He popped a burglar once—late in ’60. He kept his tool kit. He kept his picklocks.
Room #5 glowed. The door was green. Green like that song:
What’s that secret you’re keeping?
DOCUMENT INSERT: 9/12/64. Confidential memorandum: Howard Hughes to Ward J. Littell.
Dear Ward,
Bravo on the new casino consultants. My aides have chosen three rough and tumble, no-nonsense men from that list you submitted, and they have assured me that they are devout Mormons with germ-free blood.
Their names are Thomas D. Elwell, Lamar L. Dean and Daryl D. Kleindienst. They have extensive union experience in Las Vegas and, according to my aides, will not be afraid to negotiate and “lock horns” with those Mafia boys that Mr. Hoover tells me you have in your pocket. According to my aides, these men “know the ropes.” They did not meet with them in person, but have corresponded with your friend Mr. Tedrow in Las Vegas and have solicited his advice. Mr. Tedrow is well respected in Mormon circles, they tell me, and I confirmed that assessment with Mr. Hoover.
The new men will be traveling hither and yon to advance our Las Vegas plans, so I’m pleased that they are cutting down commercial airline costs by flying Hughes charters. I’ve sent memos to all the charter crews instructing them to have lots of Fritos, Pepsi-Cola and Rocky Road ice cream on hand, because hard-working men deserve to eat well. Also, thanks for getting charter clearance at Nellis Air Force Base, which cuts down costs as well.
Forewarned is forearmed, Ward. You’ve convinced me that our Las Vegas approach will take time, and I think this casino consultant plan is a winner. I look forward to receiving your first report.
All best,
H.H.
52
(Las Vegas, 9/12/64)
Wayne Senior said, “I know what my men are transporting.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, ‘Oh.’ They’ve explained the entire procedure.”
They sat poolside. Janice stood close. Janice sunned and putted golf balls.
“You knew at our first meeting. It was quite evident.”
“An instinct doesn’t equal a certainty.”
Littell raised one brow. “You’re being disingenuous. You knew then, you know now, and you’ve known at all points in between.”
Wayne Senior coughed. “Don’t mimic my gestures. You don’t have my flair.”
Littell grabbed his prop stick. Littell twirled it. Fuck Wayne Senior sideways.
“Tell me what you want. Be direct, and feel free to use the word ‘skim.’ ”
Wayne Senior coughed. “My men have quit the union. They refuse to pay me the percentage I requested.”
Littell twirled the stick. “How much do you want?”
“I’d be satisfied with 5%.”
Littell twirled the stick. Littell twirled figure-eights. Littell did all Wayne Senior’s tricks.
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Categorically?”
“Yes.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “I have to assume that Mr. Hughes doesn’t know what his planes are transporting.”
Littell studied Janice. She flexed. She putted. She stretched.
“I would advise you not to tell him.”
“Why? Because your Italian friends will hurt me?”
“Because I’ll tell your son that you sent him to Dallas.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 9/12/64. Dallas Morning News article.
REPORTER WRITING JFK BOOK; SAYS HE’LL “BLOW
CONSPIRACY WIDE OPEN”
Dallas Times-Herald reporter Jim Koethe has a tale to tell, and he’ll tell it to anyone who’ll listen.
On Sunday evening, November 24, 1963, Koethe, along with Times-Herald editor Robert Cuthbert and reporter Bill Hunter of the Long Beach (California) Press-Telegram, visited the apartment of Jack Ruby, the convicted killer of presidential assassin Lee Harvey Oswald. The three men spent “two or three hours” talking to Ruby’s roommate, novelty salesman George Senator. “I can’t reveal what Mr. Senator said,” Koethe told this reporter. “But believe you me it was an eye-opener, and it sure got me thinking about some things.”
Koethe went on to say that he’s done quite a bit of digging into the assassination and is writing a book on the subject. “It’s a conspiracy, sure as shooting,” he said. “And my book is going to blow it wide open.”
Koethe refused to name the people he believes are responsible for the death of President John F. Kennedy and refused to reveal the basic motive and details of the conspiracy. “You’ll have to wait for the book,” Koethe said. “And believe me, the book will be well worth the wait.”
