James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (6 page)

“Smoking's bad for pregnant women.”

“One a day, and only when we're together.”

“I need some help.”

“Tell me.”

“I might be running a Cointelpro on some black-militant groups. I'll find the plant on my own, but I might need help finding an informant.”

Karen kissed his neck and traced the knife scar on his shoulder.

“Why should I help you with something like that? Give me the rationale and explain how it conforms to our arrangement.”

Dwight put his head up against hers. Their eyes were close. That odd blue all dark-flecked—some goddamn Greek.

“Because they're out to sell dope and cash in on social protest. Because they're shitbirds who abuse women. Because they'll get a lot of very impressionable young black men fired up to do crazy shit that will derail their fucking lives forever, and the overall social benefit that they'll create from being in business will be down around zero.”

Karen kissed him. “All right. I'll think about it.”

“I'm right on this one. You could help me out and do some good here.”

Karen chewed her lips. Dwight kissed her and stopped it. They went telepathic. Karen said their credo.

“I will not further comment on the usurious nature of our relationship, lest I indict myself as a fascist collaborator and run from you screaming.”

On cue, perfect timing, straight off a kiss. More than deadpan, less than droll.

Dwight went into a laugh fit. Karen clamped his mouth. He nipped her palm and made her stop it. She pointed to his clothes. His checkbook had dropped from his suit coat.

“Those anonymous checks. You've never told me
why.
”

“I've told you I send them.”

“You tell me just so much, and no more.”

“You're the same way.”

“It's how we stay safe together.”

Their faces were close. Karen leaned in and got their eyes closer.

“You've done something terribly wrong. I won't ask, but you should know that I know.”

Dwight shut his eyes. Karen kissed them. Dwight said, “Do you love me?” Karen said, “I'll think about it.”

(Las Vegas, 6/17/68)

T
he Sheriff's blocked off Fremont. The low-roller casinos flew flags at half-mast. A lackluster motorcade slogged through.

Dig: a memorial parade for Wayne Tedrow Senior.

Noon in Vegas, 109° and climbing. City fathers in cowboy hats and broil-inducing suits. The mayor's last-second brainstorm. Senior was a heavyweight. Let's dispense respect.

The car procession crawled. The standing spectators sizzled and gaped, sun-stupefied. Some kitchen workers waved placards and booed. Wayne Senior ran their union and fucked them over with management side deals.

The LVPD sent an honor guard. Wayne stood on a platform with Buddy Fritsch and Bob Gilstrap. Buddy was
nervous
. He radiated
I need a drink
. He probably saw Wayne Senior's body.

Snail trail—the cars moved bumper-lock slow. Tourists capered and waved chip cups and beers. Negro protestors lugged anti-cop signs. A subgroup taunted Wayne. He heard muffled chants of “Honky killer!”

Sonny Liston bopped up to the platform. A dumb shit yelled, “Ali kicked your ass!” Sonny flipped him off. It got some laughs. Sonny sucked on a half-pint of Everclear. Buddy and Bob shied away from him. Wayne stepped off the platform.

Sonny said, “Did you kill him?”

Wayne said, “Yes.”

Sonny said, “Good. He was a racist motherfucker.
You
a racist motherfucker, but you only kill niggers who deserve it.”

That stupe yelled, “Ali kicked your ass!” again. Sonny chucked his jug
at him and chased him. The crowd geared up for some fun. A Caddy ragtop inched by. The backseat was packed with showgirls. They smiled, waved and caught themselves—oops, we're supposed to look sad.

Wayne saw Carlos Marcello across the street. They exchanged smiles and waves. Wayne got jostled. The crowd swelled and pushed him into the platform. They looked pissed. Wayne saw why: Dwight Holly was shoving through with his badge out.

Wayne stepped over to a shady spot. It was semi-private. Dwight found him fast.

“Condolences for your father, but I'd have killed him, too, if I were you.”

“I appreciate the comment, but I'd like to cut the topic off there.”

“We go back, son. You shouldn't mind some ribbing.”

“We share a history. You'd call it affectionate, I wouldn't.”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “Tell me it's chilled.”

“You mean tell Mr. Hoover.”

Dwight rolled his eyes. “Don't nitpick me, Wayne. Tell me it's chilled and I'll pass the message along.”

