The Cold Six Thousand (30 page)

Littell drove I-15. Littell skimmed the radio. Nut preachers preached. It’s a lie. It’s a hoax. Them kids are holed up in Jew York.

He’d talked to Moe Dalitz. Moe braced all the Boys. They okayed the Hughes charter plan. That meant more money—another tithe source.

Traffic stalled. Gawkers lined the roadway. Fed cars crawled. News vans crawled. Folks rubbernecked.

State troopers and crackers. Housewives and toddlers in sheets. They flashed hand signals—kall it Klan kode—konfidential konversation.

Littell jumped lanes. Littell veered hard right. There—a cross off the road. A
used
cross—last night’s business—gauze on scorched wood.

A crowd gawked the totem. Feds and Negroes. Snow-cone vendors sans sheets.

There’s Bayard Rustin—spiffed in a seersucker suit.

Bayard saw him. Bayard waved. Bayard walked over. A man tossed an egg. A man tossed a snow cone. They nailed Bayard flush.

They parked. They viewed a torched church.

The church was razed. The church was molotoved. Tech crews bagged bomb debris.

Littell tithed Bayard. Bayard briefcased the money. Bayard watched the techs.

“Should I be encouraged?”

“As long as you understand that it’s Lyndon Johnson’s doing.”

“Mr. Hoover’s been talking a good game.”

The sun was way high. Bayard wore egg yolk and slush.

“He wants hate and resentment sustained at what he considers the proper level, and coming down on the Klan gives him a mainstream cachet.”

Bayard drummed the dashboard. “Let me ask you a question. Lyle said you have some expertise.”

“All right.”

“Here’s the situation. Martin and Coretta enter their hotel room and want to make sure their friend Edgar hasn’t gotten there first. Where do they look for bugs and what do they do when they find them?”

Littell slid his seat back. “They look for small wires with perforated metal tips extending from picture frames and lampshades. They speak innocuously until they determine that there are none, and they do not pull the ones that they find, because it would anger their friend Edgar and cause him to escalate his actions against Dr. King, who is making great strides while Edgar slowly builds a file against him, because Edgar’s
greatest weakness is implementing institutional sadism at a sedate pace.”

Bayard smiled. “Johnson’s signing the Civil Rights Bill next week. Martin’s going to Washington.”

Littell smiled. “That’s a case in point.”

“Any other advice?”

“Yes. Keep your people out of areas where the Regal and Konsolidated Knights operate. They’re full of mail-fraud informants, they’re almost as bad as the White Knights, and the FBI will never investigate anything that they do.”

Bayard popped the passenger door. The handle burned him.

Littell said, “I’ll have more money soon.”

The party went late.

He stayed late. He
had
to. The town exiled him. Desk clerks sized him up. Desk clerks saw his suit and gun. Desk clerks said, “No vacancy.”

The party was a wake. Guy Banister—
mort
. The camp was gulfside. The Cubans perched on four acres.

Their landlord was Klan. Maynard Moore’s Klarion Koalition. They were pro-exile. They spelled “Cuba” with a K. Carlos bankrolled the site. Pete passed through last spring. Pete said the troops needed work.

Littell toured the grounds. Littell dropped off Pete’s tithe. Littell chucked his coat and kicked sand.

A bunkhouse. A speedboat. A Klan/exile range. Straw-man targets with cartoon faces: LBJ/Dr. King/Fidel “Beard” Castro.

A gun hut. Stacked flamethrowers. Bazookas and BARs.

The exiles were gracious—he knew Big Pete. The Klan boys were rude—he wore a Fed suit.

The sun went down. The sand dunes launched fleas. The wet air launched mosquitoes.

Bottles traveled. Toasts went up. Klansmen rigged hibachis. They served hot dogs. They overcooked. They flamethrower-broiled.

Littell played wallflower. Guests bopped by. Littell made their reps:

Hank Hudspeth—Guy’s pal—kook in mourning. Chuck Rogers clipped Guy. Guy’s heart attack was assisted.

Laurent Guéry and Flash Elorde—Pete’s right-wing confreres. Mercs/Dallas backup/late of Pete and Boyd’s team.

Laurent was ex-CIA. Laurent clipped Patrice Lumumba. Flash clipped untold Fidelistos.

The Loop. Open secrets. Things you
just knew
.

Laurent dropped hints:
Monsieur Littell, nous savons, n’est-ce pas, ce qui s’est passé à Dallas
?

Littell smiled. Littell shrugged—
Je ne parle pas le français
. Laurent laughed. Laurent praised “
le pro shooter.
”

Le pro était un français. Jean Mesplède, qui est maintenant un “merc” à Mexico City
.

