The Cold Six Thousand (59 page)

“You French fuck number ten. You
carrément fou.
”

Pete popped more gum. “You’re in with somebody. Tell me who.”

Tran flipped Pete off. The wop stiff-arm—
il bah-fungoo
.

“Fuck the frogs. You number ten. You run at Dien Bien Phu.”

Pete worked his gum. “Tell me who’s running you. We’ll have a drink and discuss it.”

Tran wiggled. Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off—up and rotated—you twirl boocoo.

“You French
cochon
. You fuck fat men.”

Pete worked his gum. Pete blew a bubble. It popped ka-poo.

“Who’s running you? You’re not in this all by yourself.”

Tran worked his chair back. Tran spread his legs. Tran humped his hips boocoo.

“I run your wife. I eat red pussy ’cause you homo—”

Pete hit the switch. Pete
locked
the switch. Tran buckled. Tran humped his hips. Tran worked his chair back boocoo.

He slid it. He squared it. He made the doorway. Mesplède jumped. Pete tripped.

Tran flipped them off. Tran dumped his chair. Tran went BONZAI! He hit the rain. He hit the mud. He electrified.

(Los Angeles, 9/28/65)

M
ormons:

Mormon lawyers. Mormon aides. Mormon worker drones. Drac’s Mormons—Latter-day Saints.

It was their summit. It was their turf. It was their hotel call. They stormed the Statler. They booked a suite. They brought their own refreshments. Their names blurred. Littell called them all “sir.”

He was distracted. Fred O. just called him. Fred O. found the scandal-rag files. They’re yours for ten G’s. I want them/I’ll meet you/they’re mine.

The summit kicked off. Six Mormons hogged one table. A Mormon prepped a tape rig. A Mormon looped a tape in. A Mormon pressed Play.

Drac speaks:

“Good morning, gentlemen. I trust that you have clean air in your conference room, along with appropriate snacks such as Fritos corn chips and Slim Jim beef jerky. As you know, the purpose of this meeting is to establish ballpark price estimates for the hotel-casinos I wish to purchase, and to devise strategies to circumvent recent so-called civil-rights laws, which are in fact civil-wrongs laws, which will prove detrimental to the American free-enterprise system. It is my intention to cunningly and willfully abrogate these laws, retain segregated work crews and discourage Negroes from habituating my casinos, with exceptions to be made for stellar Negroes such as Wilma Rudolph, the so-called fastest woman alive, and the multi-talented Sammy Davis Jr. Before I turn the meeting over to my Las Vegas point man, Ward J. Littell, I should inform you that I have been studying the tax code for the state of California and have determined that it is in fact unconstitutional. It is my intention to avoid paying
California state income tax for the upcoming fiscal year of 1966. I may decide to remain mobile until the time that I establish permanent residence in Las Vegas. I may travel by train, avoid undue stays in all fifty states and thus avoid paying state income tax in toto.”

The off switch clicked. The tape died. The Mormons stirred. The Mormons checked the credenza.

Salty Fritos. Congealed cheez dip. Tasty Slim Jims.

Littell coughed. Littell dispensed graph sheets. Price projections/per twelve hotels. Gaming projections/per twelve casinos.

Doctored paper. Revised and cooked. Your chef—Moe Dalitz.

The Mormons read. The Mormons skimmed columns. The Mormons cleared their throats. The Mormons took notes.

A Mormon coughed. “The purchase prices are high by 20%.”

Moe set the prices. Carlos consulted. Santo T. helped.

Littell coughed. “I think the prices are reasonable.”

A Mormon said, “We’ll need tax returns. We’ll need to calibrate off reported profits, not estimates.”

A Mormon said, “That part doesn’t bother me. We’re dealing with organized-crime proprietors, to one degree or another. You have to believe that they report low.”

A Mormon said, “We can subpoena their tax returns from the IRS. That way they can’t submit fakes.”

Wrong
. Mr. Hoover will act. Mr. Hoover will quash selectively. Mr. Hoover will pick what you see.

No oldies. No pre-64s.
Good
’64s/the Boys report high/the Boys bait-and-switch.

A Mormon said, “Mr. Hughes is adamant on the Negro issue.”

A Mormon said, “Wayne Senior can help us out there. He segregates his work crews, and he knows his way around those new laws.”

Littell stabbed his pencil. Littell hit his notepad. Littell broke the tip.

“Your suggestion offends me. It’s unsavory and altogether repugnant.”

The Mormons stared at him. Littell stared straight back.

Fred Otash was big. Fred Otash was gruff. Fred Otash was Lebanese. He lived in restaurants. He loved Dino’s Lodge and the Luau. Clients found him there.

