Read The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2 Page 26
Milt went on. Milt did Lenny Bruce shtick. Lawrence Welk auditions a junkie. Pat Nixon bangs Lester, the priapic shvoog.
The crowd laughed. The crowd toked maryjane. Sonny popped dexies. Pete and Barb declined.
Wayne popped three. Wayne got a hard-on. Wayne scoped Barb sidelong. Wayne grooved on her hair.
Milt did fresh stuff. Milt did “Fucko, the Kids’ Show Clown.” Milt blew up condoms. Milt tied them off. Milt tossed them high.
The crowd went nuts.
They snared the condoms. They waved cigarettes. They popped them—ka-pow!
Milt did Fidel Castro. Fidel hits a fag bar. Jack Kennedy walks in. Fidel says, “Let’s party, muchacho.” Jack says, “I’ll meet you at the Bay of Pigs, but you’ve got to shtup Bobby, too.”
Pete howled. Barb howled. Wayne roared.
Milt did Sonny shtick.
Sonny kidnaps Cassius Clay. Sonny dumps him in Mississippi. The Klan holds him hostage. Martin Luther King goes down.
Marty wears whiteface. Marty digs being white. It’s a bold apostasy. Fuck this negroid shit.
Marty calls God up. God puts J.C. on. J.C.’s a swinger. He’s gigging with Judas and the Nail Drivin’ Five.
Marty says to J.C., “Listen, daddy-o, I’m having a crisis of faith here, I’m doing this revisionist number. I’m starting to think the white man’s got it dicked, he’s got all the bread and the white women and the hi-fi shit, and if you can’t beat ‘em, assimilate and stop all this civil-rights shuck-and-jive.”
J.C. sighs. Marty waits. Marty waits a looooong time. Marty waits to hear his life’s work affirmed.
J.C. pauses. J.C. laughs. J.C. spiels God’s word on high:
NO SHIT, YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER!
The crowd cracked up. The room evaporated. Sonny roar-roar-roared.
Milt did LBJ. Milt did James Dean. Jimmy, the mumble-mouthed masochist. Jimmy, the “Human Ashtray.”
Milt did Jack Ruby.
Jack’s in the slam. Jack’s pissed off and hungry. These farkakte goyim jailers don’t know from good nova lox. Jack needs some food gelt. Jack breaks out and flogs Israel bonds.
Wayne cracked up. The room incinerated. Pete and Barb roar-roar-roar-roared.
They shared looks. They howled. They roared more. Sonny didn’t get it. Sonny dug his shtick more.
Pete took Wayne aside. Pete said, “Let’s blow up some cabs.”
Rapid Cab was detached. Fourteen cabs/one hut/one lot/one block between.
Pete did the grunt work. Wayne did the chemistry. They worked at Monarch. They worked très late.
Pete pumped gas. Pete filled fourteen bottles. Wayne mixed nitrates. Wayne mixed soap flakes. They soaked dunk cords. They soaked feeder cords. They dipped model-kit glue.
Wayne felt giddy. Barb and Dexedrine did it. Barb split from the Rugburn. Barb hugged them. Barb left her scent.
They drove to Rapid. They parked. They cut through the fence. They dollied their shit in.
Fourteen cabs—’61 Fords—snout-to-snout rows. Ground clearance and tank space.
They laid down. They placed the bombs. They looped the cords. They dumped the gas. They soaked a fourteen-car fuse.
Wayne lit the match. Pete dropped it. They ran.
The cabs exploded. Scrap metal flew. The noise hurt. Bursts overlapped.
Wayne ate smoke. Wayne ate fumes. Glass blew across the sky.
49
(Los Angeles, 7/17/64)
Theft tools—paper/pencils/pen.
Littell worked. Littell cooked Hughes Tool books. He wrote an invoice. He carbon-copied it. He revised a pay sheet.
Jane was asleep. Jane logged early bedtimes. They devised a routine. They stuck to it. They coded their needs.
Jane needed early sleep. He needed seclusion. Jane sensed his need. Jane deferred to it.
Littell switched pens. Littell blotted ink. He hit snags sometimes. He needed Jane’s help. He toughed it out then. He kept Jane out. He embezzled solo.
