“Value” tore it—fuck him sideways.
Wayne pulled his chair up. Wayne leaned in close. Wayne bumped Fritsch’s knees hard.
“Do you think I’d kill a man for six thousand dollars and a few pats on the back? For the record, I didn’t want to kill him, I couldn’t have killed him, I wouldn’t have killed him, and that’s the best value you’ll ever get out of me.”
Fritsch blinked. His hands jumped. He popped big spitballs.
It played wrong. Logic 101—E follows D.
Pete wants the files. Pete knows the fail-safe procedure. One cop holds the files. Said cop probes alleged misconduct. Said cop informs the Gaming Commission.
The procedure restricts data. The procedure hinders corrupt cops. The procedure curtails corrupt PDs.
Honest cops rigged the plan—one cop/one file set. Intel cops found protégés. Intel cops passed the job on. The last intel cop died on duty. Wayne Senior pulled strings. Wayne Senior got Wayne the job.
E follows D. Pete’s mobbed up. Buddy Fritsch ditto. Buddy knows the files hold old data. The last misconduct charge was filed in 1960.
Pete wants new dirt. Pete wants hot dirt. Pete squeezed Buddy Fritsch. Buddy’s pissed at Wayne. Buddy worships Wayne Senior. Buddy knows Wayne will do the job.
Wayne kept his files in a bank vault. Per procedure: a safe at the main B of A.
He drove over. A clerk cracked the vault. Wayne cracked the files out. He knew the names already. He skimmed the stats and got refreshed. He wrote down addresses.
Duane Joseph Hinton. Age 46. Building contractor/Mormon. No Mob ties. Drunk/wife beater. 7/59—one accusation logged.
Hinton bribes state legislators. A snitch so states. Hinton buys them whores. Hinton gives them fight tickets. They slip him bid sheets. Thus Hinton underbids. Thus Hinton gets state building jobs.
Said tip—unverified. Case closed—9/59.
Webb Templeton Spurgeon. Age 54. Retired lawyer/Mormon. No Mob ties/no accusations logged.
Eldon Lowell Peavy. Age 46. Owner: the Monarch Cab Company/the Golden Cavern Hotel-Casino.
The Cavern drew low rollers. Monarch Cab was low-end. Cabs drove drunks to grind joints. Cabs perched at the jail. Cabs drove prostitutes. Monarch serviced West LV. Monarch drove Negroes. Monarch got cash up front.
Eldon Peavy was a fag. Eldon Peavy hired ex-cons. Eldon Peavy owned a Reno fruit bar.
Tips logged: 8/60, 9/60, 4/61, 6/61, 10/61, 1/62, 3/62, 8/62. Snitch tips—thus far unverified:
Peavy’s drivers pack guns. Peavy’s drivers push pills. Peavy runs male prostitutes. Peavy sells choice chicken. Peavy scouts the main-room shows. Peavy recruits dancers to fuck and suck.
They’re cute. They’re queer. They whore for kicks and amphetamines. They spread for male movie stars.
The last tip: logged 8/62.
Wayne worked Patrol then. Wayne made sergeant. Wayne moved to Intel: 10/8/62. The prior cop logged the tips. Said cop was bribe-proof/mean/lazy.
He crashed a market heist. He took five slugs and fed nine back. He died. He killed two wetbacks en route.
Three board men. Nine tips—unverified. Wayne checked the adjunct forms—they looked kosher.
Peavy registered his ex-cons. Peavy’s tax sheets looked clean. Ditto Hinton and Spurgeon.
Wayne locked the files up. The clerk locked the vault. Wayne got some coffee. Wayne killed some time.
He dawdled. He killed more time. He drove to the station. He pulled into the lot. Buddy Fritsch pulled out. It was way weird and un-Fritsch-like.
It was 5:10. Fritsch always booked at 6:00 p.m. Fritsch booked like clockwork.
His wife divorced him—late last year. Said wife split with her dyke lover. Fritsch sulked and mooned. Fritsch grooved a cuckold routine.
He splits work at 6:00. He hits the Elks Lodge. He drinks his dinner and plays bridge.
Wayne drove past the station. Fritsch drove down 1st Street. Wayne watched him go. Fritsch turned east. The Elks Lodge was due west.
Wayne U-turned. Wayne laid two cars back. Fritsch hugged the curb lane. Fritsch stopped at Binion’s Casino.