“It's chilled, Dwight. Tell me we're chilled on Memphis and we'll call it even.”

Dwight stepped in close. “We've got a little seepage there. I'll tell you about it in a second, but you've got to hear the lecture first.”

Wayne weaved a tad. A protestor spotted him and did the clenched-fist thing. Dwight pulled him behind the platform.

“You're juiced now. You're in with Uncle Carlos and you may get in with Hughes. I'd be a piss-poor friend if I didn't tell you to be careful.”

Wayne stepped in close. “ ‘Friend'? You fucking coerced me into Memphis.”

Dwight stepped closer. He bumped Wayne into a lightpost and pinned him there.

“Wendell Durfee came with a price, son. And don't tell me that you didn't want the job on some level.”

Wayne pushed Dwight back. Easy hands, don't rile him. Dwight made nice and brushed off Wayne's coat.

“Give me an update on Carlos. Something to keep the old poof happy.”

“It's stale news. The Boys want to sell Hughes the rest of their hotels and keep their skim guys inside. Hughes wants a peaceful town. Someone has to fill Ward Littell's shoes, and it's me.”

“
Senior was a racist! Junior is a killer!
”—Wayne heard faint shouts.

“The envelope for Dick Nixon. Tell me about that.”

“How did you—”

“We've got his pad in Key Biscayne bugged. Nixon mentioned it to Bebe Rebozo.”

Wind blew bunting off the platform. The Senior/Junior chant grew.

“The Boys want to build some casinos in Central America or the Caribbean, and they want things slowed down at Justice. They'd like a pardon for Jimmy Hoffa by '71. They think Nixon will win the election and be amenable.”

Dwight nodded. “I'll buy that, for now.”

“The ‘seepage'?
Memphis
? You were going to—”

“I'm trying to run down some hate-mail subscribers. I'd like to get a look at your father's lists.”

Wayne shook his head. “
No
. I'm out of the hate business. Talk to Fred Hiltz.”

“Shit, Wayne. I'm not asking you for the world, I'm just asking for—”

“
Seepage? Memphis
? Come on, don't string me out on that.”

Dwight reached for a cigarette. The pack was empty. He threw it into the crowd.

“The St. Louis SAC called me this morning. There's talk coming out of the Grapevine Tavern.”

“I don't follow you.”

“It's a shitkicker joint. One of Jimmy Ray's brothers owns a piece. I had it bugged. A bullshit rumor was circulating there, and Jimmy bought into it. A fifty-grand bounty on King. Otash lured Ray in off the rumor and worked him behind it.”

“
Senior/racist, Junior/killer, Senior/rac—
”

“Keep going. I didn't work that part of the job.”

“Some rednecks found the bug. They figured out that it was FBI-issue, and now there's talk that the hit was Bureau-adjunct.”

Wayne prickled. “Talk's talk, Dwight. Rumors are rumors.”

“Yeah, but it's a little too close to Jimmy and these crazy stories he's telling.”

“Which means?”

“Which means it might or might not go away, and if it doesn't, we'll have to do something about it.”

“ ‘
We'
or
you
?”

Dwight grabbed his necktie. “
Us
, son. Wendell Durfee wasn't for free.”

The IV drip had run out. The nurse was on the couch, sleeping. Janice fell asleep watching TV.

Wayne checked her pulse. It ran weak-normal. The p.m. news was on, with the sound low. A reporter did the standard King/Bobby number and segued to Nixon and Humphrey.

Upcoming conventions: Miami and Chicago. Two first-ballot nods
assured. Potential protests at both convention sites. The Nixon-Humphrey poll status—now a dead heat.

Wayne watched Tricky Dick and Hearty Hubert strut and mug. He had Farlan Brown on tap. The Grapevine news torqued him. “Talk” and “Rumors” might mean witness trouble. Dwight wanted to see Wayne Senior's mail lists. They were stashed in a bunker outside Vegas. Senior always called it his “Hate Hut.” A shitload of hate lit was stored there.

Janice stirred and winced. Wayne rigged a fresh IV bag. Nixon and Humphrey talked blahblah. Janice opened her eyes.

Wayne said, “Hi.”