Koethe’s friend, reporter Bill Hunter, died in April. Editor Robert Cuthbert declined to be interviewed in depth for this article. “Jim’s extracurricular activities are his business,” Cuthbert said. “I wish him well with his book, though, because I love a good potboiler. Personally, I think Oswald was the lone assassin, and the Warren Report sure backs me up. Still, I’ve got to say that Jim Koethe exemplifies the bulldog reporter, so maybe he’s on to something.”
Koethe, 37, is a colorful local scribe, known for his persistence, assertive behavior and connections within the Dallas Police Department. He is reputed to be a close friend of DPD Officer Maynard D. Moore, who disappeared around the time of the assassination. Asked to comment on Officer Moore’s missing status, Koethe said, “Mum’s the word. A good reporter doesn’t reveal his sources and a good book writer doesn’t reveal anything.”
I guess we’ll have to wait for the book. In the meantime, though, interested parties will have to make do with the 16-volume Warren Report, which for this reporter stands as the authoritative final word.
53
(Las Vegas, 9/13/64)
The cat snared a rat. One chomp—adieu.
The cat prowled the hut. The cat paraded. Harvey Brams crossed himself. Donkey Dom laughed.
Milt grabbed the rat. The cat snarled. Milt dropped the rat in the shitter. The cat nuzzled Pete. The cat clawed the switchboard.
Biz was slow. The 6:00 p.m. blues descended.
Champ B. bopped through. Champ B. juked morale. Champ B. dumped some hijacked Pall Malls.
Pete bought them. Call it PR swag—potential Drac donations. Hospital swag—yuk-yuk—lung-ward booty.
Biz picked up. Sonny Liston called. Sonny ordered two cabs. Sonny ordered scotch and red devils.
Pete yawned. Pete stroked the cat. Wayne walked in distracted. Dom checked his basket. Dom eyeball-stroked his bulge.
Pete said, “I’ve been calling you.”
Wayne shrugged. Wayne passed Pete a note. A news clip—two columns. A call came in. Milt plugged it. Pete steered Wayne outside.
Wayne looked frazzled. Pete sized him up. Pete stuck the clip in his pocket.
“Sol Durslag. Ring a bell?”
“Sure. He’s a card cheat. He’s the treasurer for the Liquor Board, and he used to work for my father.”
“Did they fall out?”
“Everybody falls out with—”
“Your father owns the Land o’ Gold, right? He’s got covert points.”
“Right. The Gold and thirteen more.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “Milt’s been digging up shit. He heard that Durslag’s been running card counters out of the Gold. I might need his help down the line.”
Wayne smiled. “My father used to run him.”
“That’s what Milt said.”
“So you …”
“I want you to muscle him. Think about it. You’re Wayne Senior’s son, and you’ve got your own reputation.”
Wayne said, “Is this a test?”
Pete said, “Yes.”
Durslag lived on Torrey. Durslag lived middle-class. Durslag lived in the Sherlock Homes tract.
Said tract was a style clash. Mock Tudors and palm trees. Mock gables and sand lots. Mixed-message mishegoss.
It was dark. The house was dark. Clouds draped the
moon.
Pete knocked. Pete got no answer. The garage door was up. They lounged inside.
Pete smoked. Pete got a headache. Pete popped aspirin. Wayne yawned. Wayne shadowboxed. Wayne fucked with a gooseneck lamp.
Milt dished on Sol. Milt said Sol was divorced. Good news—no women.
The wait dragged. 1:00 a.m. went south. They loitered. They stretched kinks out. They pissed the walls green.
There—
Headlights/the driveway/incoming beams.
Pete crouched. Wayne crouched. A Caddy pulled in. The beams dimmed. Sol got out. Sol sniffed—
What’s that smoke sm—
He ran. Pete tripped him. Wayne threw him up on the hood. Pete grabbed the lamp. Pete whipped the neck down. Pete flashed light on Wayne.
“That’s Mr. Tedrow. You used to work for his father.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Pete flashed him. Sol blinked. Sol rolled off the hood. Wayne grabbed him. Wayne pinned him. Wayne pulled his sap out.
Pete flashed him. Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the arms. Sol shut his eyes. Sol bit his lips. Sol squeezed up fists.
Wayne said, “Pull your crew out of the Land o’ Gold.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the chest.
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Pete said, “Say yes twice. That’s all we want.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the arms.