He doped race horses. He fixed fights. He brokered abortions. He traced fugitives. He pulled shakedowns. He sold smut pix. He knew things. He found things out. He charged high fees.

Littell hit the Luau. Otash was splitsville. Littell hit Dino’s. Littell hit paydirt—there’s Freddy O. in his booth.

He’s in nubby silk shorts. He’s in a hula shirt. He’s got a tan. He’s spearing calamari. He’s skimming racing forms. He’s sipping cold chablis.

Littell walked over. Littell sat down. Littell dropped the cash on the table.

Otash kicked a lettuce box. “It’s all there. I photocopied the choice stuff, in case you were wondering.”

“I thought you might.”

“I found a snapshot of Rock Hudson browning a Filipino jockey. I sent a dupe to Mr. Hoover.”

“That was thoughtful.”

Otash laughed. “You’re droll, Ward, but you’re not my cup of tea. I’ve never understood your allure to Pete B.”

Littell smiled. “Try shared history.”

Otash poked a squid. “Like Dallas ’63?”

“Does the whole world know?”

“Just some guys who don’t care.”

Littell kicked the box. “I should go.”

“Go, then. And beware the ides of fucking September.”

“Would you care to explain?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Jane was out. Littell lugged the box in. Littell checked the papers first. Three subscribed dailies: L.A.
Times
/New York
Times
/Washington
Post
.

He skimmed the front sections. He skimmed the B-sheets. No word—nineteen days in.

The letters went out—mea culpa/Lyle Holly—postmarked SCLC. One to the House Committee/one to Bobby.

Littell skimmed the C-sheets. Littell skimmed the D. Nothing—no word yet.

He dumped the papers. He cleared some desk space. He dumped the lettuce box.

Files and carbon sheets. Photos and tip sheets. Unpublished smears—full pieces. The gamut—
Confidential
to
Whisper/Lowdown
to
Hush-Hush
.

He stacked piles. He skimmed sheets. He read fast. He rolled in dirt.

Dipsomania. Nymphomania. Kleptomania. Pedophilia. Coprophilia. Scopophilia. Flagellation. Masturbation. Miscegenation.

Lenny Bruce rats Sammy Davis. Sammy swings bilateral/Sammy sniffs cocaine. Danny Thomas hits sepia sinspots. Bob Mitchum dips his dick in Dilaudid and fucks all nite.

Sonny Liston killed a white man. Bing Crosby knocked up Dinah Shore.
Dinah got twin Binglets scraped at a clap clinic in Cleveland. Lassie has K-9 psychosis. Lassie bites kids at Lick Pier.

Paydirt: Two casino front men/one date-a-boy.

They rendezvous at the Rugburn Room. They trick at the Dunes. They party with peyote and poppers. The front men work the date-a-boy. He sustains damage and hemorrhages. The front men check the register. The front men look for doctors. The front men hit suite 302.

The doc’s a drunk. The doc’s a hophead. The doc’s got King Kong on his back. The doc soaks his tools in vodka. The doc operates. The date-a-boy dies. The doc dips back to Des Moines. A desk clerk calls
Confidential
.

One hit. One bite for Drac. One blackmail wedge.

Littell clipped pages. Littell scanned carbons. Littell skimmed tip sheets. Payoffs/bribes/slush funds/dope cures/nut bins/car wrecks.

Johnnie Ray. Sal Mineo. Adlay Stevenson. Toilet stalls/glory holes/gonorr—

No. Wait. Ides of Sept—

Hush-Hush-10/57/unpublished. The title:
RED LINK TO RACKETS
.

Arden Breen Bruvick. Her Commie dad—killed in ’52. “Who Iced Daddy Breen? Temperamental Teamsters? Arden or Hubby Dan?”

Arden’s a party girl. Arden’s a call girl. Arden fled grief in K.C. Dan B.’s a lamster. He’s on the run. He split K.C.

Arden’s a femme fatale. Arden has Mob ties. Arden knows “Shifty” Jules Schiffrin.

A clipped photo/a caption/a date:

8/12/54—RED PARTY GIRL PARTIES WITH RANDY RACKETEER
.

There’s Arden. She’s young. She’s dancing with Carlos Marcello.

Littell trembled. Littell got the shakes. Littell got instant DTs.

He palsied. His hands jerked. He ripped the photo. He dropped the tip sheets.

He
saw
things:

Cords stuck to walls. Cords stuck to lamps. Cords off the TV.

He
heard
things:

Tap sounds. Phone buzz. Line clicks.

His chair slid. He fell. He saw wall cords. He saw bug mounts. He saw wisps. He got up. He stumbled. He braced the walls. He saw shapes. He saw flecks. He saw wisps.

(Las Vegas, 9/28/65)

T
he cat abused him. He loved it. He lived for his shit.