Janice pointed to the TV. “They're homely men. If I'm alive, I won't know who to vote for.”

Wayne smiled. “You've always erred on the side of looks.”

“Yes. Which explains my bad luck with men.”

The bag started draining. The juice hit the tube. Wayne flicked the dial and regulated the flow. Janice shuddered. The juice hit her arm and fed her a slight burst of color.

She said, “Buddy Fritsch called today.”

“And?”

“And he's scared. He said there've been some rumors.”

Wayne turned the TV off. “About that night?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And Buddy said some neighbors have been talking. They said they saw a man and woman outside the house.”

Wayne took her hands. “We're covered. You know who I know, and you know how these things get taken care of.”

Janice shook her head and pulled her hands free. She got some strength up. The bed slid. Wayne clamped her arm to keep the needle in.

“I'll be gone soon, but I don't want people to know that we did it.”

“Sweetheart …”

“We shouldn't have done it. It was hateful and vindictive. It was wrong.”

Wayne flicked the dial. The bag puckered and fed the tube. Janice went out in an instant.

He took her pulse. It ran short of weak-normal.

Farlan Brown said, “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“These things happen, sir. He had a bum ticker and indulged bad habits.”

“ ‘Bad habits'? A clean-living Mormon man like that?”

Wayne smiled. “Mormons drink and fuck more than the rest of the world combined, as I'm sure you know from personal experience.”

Brown slapped his knees. He was tall and faux-hayseed friendly. His Michael Caine glasses magnified bad eyes. His suite was done up mock-Tudor. The Hughes group had the top six floors of the D.I. The big guy reposed in the penthouse.

Brown said, “You're a hot sketch, sir.”

“Just think of me as my father's son. Give me the job, and I'll take it from there.”

Brown lit a cigarette. “Tell me why I should give you the job, and convince me in under one minute.”

Wayne said, “Collusion.” Brown tapped his watch. Wayne shot his cuffs and displayed his gold Rolex. Wayne Senior taught him the trick.

“Howard Hughes is a delusional xenophobe addicted to pharmaceutical narcotics and vitamin-laced blood transfusions. His employees refer to him as ‘Dracula.' Mr. Hughes relies upon lucid men like you to mediate the world for him and to facilitate his dealings with the venal politicians and organized-crime figures who run the state of Nevada and, arguably, the whole country. I am Carlos Marcello's liaison to the business community. I am a brilliant chemist who can cook up compounds that will zonk Dracula out of his fucking gourd. I will be Mr. Marcello's bagman to Richard Nixon and hopefully to the Nixon presidential administration. Dracula is bribing Mr. Nixon to the tune of five million dollars, and I will raid my late father's assets to match that amount. I will deliver it, along with Mr. Marcello's fifteen million, to Mr. Nixon personally, at the GOP Convention. I am charged with overseeing the upcoming grand design of Mr. Marcello and his organized-crime cohorts, which is the building of lavish hotel-casinos in a friendly, dictator-run banana republic somewhere south of here, and I will guarantee you that Hughes Airways will have the exclusive rights to fly the suckers in. You should carefully consider me for the job, because you know who I know and what I know, and because you have the utilitarian common sense to know that I will make
you
look good at all junctures.”

Brown checked his watch. “Fifty-six seconds. You had the edge with Mr. Hughes going in, and now you've got the edge with me.”

“Why did I have the edge with Mr. Hughes?”

“Because you shot some burrhead dope fiends in 1964, and Mr. Hughes thinks you'd be a good man to scare the coloreds out of his hotels.”

Wayne said it
soft
. “I'm out of the hate business, sir. Please tell Mr. Hughes that I won't be willing to do that, and please tell him that I'll require an in-person meeting with him before you hire me.”

Brown said it
soft
. “Sir, you are drastically impaired at this moment.”

Wayne tossed four capsules in his lap and walked out of the room.

Two hours. Three tops.

He went back to his suite and stretched out. He pictured Dracula twirling around the rings of Saturn and moon-hopping Jupiter. Maybe he's flying or crashing airplanes. Maybe he's fucking Kate Hepburn on the back lot at RKO.

The phone rang. Wayne picked up. Brown cut him off at “Hello.”

“The job is yours. And Mr. Hughes
will
see you.”