A man walked up. Fritsch cracked his window. The man passed an envelope. Wayne jumped lanes. Wayne nailed a view. Wayne nailed an ID:
Butch Montrose. Sam G.’s boy. One piece of shit.
24
(Las Vegas, 1/6/64)
Barb did the Wah-Watusi. She sang. She shimmied. She shook.
The Bondsmen played loud. Barb missed high notes. She sang for shit. She knew it. She eschewed all airs pertaining to.
The lounge was full. Barb drew men. Call them sad sacks all. Lonely geeks and retirees—plus Wayne Tedrow Junior.
Pete watched.
Barb raised her arms. Barb threw sweat. Barb showed red stubble. It jazzed him. He loved her taste there.
Barb did the Swim. The stage light burned her freckles. Pete watched Barb. Wayne Junior watched Pete. It fucked with his nerves.
His nerves were shot. The Summit came and went. The Boys said no. Ward stated his case. Carlos concurred—let’s push Big “H.”
They lost the referendum—down by four votes.
He saw Carlos in New Orleans. Carlos saw the Zangetty pix. Carlos said “Bravissimo.” They schmoozed. They schmoozed Cuba. They launched laments. The CIA shitcanned the Cuban cause. The rank & file Outfit ditto.
Pete still cared. Carlos too. The old crew found new work.
John Stanton was in Vietnam. The CIA was there large. Vietnam was Cuba with gooks. Laurent Guéry and Flash Elorde freelanced—right-wing muscle on call. They gigged out of Mexico City. Laurent clipped Reds in Paraguay. Flash clipped Reds in the DR.
Pete and Carlos schmoozed Tiger Kab. Good times in Miami—dope and exile recruitment. Tiger-striped cabs/black-and-gold seats/heroin and la Causa.
They schmoozed the hit. Carlos brought it up. Carlos schmoozed new details. Pete keyed on the pro shooter. Chuck said he was French. Carlos had new details.
Laurent brought him in. Laurent went Francophile. The pro had frog credentials. He was an ex-Indochine hand. He was an ex-Algerian killer.
He tried to kill Charles de Gaulle. He failed. He hated de Gaulle. He waxed homicidal. Let’s kill JFK—JFK french-kissed Charlie in Paris.
Carlos waxed mad—Jack Z.’s body washed up—the Dallas paper ran news. Jack’s missing guests got bopkes. Jack was dirty. Jack ran a “hideout.” Jack’s death vibed “gangland job.”
The wash-up felt like a fuck-up. The wash-up felt like a No. Junior said “No files.” The Boys said “No dope.”
Carlos said, “March.” You know what I want—kill the safe-house crew.
Pete drove to Dallas. Pete fake-searched for Arden. Pete searched for Betty Mac. He tapped out. That was good. He warned Betty. Betty got smart and ran.
He got a lead on Hank Killiam. Hank was now in Florida. Hank read the Dallas paper. The Jack Z. bit scared him.
Pete called Carlos. Pete reported the lead. Pete kissed some wop ass. They schmoozed. Carlos ragged on Guy B.
Guy drank too much. Guy talked too much. Guy loved his blowhard pal Hank Hudspeth. They boozed too much. They talked too much. They bragged to excess.
Pete said, “I’ll clip them.” Carlos said, “No.” Carlos changed the subject. Hey, Pete—where’s that hump Maynard Moore?
Pete said a coon killed him. The DPD was pissed. The Klan kontingent issued a kontract.
Carlos laughed. Carlos howled. Carlos oozed delight.
The hit awed him.
They did it. They got away clean. The safe-house geeks meant shit. Carlos knew it. The hit was a kick. Let’s schmooze it and relive it. Let’s kill some geeks for conversation.
Pete sipped a Coke. He quit booze last week. Carlos ragged Guy. Carlos despised drunks.
Barb twirled the mike cord. Barb blew a note. Barb threw perspiration off.
Pete watched Barb. Wayne Junior watched him.
Barb gigged late. Pete went home alone.
He cal
led room service. He stood on the terrace and dug on the Strip. He felt cold air swirl.
The phone rang. He grabbed it.
“Yeah?”
“That Pete? You know, the big guy passin’ out his number on the west side?”
“Yeah, this is Pete.”
“Well, that’s good, ’cause I’m calling ’bout that reward.”
Pete said, “I’m listening.”
