

The dogs ran. The dogs crouched by the runway. Ward grabbed the gun. Ward dumped five shells.

He knelt down. Jack saw the gun. Jack saw the one shell. Ward shut the drum. Ward spun it. Ward aimed at Jack’s head.

He pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked. Jack sobbed and sucked air. Ward twirled the gun. Ward pulled the trigger. Ward dry-shot Jack’s head.

Pete said, “You’re going to clip Oswald.”

Jack sobbed. Jack covered his ears. Jack shook his head. Pete grabbed his belt. Pete dragged him. Jack kicked out at tables and chairs.

Ward walked over. Pete dumped Jack by the runway. The dogs yapped and growled.

Pete walked to the bar. Pete grabbed a fifth of Schenley’s. Pete grabbed some dog treats.

He dumped the treats. The dogs tore in. Ward scoped the jug. Ward was a lush. Ward was on the wagon. Booze turned him to mush.

They pulled chairs up. Jack sobbed. Jack wiped his schnoz. The dogs snarfed the treats. The dogs waddled and wheezed. The dogs crapped out cold by the runway.

Jack sat up. Jack hugged his knees. Jack braced his back on the slats. Pete grabbed a stray glass. Pete dumped ice dregs and poured Schenley’s.

Jack studied his shoes. Jack squeezed his Jew star on a chain.

Pete said, “
L’chaim.
”