The cat clawed his pants. The cat snagged his socks. The cat dropped turds on his shirts. He loved it. Shit on me more now. I live for your shit.

The AC dipped. Pete slapped the wall unit. The cat clawed his shirt.

Biz was slow. The p.m. lull dragged. Pete shagged calls. His drivers smoked outside.

New rules: The Tiger Kab Manifesto.

Don’t smoke near me. Don’t eat near me. Don’t snarf fat-rich food. Don’t tempt me with taste treats—let me get back.

I’ve got more wind now. I’ve got more spunk. I’ve got more pizzazz. I dumped the pills. They fucked with me. I let the cat do that.

Don’t smoke. Don’t eat bad food—the docs said that.

Okay—I’ll play.

Don’t worry. Don’t work hard. Don’t pull rotations—fuck you on
that
.

Tran iced himself. He worried it. He worked it. He hired some Marvs. They surveilled the lab. They reported:

Some Can Lao snuck in. They let chemists in. Said chemists brought M-base boocoo. Said chemists cooked white horse. Said chemists used Wayne’s shit.

Pete braced Stanton. Stanton was sheepish. Stanton said: “I was going to tell you—
after
you got well.”

Pete said TELL ME NOW. Stanton said the new regime’s tough. You know that. No fuck with Can Lao cat Mr. Kao. He’s tough. He’s greedy. He’s
savvy. He’s cooking “H” in our lab—on Wayne’s rotations. He’s shipping “H” to China. He’s routing “H” west. He’s got a French clientele.

Pete blew up. Pete kicked walls. Pete strained arteries. Stanton smiled. Stanton jollied him. Stanton popped a ledger book.

Said book held figures. Said figures said: Mr. Kao
bought
his lab time. Mr. Kao paid big coin. The kadre made money.

Stanton reasoned. Stanton explicated. Stanton mollified. He said Kao’s pro-U.S. and pro-kadre. He said Kao won’t sell dope to GIs.

Pete reasoned. Stanton reasoned. They rehashed Tran’s suicide.

Tran killed the slaves. Tran stole the M-base. Mr. Kao bought Tran’s base ricky-tick. Tran fears Kao. Tran won’t snitch Kao. Tran electrifies.

Stanton said he’d brace Kao. Stanton said he’d say this: We’re your friends. Don’t use us. Don’t fuck us. Don’t sell dope to GIs.

Pete was relieved. Pete rotated west. Pete relieved his arteries. Wayne was stateside now. Wayne was in Bon Secour. Wayne dipped south per gun-run rotations.

Pete called him. Pete spilled on Tran. Pete spilled on Can Lao Kao.

Wayne went nuts. Wayne loved his lab/Wayne loved his dope/Wayne loved his chemistry. Pete calmed him down. Pete yelled and cursed. Pete strained his arteries.

Donkey Dom swished in. The cat hissed. The cat hated fags. The cat hated wops.

Dom hissed back. Pete laughed. The phone rang.

Pete picked up. “Tiger.”

“It’s Otash. I’m in L.A., and I don’t need a cab.”

Pete stroked the cat. “What is it? Did you find anything?”

“Yeah, I did. The trouble is, I won’t fuck one client in favor of another, which means I found those files for Littell, which contained some racy shit on his girlfriend and Carlos M., so I’m telling
you
, because you’re paying me for some version of the same—”

Pete hung up. Pete plugged the switchboard. Pete dialed Bon Secour direct. He got dial tones. He got rings. Ward
knows
now. Ward will—

“Charthouse Motel.”

“Wayne Tedrow. He’s in room—”

Dial tones/clicks/rings—

Wayne picked up. “Yeah?”

“It’s me. I want—”

“Jesus, calm down. You’ll have another—”

“Lock up Bruvick. Make him call Ward at 10:00 p.m. L.A. time.”

Wayne said, “What
is
this?”

Pete said, “I’m not sure.”

(Los Angeles, 9/28/65)

T
rashed: the living room/the bedrooms/the kitchen.

He saw wisps. He saw cords. They weren’t there. He trashed the phones. He looked for taps. They weren’t there. He trashed the TV. He looked for bugs. They weren’t there.

He trashed his study. He trashed Jane’s den. They were cord and bugfree. He walked to a liquor store. He bought Chivas Regal. He walked it on back.

He opened it. He smelled it. He dumped it out.

He rebuilt the phones. He reread the story. Arden Breen Bruvick/Carlos and Jane.

He clipped the piece. He cropped the pic. He taped them inside the front door. He taped them at Jane’s eye-level.

Jane was late. Jane was due—Arden Breen Bruvick Smith Coates.

Littell grabbed a chair. Littell sat outside. The terrace view enticed. West L.A./count the lights/gauge that long drop.