“You should be, ’cause Wendell Durfee’s in town, and I heard he bought a gun off a craps dealer. And I also heard that Curtis and Leroy just brought in some hair-o-wine.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/7/64. Covert tape-recording transcript. Recorded at Hickory Hill, Virginia. Speaking: Doug Eversall, Robert F. Kennedy.
(Background noise/overlapping voices)
RFK (conversation in progress): Well, if you think it’s essen—
DE: If you wouldn’t mind, I’d (background noise/overlapping voices) (Incidental noise. Door slam & footsteps)
RFK (conversation in progress): Have been in here. They shed all over the rugs.
DE (coughs): I’ve got two Airedales.
RFK: They’re good dogs. They get along well with children. (Pause: 2.6 seconds) Doug, what is it? You look the way people are telling me I look.
DE: Well.
RFK: Well, what? We’re here to set trial dates, remember?
DE (coughs): Well, it’s about the President.
RFK: Johnson or my brother?
DE: Your brother. (Pause: 3.2 seconds) It’s, well, I don’t like the thing with Ruby. (Pause: 1.8 seconds) I don’t want to sound out of line, but it bothers me.
RFK: You’re saying? (Pause: 2.1 seconds) I know what you’re saying. He’s got Mob connections. Some reporters have been digging up stories.
DE (coughs): That’s the main thing, yes. (Pause: DE coughs) And, well, you know, Oswald allegedly spent some time in New—
RFK: Orleans last summer, and you used to work for the State’s Attorney down there.
DE: Well, that’s about—
RFK: No, but thanks. (Pause: 4.0 seconds) And you’re right about Ruby. He walked in there, he shot him, and he looked relieved as hell that he did it.
DE (coughs): And he’s dirty.
RFK (laughs): Cough away from me. I can’t afford to lose any more work days.
DE: I’m sorry I brought all this up. You don’t need to be reminded.
RFK: Jesus Christ, quit apologizing every two seconds. The sooner people start treating me normally, the better off I’ll be.
DE: Sir, I—
RFK: That’s a good example. You didn’t start calling me “Sir” until my brother died.
DE (coughs): I just want to help. (Pause: 2.7 seconds) It’s the time-line that bothers me. The hearings, Valachi’s testimony, Ruby. (Pause: 1.4 seconds) I used to prosecute homicides with multiple defendants. I learned to trust time—
RFK: I know what you’re saying. (Pause: RFK coughs) Factors converge. The hearings. The raids I ordered. You know, the exile camps. The Mob was supporting the exiles, so they both had motives. (Pause: 11.2 seconds) That’s what bothers me. If that’s what happened, they killed Jack to get at me. (Pause: 4.8 seconds) If that … shit … they should have killed …
DE (coughs): Bob, I’m sorry.
RFK: Quit apologizing and coughing. I’m susceptible to colds right now.
(DE laughs.)
RFK: You’re right about the time-line. It’s the order of things that bothers me. (Pause: 1.9 seconds) There’s another thing, too.
DE: Sir? I mean—
RFK: One of Hoffa’s lawyers approached me a few days before Dallas. It was very strange.
DE: What was his name?
RFK: Littell. (Pause: 1.3 seconds) I made some inquiries. He works for Carlos Marcello. (Pause: 2.3 seconds). Don’t say it. Marcello is based in New Orleans.
DE: I’d be willing to contact my sources, and—
RFK: No. It’s best for the country this way. No trial, no bullshit.
DE: Well, there’s the Commission.
RFK: You’re being naive. Hoover and Johnson know what’s best for the country, and they spell it “Whitewash.” (Pause: 2.6 seconds) They don’t care. There’s the people who care and the people who don’t. They’re all part of the same consensus.
DE: I care.
RFK: I know you do. Just don’t labor the point. This conversation is starting to embarrass me.
DE: I’m sor—
RFK: Jesus, don’t start that again.
(DE laughs.)
RFK: Will you stay on in Justice? If I resign, I mean.
DE: It depends on the new man. (Pause: 2.2 seconds) Are you going to?
RFK: Maybe. I’m just licking my wounds right now. (Pause: 1.6 seconds) Johnson might put me on the ticket. I’d take it if he asked, and some people want me to run for Ken Keating’s senate seat in New York.
DE: I’ll vote for you. I’ve got a summer place in Rhinebeck.
(RFK laughs.)
DE: I just wish there were something I could do.
RFK: Well, you made me feel better.