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Wayne sapped him. Pete flashed him. The bulb was bright. The bulb was hot. The bulb burned his face.
Wayne raised his sap. Wayne swung it. Pete stopped him short.
“One yes to me, one to Mr. Tedrow. Pull your crew. Do my people some liquor-board favors.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Pete cued Wayne. Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the arms/the ribs. Sol balled up. Sol rolled. Sol clipped the hood ornament. Sol snapped a wiper blade.
Sol coughed. Sol choked. Sol said, “Fuck you, yes, okay.”
Pete pulled the lamp up. The light bounced and fizzed.
“That’s two ‘yes’s,’ right?”
Sol opened his eyes. Sol had singed brows. Sol had scorched lids.
“Yeah, two. You think I want this as a steady diet?”
Pete pulled his flask—Old Crow bond—instant headache relief.
Sol grabbed it. Sol drained it. Sol coughed and flushed—Man-o-Manischewitz, that’s good!
He winced. He rolled off the hood. He stood straight up. He grabbed the lamp. He bent the neck. He flashed light on Wayne.
“Your father told me some things about you, sonny boy.”
Wayne said, “I’m listening.”
“I could tell you some things about that sick hump.”
Wayne bent the lamp down. The light bounced and fizzed.
“You can tell me. I won’t hurt you.”
Sol coughed. Sol hacked phlegm—thick and blood-infused.
“He said you had it bad for his wife. Like a little pervert puppy.”
Wayne said, “And?”
“And you never had the gumption to act.”
Pete watched Wayne. Pete watched his hands. Pete got in close.
Wayne said, “And?”
“And Daddy shouldn’t preach, ’cause he’s a sick hump as far as his wife is concerned.”
Pete watched Wayne. Pete blocked his hands. Pete closed in close.
Wayne said, “And?”
Sol coughed. “And Daddy has Mommy screw these guys that he wants to cultivate, and Mommy had this unauthorized thing with a colored musician named Wardell Gray, and Daddy beat him to death with his cane.”
Wayne swayed. Sol laughed. Sol flipped his tie in his face.
“Fuck you. You’re a punk. You’re a hump like your daddy.”
54
(Las Vegas, 9/14/64)
The Golden Gorge—11:00 p.m.
Twelve rooms. Sleepy braceros. Room #5—empty. Room #4—trysted up.
They showed at 9:00. They brought two cars. Kinman brought liquor. Janice brought the key.
Wayne watched. Wayne walked the parking lot. Wayne brought tools. Wayne brought lockpicks and a penlight.
Pervert pup. Hump like your—
The lot was dead. No loungers/no muchachos/no drunks flaked in cars. Room #5—no windows. Room #4—dark.
Wayne braced door 5. Wayne got his tools out. Wayne flashed the locks.
Eleven brown doors. One green door as standout. One pervert-pup joke.
Wayne worked the picks. Wayne rotated clockwise and counter. Wayne tapped both locks.
His hands jumped. He dripped sweat. He gored his thumbs. Clockwise/reverse it/go count—
The top lock snapped.
He popped one tumbler. He wiped his hands. He popped one mo—
The bottom lock snapped.
Wayne wiped his hands. Wayne leaned on the door. Wayne rode the door and stepped in.
He shut the door. He flashed the room. It was small. It smelled familiar.
Old smells—embedded. Wayne Senior’s booze. Wayne Senior’s tobacco.
Wayne flashed the floor. Wayne flashed the walls. Wayne got the gestalt.
A chair. A sideboard. One ashtray/one bottle/one glass. One mirror-peek. Room #4 access. A wall speaker/soundproof wall pads/a sound switch.
Wayne sat down. Wayne made the chair—surplus from Peru, Indiana. The peek was dark. Room #4 was dark. Wayne poured a drink.
He downed it. It singed. He rode the burn out. The peek was 3-by-3. The standard cop size—the stock mirror-mount.
Wayne hit the switch. Wayne heard Kinman moan. Wayne heard Janice moan counterpoint.
Janice moaned arch. Janice moaned smut-actress style—Stag Loop 101.
Wayne poured a drink. Wayne downed it. Wayne rode the burn out. Kinman came—ooo-ooo-ooo. Janice came concurrent. Janice came mezzo-falsetto—smut meets the Met.