Littell ran figures. Littell tallied accounts. Jane was edgy tonight. Their dinner was tense.
She said her job bored her. She said her co-workers vexed. He threw her a curveball—the Teamsters need help.
Jane declined. Jane declined too fast. Jane laughed too slow.
He described his trip south. He abridged the text. Jane segued and riffed on De Kalb.
Miss Gersh. Miss Lane. The boy with lupus. Miss Byers mentioned said boy. Jane omitted his name from her text.
He asked questions. He played her. He played off his insider’s text. Jane brought up Gretchen Farr. Miss Byers brought her up. Gretchen was “Satan with bangs.”
Littell yawned. Littell worked. Littell toughed out an invoice glitch—solo.
He played the radio. He caught the news. Pundits concur—Bobby will run in New York.
Littell rubbed his eyes. Columns blurred. Numbers wiggled.
Wayne Senior sent a list—twelve Mormon thugs—all skim candidates. Littell copied Drac. Drac read the list. Drac told his Mormons to pick three “casino consultants.”
Littell called Drac. Littell lied:
The men will fly Hughes planes. The men will tour “various cities.” They’ll meet “made men.” They’ll “form bonds.” They’ll “work to procure your hotels.”
Drac loved it. Drac loved intrigue. Drac said, “We’re using them.” Drac approved the Hughes charters. Wayne Senior cleared the Nellis takeoffs.
Skim clearance—the Air Force and the Mob.
Drac waxed deluded. Drac told his Mormons to sidestep Littell. Ward’s my boy—he’ll run the consultants.
Littell waxed bold. Littell ad-libbed. Littell revised his skim plan.
I’ll exploit Drac’s hubris. I’ll write fake reports. I’ll ghost-write the so-called “consultants.” I’ll jolly Drac—“You’re fucking the Mob—the Mob’s not fucking you.”
Moe D. waxed grateful. Moe revised the skim end. Moe said, “Take 5% off the top.”
Thanks, Moe. Thanks for the tithe cash. I don’t have to steal it now.
Made men feed the skim. Mormons fly it. Percentages fly. Cash multiplies. His cash. The Mormons’. Wayne Senior’s.
It’s a ground builder. It’s a pump primer. Let’s ford the moat. Let’s storm Drac’s hotels.
Littell cooked his books. Columns wiggled. Dollar signs blurred.
50
(Las Vegas, 7/18/64–9/8/64)
Rapid Cab—muerto.
The torch was impromptu. The torch was unsanctioned. He informed the Boys. He informed them post-torch. He stressed his pure motive.
WE need a cab base. WE need dirt. Let’s help Drac. Let’s accrue dirt. Let’s deploy it.
Carlos clapped. Sam G. clapped. Moe blew kiss bouquets.
Pete braced the Rapid dispatcher. Pete greased him. Pete bought his account book. Pete bought his soul. Pete hired him. Pete resigned his accounts. Pete got nine legislators. Pete got Nellis brass and fat cats galore.
Moe fixed the torch. Moe fixed it with LVPD. Arson cops took bribe cash. Arson cops framed a wino.
Moe fixed the Rapid end. Moe fixed it post-torch. Goons fucked up the owner. Goons relocated him to Dogdick, Delaware.
Pete renamed the biz. Dig it—Tiger Kab refortifies. Tiger Kab resurrects.
He sold the old Packards. He bought twenty Fords. He hired dope-addled “artist” Von Dutch.
Von Dutch ate peyote. Von Dutch painted cabs. Von Dutch laid wiiiild upholstery. He painted tiger stripes. He scrolled kustom script. He fashioned mock-tiger-tuft seats.
Pete bought four limos—high-end wheels—Lincoon Coontinentals. They had hi-fis and recliner seats. They were mobile fuck pads.
He consulted Milt Chargin. He steam-cleaned the hut. He dumped some fruits. He hired some straight guys. He kicked two drag queens out.
He took Milt’s advice—keep Nat Wershow—Nat’s smart and butch. Keep Champ Beauchamp. Keep Harvey Brams.
Keep Donkey Dom—Dom’s a fruit magnet—Dom draws fruit biz.