DE: I’m glad.
RFK: And you’re right. Something about the time-line feels suspicious.
DE: Yes, that’s—
RFK: We can’t bring my brother back, but I’ll tell you this, though. When the—(footsteps obscure conversation)—right I’ll jump on it, and devil take the hindmost.
(Door slam & footsteps. Tape terminates here.)
25
(Los Angeles, 1/9/64)
He bought Jane a wallet. Saks engraved it.
Soft kid. A lowercase “j.f.”
Jane fanned the sleeves. “You were right. I showed them my Alabama license, and they gave me a new one right there.”
Littell smiled. Jane smiled and posed. She leaned on the window. She jutted a hip out. She blocked off the view.
Littell pulled his chair up. “We’ll get you a Social Security card. You’ll have all the ID you need.”
Jane smiled. “What about a master’s degree? You got me the B.A. already.”
Littell crossed his legs. “You could go to UCLA and earn one.”
“How about this? I could divide my studies between L.A., D.C., and Vegas, just to keep up with my peripatetic lover.”
Littell smiled. “Was that a jibe?”
“Just an observation.”
“You’re getting restless. You’re overqualified for a life of leisure.”
Jane pirouetted. Jane dipped low and stood on her toes. She was good. She was lithe. She’d studied somewhere.
Littell said, “Some people from the safe house have disappeared. That’s good news more than bad.”
Jane shrugged. Jane scissored low. Her skirt brushed the floor.
“Where did you learn that?”
Jane said, “Tulane. I audited a dance class, but you won’t see it on my transcript.”
Littell sat on the floor. Jane scissored up to him.
“I want to find a job. I was a good bookkeeper, even before you improved my credentials.”
Littell stroked her feet. Jane wiggled her toes.
“You could find me something at Hughes Aircraft.”
Littell shook his head. “Mr. Hughes is very disturbed. I’m working against him on some levels, and I want to keep you out of that side of my life.”
Jane grabbed her cigarettes. “Any other ideas?”
“I could get you work with the Teamsters.”
Jane shook her head. “No. That’s not me.”
“Why?”
She lit a cigarette. Her hand shook.
“It’s just not. I’ll find a job, don’t worry.”
Littell traced her stocking runs. “You’ll do better than that. You’ll excel and upstage everyone you work with.”
Jane smiled. Littell pinched out her cigarette. He kissed her. He touched her hair. He saw a new gray.
Jane pulled his tie off. “Tell me about the last woman you were with.”
Littel
l cleaned his glasses. “Her name was Helen Agee. She was a friend of my daughter’s. I got in trouble with the Bureau and Helen was the first casualty.”
“She left you?”
“She ran, yes.”
“What kind of trouble were you in?”
“I underestimated Mr. Hoover.”
“That’s all you’ll tell me?”
“Yes.”
“What happened to Helen?”
“She’s a legal-aid lawyer. The last I heard, my daughter was, too.”
Jane kissed him. “We have to be who we decided to be in Dallas.”
Littell said, “Yes.”
Jane fell asleep. Littell feigned sleep. Littell got up slow.
He walked to his office. He set up his tape rig. He poured some coffee.
He nailed Doug Eversall. He called him yesterday. He threatened him. He crossed the line.
He said don’t call Carlos. Don’t tell him what Bobby said. Don’t rat out Bobby.
He warned him. He said I’m working freelance. Don’t fuck me or I’ll retaliate. You’re a drunk driver/killer. I’ll expose you for that. I won’t let Carlos hurt Bobby.
Bobby suspected the Boys. That meant Bobby KNEW. Bobby didn’t say it flat out. Bobby didn’t need to. Bobby sidestepped the pain.
Mea culpa. Cause-and-effect. My Mob crusade killed my brother.
Littell spooled the tape—tape copy #2.
He’d doctored a dupe. He pouched it to Mr. Hoover. He retained the small talk. He layered in static. He x’d out Bobby’s Mob talk.
Littell hit Play. Bobby talked. His grief showed. His kindness showed through.
Kind Bobby—a chat with his clubfooted friend.
Bobby talked. Bobby paused. Bobby said the name “Littell.”
Littell listened. Littell timed the pauses. Bobby faltered. Bobby KNEW. Bobby never said it.
Littell listened. Littell lived the pauses. The old fear came. It told him this:
You believe in him again.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/10/64. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Ward J. Littell.