Littell walked off. Guéry made him nervous. Littell stopped and ate a hot dog. It was bad. It was overcooked. It was flamethrower-broiled.

Littell played wallflower. Littell watched the party. Littell read news magazines. The Civil Rights Bill/the conventions/Bobby’s shot at Veep.

The party wore on. Hank Hudspeth blew a tenor sax. The Cubans blew cherry bombs.

Pete loved
la Causa
. The Cause anchored. The Cause justified. The Cause always condoned. They shared a dilemma—penance and tithe. He knew it. Pete didn’t.

Littell tried to sleep. The Cubans sang songs. Cherry bombs blew.

De Kalb adjoined Scooba. De Kalb adjoined Neshoba County.

The drive took five hours. The heat sapped his car. De Kalb fit Jane’s description.

A main drag. Feed stores. Segregated shade. Whites on the sidewalk/Negroes in the street.

Littell drove through town. Negroes looked down. Whites looked straight through him.

There—the school. Jane’s description etched pure.

Bungalows. Walkways. Poplar trees. Pseudo-Quonset huts.

Littell parked. Littell checked his notes. The registrar was Miss Byers—in Bungalow 1.

Littell walked. Littell followed Jane’s route. The bungalow fit Jane’s description.

One counter. File chutes behind it. One woman—scarves and pincenez.

The woman saw him. The woman coughed.

“It’s a hoax, you want my opinion.”

Littell wiped his neck. “Pardon me?”

“Those boys in Neshoba. They’re sipping cool ones in Memphis right now.”

Littell smiled. “Are you Miss Byers?”

“Yes, I am. And you’re an agent with the Federal Bureau of Invasion.”

Littell laughed. “I need information on an old student. She would have attended classes in the late ’40s.”

Miss Byers smiled. “I’ve been here since this place was chartered in 1944, and in some ways the postwar years were the best we ever saw.”

“Why was that?”

“That’s because you had those rowdy GI Bill boys, and some girls just as rowdy. We had a girl who became a drug addict and two girls who became traveling prostitutes.”

“This girl’s name was Arden Smith or Arden Coates.”

Miss Byers shook her head. “We’ve never had an Arden here. It’s a pretty name, I would have remembered it. I’ve been the sole registrar of this institution, and my memory hasn’t failed me yet.”

Littell checked the chutes. Littell saw year-dated tabs. One chute per year/’44 up.

“Are your student files alphabetized?”

“They certainly are.”

“Are student photographs included?”

“Yes, sir. Clipped to the very first page.”

“Have you had teachers here named Gersh, Lane, and Harding?”

“Had and have. Teachers who come tend to stay.”

“Could I look through the files?”

Miss Byers squinted. “First, you tell me that this big commotion isn’t just a hoax.”

Littell said, “The boys are dead. The Klan killed them.”

Miss Byers blinked. Miss Byers blanched. Miss Byers pushed up the counter. Littell stepped through. Littell pulled the ’44 chute.

He checked the first file. He studied the layout. He saw first-page photos and class lists. He saw last-page notes: Job referrals/placements/general postscripts.

Jane knew the school. Jane attended—or knew those who did.

Littell pulled chutes. Littell checked files. He read names. He checked photos. He worked from ’44 up. No Ardens/no Jane pix/no Coateses or Smiths.

He read files. He reread files. He went back to ’44. He wrote names down. He checked postgrad notes.

Miss Byers watched. Miss Byers kibitzed. Littell jotted names.

Spark points. References. Jane might mention names. Jane dropped names routinely. Jane buttressed her lies. Jane sketched vivid scenes.

Marvin Whitely/’46—a bookkeeper now. Carla Wykoff—a state auditor.

Littell pulled the ’47s. Aaron/Abelfit/Aldrich/Balcher/Barrett/Bebb/
Bruvick. Lowly jobs. Prosaic appointments. Construction firms/feed stores/labor stewardships.

Richard Aaron married Meg Bebb. Aldrich stayed in De Kalb. Balcher caught lupus. Barrett worked in Scooba. Bruvick moved to Kansas City. Bruvick joined the AF of L.

Littell checked files. Littell wrote names. Miss Byers kibitzed.

Bobby Cantwell got shingles. The Clunes sisters went chippy. Carl Ennis spread head lice. Gretchen Farr—Satan with bangs. A hophead and worse.

Littell stopped. His knees gave out. His pen ran dry.

Jane built whole worlds. Jane lied past their limits. Jane eclipsed him at lies.

Miss Byers said, “I still think it’s a hoax.”

(Las Vegas, 7/2/64)

B
ad heat—pure Vegas.