He called his Teamster contact. He signed the crew on. They got pensions. They got health plans. They paid Teamster dues.
Jimmy H. got points. Jimmy was thrilled. The fruits genuflected and swished. They got the clap. They got the syph. The Teamsters now paid for their cures.
Pete hired two jigs—Sonny Liston boys. They were good drivers. They were semi-punch-drunk. They were good Browntown brawn.
Biz was strong. The cash base was strong. No Monarch clients strayed.
Pete ran the hut. Pete worked three shifts. Work drove him. Work drained him. Work killed his bad thoughts.
He lived at the hut. He brought the cat in. The cat chased wall rats. He built a straight john. He kept the fruit john. The straights refused to shit with the fruits.
The straights hated the fruits. The fruits reciprocated. Pete addressed the issue. Pete stressed coexistence. Pete enforced the Law:
No bickering. No fistfights. No factional wars. No sex jive. No queer-straight flirtation.
Both factions kowtowed. Both factions obeyed.
He cut a deal with Johnny R. He got roost rights at the Dunes. He cut a deal with Sam G. He got roost rights at the Sands.
He told the crew: I WANT DIRT.
Quiz hookers. Quiz card dealers. Glom dirt. Glom dirt on celebrity tricks and gamble-o-holics. Accrue dirt. Report dirt to Milt C.
Milt was good. Milt mediated crew complaints. Milt deflected tsuris.
Milt made airport runs. Milt drove famous fruits. Milt drove state legislators. Milt drove them to fuck pads. Milt drove them to dope dens. Milt reported his dirt.
Milt dispersed tip cash. Milt greased bellhops/barkeeps/B-girls. Milt said I WANT DIRT.
Dirt meant leverage. Dirt meant status. Leverage meant juice. Juice for the Boys and Drac Hughes.
Tiger Kab: Dirt Central. The racket hub supreme.
The fruits pulled crimes. The straights pulled crimes. They achieved détente and pulled crimes together. Pete hired drivers off rap sheets. Pete hired drivers off reps. Pete hired bent guys x-clusive.
Pete consolidated. Pete worked two main gigs. Pete worked the pill and slot-machine endeavors.
He dumped the smut gig. He dumped the mule flix. He dumped the T.J. cops. He dumped the smut kids. He leaned on Eldon Peavy. He made him quit making smut.
He hired Farlan Moss. He sent him to T.J. Moss greased the spic cops. Moss shanghaied the kids. Moss sent them home pronto más.
Pete stole Peavy’s records. Pete logged smut transactions. Pete logged DIRT.
Peavy left town. Pete lost his cab protection. Pete called Sam G. Sam Tigerized and bought points. Sam bought in for 20%.
Sam bought protection—new and improved—Sheriff’s and LVPD. Co-op deals meant insurance. Insurance meant safety. Safety meant anesthesia.
He shut Betty out. It worked intermittent. He notched minutes and hours and sleep. He did make-work. He did real work. He stretched the time. He cultivated distraction.
He’d get frazzled. He’d get fucked up. Betty jumped him then. It scared him. It relieved him. It said THIS IS REAL.
Betty stuck with him. Dallas faded away.
The Warren thing hits. Lee O. takes the rap. Jack Ruby goes down guilty as charged. Jack stays mute. Jack gets death. Ratfuck Bobby resigns as AG.
Barb dropped the p.m. news. Wayne dropped his Dallas questions. Carlos dropped all the hit talk. Betty took a slug. Arden-Jane dodged one for now.
Jimmy took another slug—pension-fund fraud—two five-year terms concurrent. Jimmy’s fucked. Jimmy knows it. Jimmy seeks solace.
His good lawyers helped. His good Teamsters helped. Likewise Ward’s fund-book plan.
Tiger was solace plus. Tiger subsumed Betty—intermittent.
Tiger roared. Tiger roamed. Tiger roved West LV. That trailer was still there. That whore decomped within.
Wayne wanted work. Wayne pressed Pete. Pete always said no. Tiger Kab hired spooks. Tiger Kab drove spooks. Wayne was spook-afflicted.
Wayne worked for Wayne père. Père tied his apron strings. Père had big pull. Père foresaw that Gulf of Tonkin thing.
