The Cold Six Thousand (27 page)

“Not in the sense you imply, sir. I’m sure they’re not making a personal profit.”

Prime “ordnance”: One picnic table/one bar-b-que pit.

The geek blew a whistle. The troops hit the range. They fired. They shot low. They missed.

Carlos shrugged. Carlos nursed a grievance. Carlos walked off. The geek shrugged. The geek nursed hurt feelings. The geek walked off.

Pete walked. Pete checked the range. Pete checked the dump. Pete critiqued the stock.

Two machine guns—old 50s—slack triggers/loose belts. Six flamethrowers—cracked feeders/cracked pipes. Two speedboats—pull motors—lawn-mower drive. Sixty-two revolvers—corroded and fucked.

Pete found some oil. Pete found some rags. Pete cleaned some .38s up. The sun felt good. The oil deterred mosquitoes. The “troopers” worked out.

They did push-ups. They wrecked their manicures. They huffed and puffed.

He
ran
ace
troops.
He
hit Cuba.
He
scalped mucho Reds.
He
killed Fidelistos.
He
went to Pigs.
He
tried to kill Fidel. They should have won. Jack the K. fucked them. Jack paid.
He
paid. It got all shot to hell.

Pete cleaned guns. He swabbed barrels. He dipped butts. He brushed cylinders. He scoured moss rot.

An old Ford pulled in. The paint job screamed RIGHT-WING NUT!

Dig it:

Crosses. The stars & bars. Inverted swastikas.

A trailer bounced behind the Ford. Gun barrels extruded. The Ford brodied. The Ford slid. The Ford grazed the bar-b-que pit.

The Ford stalled and died. Guy B. got out. Hank Hudspeth helped him up. Guy was cardiac red. Guy survived #3. Carlos said his pump was shot.

Guy looked drunk. Guy looked frail. Guy looked diseased. Hank looked drunk. Hank looked strong. Hank looked dead mean.

Guy lugged out hot dogs. Hank dumped steaks and buns. They looked around. They saw Pete. They puckered up.

Hank whistled. Guy hit his horn. The troops shagged ass up.

Hank dumped briquettes. The head geek filled the pit. Guy gas-spritzed it. They built a fire. They torched hot dogs. The troops swamped the trailer.

They whooped. They yanked guns. They dollied them over—full-drum Thompsons/one hundred plus.

Pete grabbed one. The butt was chipped. The drum was jammed. The balance was off.

Shit knockoffs—Jap stock.

The troops stacked the Tommys. Pete ignored them. The pit whooshed. Bugs bombed the chow.

Guy walked to the limo. Carlos got out. Guy hugged him and chatted him up.

The troops lined up. Hank dispensed plates. Pete grabbed a .38. Pete dry-fired it.

Carlos walked up. Carlos said, “I hate drunks.” Pete aimed at Guy. Pete dry-shot him—pop!

“I’ll clip him. He knows too much.”

“Maybe later. I want to see if we can whip these clowns into shape.”

Pete wiped his hands. Carlos palmed the gun.

“I got a lead on Hank Killiam. He’s in Pensacola.”

Pete said, “I’ll go tonight.”

Carlos smiled. Carlos aimed at Pete. Carlos dry-shot him—pop!

“Betty McDonald’s in the Dallas County Jail. She told a cop that she got warned out of town last November. I’m not saying it was
you
, but …”

(Las Vegas, 2/13/64)

T
hey blew skeet. They shot custom guns.

They shot off the back deck. They shot custom clays. Janice slung them up. She sat below. She caught some rays. She wore a bikini swimsuit.

Wayne Senior scored persistent. Wayne missed fairly wide. He’d fucked up his hand. He beat up on coloreds. It fucked up his grip.

Janice popped a clay. Wayne fired. Wayne missed.

Wayne Senior reloaded. “You’re not holding the stock tight enough.”

Wayne flexed his hand. He’d fucked it and re-fucked it. It stayed fucked all the time.

“My hand’s bothering me. I hurt it at work.”

Wayne Senior smiled. “On Negroes or assorted riffraff?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“Your employers are exploiting your reputation. That means they’re exploiting you.”

“Exploitation works both ways. If that sounds familiar, I got it from you.”

“I’ll repeat myself, then. You’re overqualified for random vengeance and work as a casino bouncer.”

Wayne flexed his hand. “I’m developing some new tastes. You don’t know if you disapprove, or if you should take partial credit.”

Wayne Senior winked. “I could help you achieve what you want, in an intelligent fashion. You’d have a good deal of latitude for individual action.”

Janice moved her chair. Wayne watched her. Her top chafed. Her nipples swelled.