Wayne cranked the AC. Wayne chilled down the room. Wayne clipped an update:

The Dallas
Morning News
—6/29—
DPD CONCEDES DEATH OF MISSING POLICEMAN
.

He filed the clip. He scanned his corkboard. He saw Lynette on a morgue slab. He saw a blow-up of Wendell D.’s prints.

Glossy shots all—plus some FBI pix.

The nude Dr. King. Nude and plump. Nude with a blonde in the sack.

Wayne pulled the drapes. Wayne killed the sun. Wayne killed his Janice view. Janice dressed for the heat now. Janice wore all-day bikinis.

Wayne checked his drawers. Wayne tallied weapons—throwdown shit all. Six shivs/eight pistols/one sawed-off shotgun.

He worked the Deuce. He disarmed punks. He stole their shit. He saved it to plant on Durfee. Janice loved it. Janice called it his hope chest.

He checked his tip file. He’d tallied ninety-one tips. All bullshit/all jive.

Cars pulled up outside. Doors slammed. The carport boomed loud. Your host—Wayne Senior.

Another hate-tract “summit meet.” His “biggest and best”—self-described.

Ten meets in ten days. Fund meets and “summits.” Tract-distributor drives. Let’s fuck civil rights. Let’s laud
states’
rights. Let’s push more tracts. Mr. Hoover wants speed. Mr. Hoover wants wide distribution.

Wayne Senior told Wayne that. Wayne Senior spieled EVERYTHING. Wayne Senior torqued his HATE.

He
held back.
He
observed partial disclosure.

He saw Fed cars. He saw Fed surveillance. Feds perched down the road. Feds watched the meets. Feds checked license plates.

Local
Feds—non-FBI—Dwight Holly’s boys.

Wayne Senior was distracted. Wayne Senior was tract-obsessed. Wayne Senior missed the heat. Wayne Senior talked. Wayne Senior torqued Wayne. Wayne Senior worked to impress.

Wayne Senior knew Ward Littell now. Wayne Senior bragged it up: “Littell needs some help. I might be planting some of my people in the Hughes organization.”

Wayne called Littell last week. Wayne warned him: Wayne Senior will fuck you—and Dwight Holly’s acting up.

Wayne cleaned his knives. Wayne cleaned his guns. Wayne stacked shotgun shells. Janice walked in. Janice was pool-wet. Janice smelled like Coppertone and chlorine.

Wayne tossed her a towel. “You used to knock.”

“When you were a boy, I did.”

“Who’s he got today?”

“The John Birch people. They want him to change the print style on the fluoridation tracts, to distinguish them from the racier stuff.”

Her tan was uneven. Her swimsuit rode low. Some black hair showed.

“You’re dripping all over my rug.”

Janice toweled off. “Your birthday’s coming up.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be thirty.”

Wayne smiled. “You want me to say, ‘And you’ll be forty-three in November.’ You want to know if I’m keeping track of those things.”

Janice dropped the towel. “Your answer satisfied me.”

Wayne said, “I don’t forget things. You know that.”

“The things that count?”

“Things in general.”

Janice scoped out the corkboard. Janice scoped M. L. King.

“He doesn’t look like a Communist to me.”

“I doubt if he is.”

Janice smiled. “He doesn’t look like Wendell Durfee, either.”

Wayne flinched. Janice said, “I have to go. I’ve got bridge with Clark Kinman.”

The Deuce was dead. Dead occupancy/dead slots/dead tables.

Wayne prowled.

He walked. He perched. He tailed Negroes. He announced his intent
and deterred. They ran from him. They ignored him. They played it cooooool.

The shift dragged.
He
dragged. He sat by the teller’s cage. He cranked his stool up.

A Negro walks in. He’s got a brown bag. He’s got a jug. He hits the slots. He drops some dimes. He hits some baaaaad luck.

Forty pulls and no payoffs—righteous baaaad luck.

The guy whips his dick out. The guy urinates. The guy sprays the dime slots. The guy sprays a dykey-ass nun.

Wayne walked over.

The guy laughs. The guy breaks his jug. Glass flies. Wine shvitzes. The nun Hail Marys.

The guy laughs. I gots me a cutter. It gots a paper-bag grip.

He lunged.

Wayne stepped back. Wayne trapped his arm. Wayne snapped his wrist. The guy puked. The guy dropped the cutter.

Wayne kicked him prone. Wayne kicked his teeth in. Wayne knee-dropped him.

(Las Vegas, 7/6/64)

E
ldon Peavy vibed butch. Eldon Peavy vibed mean queen.

3:10 a.m.

The hut was dead. Peavy worked solo. Pete walked right in. Peavy hinked. Peavy reached. Peavy was
très
slow.