The cold six thousand

87

(Los Angeles, 9/28/65)

Mormons:

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 scandalrag 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 baitand-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.

o o o

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."

o o o

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-aboy 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 bamster. 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.