Wayne said, “No sale.”

Wayne Senior lit a cigarette. “I’ve diversified. You figured that out at Christmas, and you’ve started coming back for visits again. You should know that I’ll be doing some
very
interesting things for Mr. Hoover.”

Wayne yelled, “Pull!” Janice tossed a clay. Wayne nailed it. His ears popped. His bad hand throbbed.

“I’m not going to hide under a sheet and rat off mail violators, so that you can sell more hate tracts.”

“You’ve been talking to Ward Littell. You’re in a vulnerable state, and men like Littell and Bondurant are starting to look good to you.”

The sun hit the deck. Wayne squinted it off.

“They remind me of you.”

“I won’t take that as a compliment.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I’ll say it once. Don’t be seduced by lowlifes and thieves.”

“It won’t happen. I’ve resisted you for twenty-nine years.”

Janice left for golf. Wayne Senior left for cards. Wayne stayed alone at the ranch.

He set up the gun room. He spooled the film in. He
watched
.

Said film ran high-contrast. Black and white skin/black & white stock.

King shut his eyes. King went ecstatic. King preached in Little Rock. He saw him live in ’57.

The woman bit her lips. Lynette always did that. The woman had Barb-style hair.

It hurt. He watched anyway. King thrashed and threw sweat.

The film blurred—lens haze and distortion. The skin tones blurred—King went Wendell Durfee–dark.

It hurt. He watched anyway.

(Dallas, 2/13/64)

1
0:00 p.m.—lights out.

The women’s tier. Twelve cells. One inmate locked up.

Pete walked in. The jailer went ssshh. A Carlos guy bribed him last night.

One cell row. One side wall. Barred-window light.

Pete walked down. His heart thumped. His arms pinged. His pulse misfired. He swilled scotch outside. The jailer supplied it. He shut down. He fueled up. He carved some will out.

He walked. He grabbed at the cell bars. He anchored himself.

There’s Betty Mac.

She’s on her bunk. She’s smoking. She’s wearing tight capris.

She saw him. She blinked. I KNOW him. He warned me last—

She screamed. He pulled her up. She bit at his nose. She stabbed him with her cigarette.

She burned his lips. She burned his nose. She burned his neck. He threw her. She hit the bars. He grabbed her neck and pinned her.

He ripped her capris. He tore a leg free. She screamed and dropped her cigarette.

He looped the leg. He looped her neck. He cinched her. He threw her up. He stretched the leg. He looped a crossbar.

She thrashed. She kicked. She swung. She clawed her neck. She broke her nails. She coughed her dentures out.

He remembered that she had a cat.

(Las Vegas/Los Angeles/Chicago/
Washington, D.C./Chattanooga,
2/14/64–6/29/64)

H
e worked. He lived on planes. He compartmentalized.

Legal work: appeals and contracts. Money work: embezzlement and tithes.

He honed his lies. He studied Jane. He learned her lie technique. He juggled his commitments.

3/4/64: Jimmy Hoffa goes down. Chattanooga—the Test Fleet case—twelve bribe-proof jurors.

Littell filed appeals. Teamster lawyers filed writs. The Teamsters passed a resolution: We love Jimmy Hoffa. We stand behind him intact.

Jimmy got eight years Fed time. Trial #2 pends. Chicago—Pension Fund Fraud—a probable conviction.

The “real” books were safe. The Boys had them. The fund-book plan would GO.

Littell wrote briefs. Jimmy’s men swooned. Littell wrote more briefs. Littell filed more writs. Littell swamped the courts.

Let’s stall. Let’s keep Jimmy out. Let’s stall and delay—three years and up. Drac will own Vegas then. The Boys will own Drac. The fund-book plan will FLY.

He worked for Drac. He wrote stock briefs. Drac hindered him. Drac dodged subpoenas. PI Fred Otash helped.

Otash ran look-alikes—Howard Hughes clones—subpoena men served
them
thus. Otash was capable. Otash had Pete skills. Otash pulled shakedowns. Otash doped horses. Otash fixed scrapes.

Drac stuck to his coffin. Mormons tended him. Drac sucked blood.
Drac ate Demerol. Drac shot codeine. Drac made phone calls. Drac wrote memos. Drac watched cartoons.

Drac called Littell frequently. Drac monologued:

Stock strategy/stock margins/the germ plague. Quell all microbes! Quell all germs! Place condoms on doorknobs!

Drac craved Las Vegas. Drac bared his fangs. Drac coveted. Drac gloated. Drac sucked blood.

He babied Drac. He coddled Drac. He bared
his
fangs. He bit Drac back.

Jane helped.