Wayne was wowed—dig my dad—he’s a chingón.
Wayne Senior pressed Wayne—let’s start a snitch-Klan—the Neutered Knights of Natchez or some such fucking shit.
Wayne played along. Pete said: Don’t do it—Klans just ain’t you.
Wayne Senior bragged to excess. Ward Littell listened. Ward knew Wayne. Ward had pull with him. Ward could cut those strings.
Wayne Senior greased the hit fund. Wayne Senior told Ward. Wayne Senior sent Wayne to Dallas.
Wayne was naive. Wayne didn’t know.
Stay naive—you’ll live longer. Tiger rules. Ditch the hate and I’ll find you a spot. It’s elite. It’s effete. It helps you shut dead women out.
51
(Las Vegas, 9/10/64)
Canned food and booze. Sauerkraut and Cointreau—all Air Force stock.
Wayne tossed crates. A swamper stacked them. They worked. They broiled. They hogged the DI dock.
Creamed corn and Smirnoff. Stuffed olives and Pernod. Cheez-Its and Old Crow.
Wayne worked fast. The swamper worked slow. The swamper yak-yakked.
“You know we lost some guys, including our steward. I heard your dad got them work with Howard Hughes. Some lawyer set it up.”
Wayne tossed the last crate. The swamper caught it. The swamper peeled his roll and paid up.
He shuffled. He scratched. He played coy. He dragged out the transaction.
Wayne said, “What is it?”
“Well, it’s sort of personal.”
“I’m listening.”
“Well … you think that Durfee guy’s stupid enough to come back here?”
“I don’t think he’s stupid at all.”
Wayne drove to Nellis.
He’d scheduled two loops. A late shot for Twinkies and Jim Beam—all Flamingo stock.
Wayne yawned. Traffic was slow. The job was soporific. The job was a soggy cream puff.
He figured it out. It took him weeks. Wayne Senior wants you bored. Wayne Senior has plans.
Said plans implied:
Go to Alabama. Stress your reputation. Drop how you avenged Lynette. Start a snitch-Klan. Recruit snitches. Work for the Feds.
He told Pete about it. Pete said, “It’s cowardly shit.”
He hit Owens. He hit the Nellis gates. He drove straight in. Nellis was beige—beige buildings/beige barracks/beige lawns.
Big barracks. Named for Strip hotels. No goof or satire implied.
His QM contact lived off base. His QM parked on. Wayne had dupe car keys. Wayne left his coin in the car.
He passed the “Sands.” He passed the “Dunes.” He passed the Officers’ Club. He parked. He got out. He saw the QM’s Ford.
Two rows up: A ’62 Vette.
Red with white side coves. Whitewalls and chrome pipes. Janice’s cherried-out car.
Janice left the ranch. Janice left at noon. Janice said she was off to play golf. Boulder/thirty-six holes/Twin Palms Country Club.
Blithe Janice. Golf—shit.
Wayne unlocked the Ford. Wayne rolled down the windows. Wayne scrunched low and tucked himself in.
Cars came. Cars went. He chewed gum. He popped sweat. He stared at the Vette.
Time chugged. Time rescinded. Some instinct said stick.
The sun arced. The sun hit the Ford. Wayne broiled. His gum starched and dried out.
There’s Janice.
She leaves the O Club. She gets in her Vette. She kicks the key and idles it.
There’s Clark Kinman.
He leaves the O Club. He gets in a Dodge. He kicks the key and idles it.
Janice pulls out. Kinman pulls out behind.
Wayne pulled out. Wayne hung back. Cut the leash/cut them some slack.
Wayne hung back. Wayne read his watch dial. Wayne ticked one full minute off.
&nbs
p; Now—
He hauled. He closed in. He caught up. Three-car caravan—east-bound—Lake Mead Boulevard.
Janice drove point. Kinman tapped his horn. Kinman goosed her pipes. They played. They flirted out their windows. They goofed.
Wayne hung back. Wayne held two car-lengths down. Wayne sidled one lane over.
They drove east. They logged eight miles. They hit a desert patch. Motel strips and beer bars. Sand and last-chance fill-ups.