Wayne heard soft talk. Wayne heard giggles. Wayne heard speaker warp. A light went on. Room #4 flared.
Janice got out of bed. Janice stood up nude. Janice walked to her side of the mirror. She lingered. She posed. She grabbed her cigarettes off a dresser.
Wayne leaned in tight. Janice blurred. Wayne leaned way back to reframe. Kinman said something. Kinman murmured sweet talk. Kinman was oblivious. Kinman knew fuck-all.
Janice rubbed her appendix scar. Janice tossed her hair.
Her breasts swayed. Her hair tousled. She raised steam. She dripped sweat. She smiled. She licked a finger. She wrote “Junior” on the mirror.
55
(Dallas, 9/21/64)
Jim Koethe was queer.
He bolstered his crotch. He prowled fag bars. He brought boys home. Home was Oak Cliff—bumfuck Big D. Home was the Oak View Apartments.
Three floors. Outside walkways. All courtyard and streetside views.
Pete hogged a bus bench. Pete watched the pad. Pete carried a treat bag. 1:16 a.m.—fruit alert.
Koethe had a date. Koethe poked his dates for two hours. Pete knew Koethe. Pete knew Koethe’s routine.
Wayne read the Dallas papers. Wayne passed a clip on. It pertained to Koethe’s “book.” It pertained to Koethe’s pal Maynard Moore. Pete flew to Dallas. Pete tailed Koethe. Pete played scribe. Pete called Koethe’s editor.
The guy ragged Koethe. Koethe was a jack-off. Koethe was Mr. Pipe Dream. Sure—they went to Ruby’s crib. Sure—they talked to his roommate. But—the talk was all bullshit. The talk was all jive.
Conspiracy—shit. Read the Warren Report.
The guy was convincing—but—Jim Koethe knew Maynard Moore.
A bus pulled up—some late-night express. Pete waved it on.
He killed four days. He tailed Koethe. He grooved Koethe’s routine. Koethe loved the Holiday. Koethe loved Vic’s Parisian. Koethe loved Gene’s Music Room. Koethe sipped sidecars. Koethe prowled the johns. Koethe buzz-bom
bed young flesh.
Oak Cliff was the shits. Oak Cliff was a ghost zone. Betty Mac/Ruby’s pad/the Oswald-Tippit tiff.
Koethe’s date walked out. Koethe’s date walked bowlegged. He swished by the bench. He checked Pete out. He went uugh and swished away.
Pete put his gloves on. Pete grabbed his treat bag. Koethe lived in 306—one light extant.
Pete took the side stairs. Pete walked up slow. Pete checked the walkways. No outdoor noise/no indoor noise/no visible wits.
He walked over. He braced the door. He tapped the knob. He popped the lock-catch. He opened the door. He walked in. He saw a dark room. He caught sounds and shadows.
Shower noise—down a side hall—off a doorway. Steam and light at that spot.
Pete stood still. Pete strained his eyes. Pete got indoor sight. He saw a living room–office. He saw file drawers. He saw a kitchenette.
Down the hall: A bathroom and bedroom.
Pete dropped his treat bag. Pete crouched. Pete walked down the hall. The shower stopped. Steam whooshed out. Jim Koethe walked through it.
He wore a towel. He turned right. He walked into Pete.
They bumped. Koethe went EEK! Koethe went butch. Koethe snapped to some martial-arts pose.
His towel fell. His equipment dangled. He wore a dick extender. He wore cock rings.
Pete laughed. Pete came in low.
Koethe kicked. Koethe missed. Koethe stumbled and tripped. Pete kicked him. Pete nailed his nards good.
Koethe jackknifed. Koethe re-posed. Koethe tried some karate shit. He flailed. He threw fists. He positioned.
Pete judo-chopped him. Pete nail-raked his face.
Koethe screamed. Pete grabbed his neck. Pete held it and snapped it. Pete felt his hyoid bone shear.
Koethe gurgled. Koethe spasmed. Koethe choked on bile. Pete picked him up. Pete re-snapped his neck. Pete threw him in the shower.
He stood there. He caught his breath. He got a Godzilla-rate headache. He popped the medicine chest. He found some Bayer’s. He popped half a tin.
He prowled the pad. He dumped his treat bag. He dropped treats on rugs and chairs: Dildoes/reefers/bun-boy boox/Judy Garland LPs.