He coaxed assistance from her. He gleaned her expertise. He loved her. She loved him. He called it true. She lied to live. He lied to live. It might serve to undermine his perception.

They lived in L.A. They flew to D.C. They enjoyed work weekends. He wrote briefs. Jane wrote Hertz reports. They toured D.C. and viewed statues.

He tried to show her the Teamster building. She flushed and balked. She was
too
firm. She played him skewed. She was
mock
indifferent.

He flashed back to L.A.—one recent chat.

He said, “I can get you work with the Teamsters.” She said, “No.” She was intractable. She came off skewed then.

She knew the Boys. She avoided Vegas. The Boys partied there. They discussed it. Jane was oblique. Jane was
mock
indifferent.

The Teamsters scared her. He knew it. She knew he knew. She lied. She omitted. He reciprocated.

He studied Jane. He indulged conclusions. Her real name
was
Arden. She did come from Mississippi. She did go to school in De Kalb.

He was suspicious. She reciprocated.

She viewed some Hughes bill sheets. She studied them. She explained embezzlement detection. She wondered
why
he cared.

He lied. He
used
her. She helped him bilk Howard Hughes.

He stole vouchers. He forged ledgers. He retallied accounts. He rerouted payments. He billed to a dummy account.

His
account—Chicago—the Mercantile Bank.

He laundered the money. He cut checks. He tithed the SCLC. Pseudonymous checks—sixty grand so far—more checks en route.

Penance payments. Damage control. Covert ops against the FBI.

He donated Mob money. Mr. Hoover kept tabs. He met Bayard Rustin. He paid him.

Mr. Hoover thought he knew Littell. Mr. Hoover misread his commitments. Mr. Hoover spent phone time with Littell. Mr. Hoover misread his loyalty.

Mr. Hoover talked to his correspondents. Mr. Hoover leaked dirt off
bug placements. Mr. Hoover attacked Dr. King. Newsmen received invective. They rephrased it. They printed it. They obscured the source.

Mr. Hoover talked. Bayard Rustin talked. Lyle Holly talked. They all talked civil rights.

LBJ pushed his big civil-rights bill. Mr. Hoover loathed it—
but:

Age 70 bodes. Forced retirement bodes. LBJ says, “
Stay
and strut your stuff.”

Mr. Hoover gives thanks. That means quid pro quo. LBJ says, “Now fight my Klan war.”

Mr. Hoover agrees. Mr. Hoover complies. The New Klan is outré. Mr. Hoover knows it.

The Old Klan moved hate tracts. The Old Klan burned crosses. The Old Klan severed balls. Castration was a State crime. Mail fraud was Fed.

The Old Klan rigged postage meters. The Old Klan stole stamps. The Old Klan mailed hate tracts. They thus broke Fed laws.

Their mail content was legal. Their mail methods were fraud. The FBI fought the Old Klan. Their mandate was minutiae. Their anti-Klan credentials were soft.

The New Klan was arson. The New Klan was Murder One. The flash point was Mississippi.

Civil-rights kids converge. “Freedom Summer” descends. The Klan sits ready. New klaverns form. Cops join. Diverse klaverns bond tight.

The White Knights. The Royal Knights. Klextors/Kleagles/Kladds/Kludds/Klokards. Klonklaves and Klonvocations.

Church bombings. Mutilation deaths. Three kids in Neshoba County—missing and presumed dead.

LBJ mandates war. Two hundred agents descend. A hundred for Neshoba—three probable victims—thirty-three agents per vic.

Dr. King visits. Bayard Rustin visits. Bayard Rustin briefs Littell. He checks his atlas. De Kalb adjoins Neshoba. Jane’s school is there.

Mr. Hoover was torn. The war vexed him. The war offended him. The war brought the FBI praise. Mr. Hoover took credit—reluctantly. The war disrupted him.

It was outré. It was invasive. It pissed off his klavernite plants. They infiltrated klaverns. They snitched off mail fraud. They were shrill. They were racist. They subscribed to Bureau “Guidelines”:

“Acceptable Risk” and “Violence Permitted.” “Deniable Actions defined.”

Mr. Hoover was torn. The war ripped him up. LBJ bruised his racist aesthetic. He’d fight back. He’d fight Dr. King. He’d rack compensation up.

Mr. Hoover called him. They talked and sparred. Mr. Hoover mocked Bobby.

LBJ hated Bobby. LBJ
needed
Bobby. He might make Bobby his Veep choice. Bobby might seek that Senate seat.

He played his Bobby tapes. It was late-night communion. The tapes woke Jane up sometimes. Jane heard voices in her sleep.

He lied. He said you’re not dreaming—I’m playing deposition tapes.