Joe supplied a calzone. Pete ate on the freeway. The cheese fucked up his teeth.
He got off. He toured Oak Cliff. He found the address: A shotgun shack/dingy/three small rooms tops.
He parked. He dropped five G's in the calzone box. He schlepped it on up. He knocked on the door. He waited. He checked for eyewits.
Nobody home-zero eyewits.
He got out his comb. He flexed the tines. He picked the lock clean. He walked in and closed the door slow.
The front room smelled-maryjane and cabbage-window light squared him away.
Front room/kitchen/bedroom. Three rooms in a row.
He walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge. A cat rubbed his legs. He tossed him some fish. The cat scarfed it up. Pete scarfed some Cheez Whiz.
He toured the pad. The cat followed him. He paced the front room. He pulled the drapes. He pulled up a chair and sat by the door.
The cat hopped in his lap. The cat clawed the caizone box. The room was cold. The chair was soft. The walls torqued him back.
Memory Lane. L.A.-12/14/49.
He's a cop. He breaks County strikes. He works _goooood_ sidelines. He pulls shakedowns. He extorts queers. He raids the Swish Alps.
He's a card-game guard. He's a scrape procurer. He's Quebecois French. He fought the war. He got green-card Americanized.
Late '48-his brother Frank hits L.A.
Frank was a doctor. Frank had bad habits. Frank made bad friends. Frank whored. Frank gambled. Frank lost money.
Frank did scrapes. Frank scraped Rita Hayworth. Frank was Abortionist to the Stars. Frank played cards. Frank lost money. Frank dug Mickey Cohen's regular game.
Frank partied with scrape folks. Frank met Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer. Ruth did scrapes. Ruth loved her son Huey. Huey did heists.
Huey robbed Mickey's game. Huey's face mask slipped. The players ID'd him. Pete had the flu. Pete took the night off. Mickey told Pete to kill Huey.
Huey laid low. Pete found his pad: An ex-brothel in El Segundo.
Pete torched the pad. Pete stood in the backyard. Pete watched the house flames. Four shapes ran out. Pete shot them. Pete let them scream and burn.
It was dark. Their hair plumed. Smoke blitzed their faces. The papers played it up-FOUR DEAD IN BEACH TORCH-the papers lD'd the vics:
Ruth. Huey. Huey's girlfriend.
And:
One Canuck doctor-Franзois Bondurant.
Someone called their dad. Someone snitched Pete off. His dad called him. His dad begged: Say NO. Say it wasn't YOU.
Pete stammered. Pete tried. Pete failed. His parents grieved. His parents sucked tailpipe fumes. His parents decomped in their car.
The cat fell asleep. Pete stroked him. Time schizzed. He dug on the dark.
He dozed. He stirred. He heard something. The door opened. Light shot straight in.
Pete jumped up. The cat tumbled. The calzone box flew.
There's Betty Mac.
She's got blond hair. She's got curves. She's got harlequin shades.
She saw Pete. She yelled. Pete grabbed her. Pete kicked the door shut.
She scratched. She yelled. She clawed his neck. He covered her mouth. She drew her lips back. She bit him.
He stumbled. He kicked the calzone box. He tripped a wall switch. A light went on. The cash fell out.
Betty looked down. Betty saw the money. Pete let his hand go. Pete rubbed his bite wound.
"There, Jesus Christ. Just get out before someone hurts you."
She eased up. He eased up. She turned around. She saw his face.
Pete hit the wall switch. The room light died. They stood close. They caught their breath. They leaned on the door.
Pete said, "Arden?"
Betty coughed-a smoker's hack-Pete smelled her last reefer.
"I'm not going to hurt her. Come on, you know what we've got-"
She touched his lips. "Don't say it. Don't put a name-"
"Then tell me where-"
"Arden Burke. I think she's at the Glenwood Apartments."
Pete brushed by her. Her hair caught his face. Her perfume stuck to his clothes. He got outside. His hand throbbed. The sun killed his eyes.
o o o
Traffic was bad. Pete knew why.
Dealey Plaza was close. Let's take the kids. Let's dig on history and hot dogs.
He split Oak Cliff. He found Arden's building. It ran forty units plus. He parked outside. He checked access routes. The courtyard ruled B Es out.
He checked the mail slots-no Arden _Burke_ listed-Arden _Smith_ in 2-D.
Pete toured the courtyard. Pete scanned doorplates: 2-A/B/C-
Stop right-
He made the suit. He made the build. He made the thin hair. He stepped back. He crouched. He _looked_.
Right there-
Ward Littell and a tall woman. Talking close and closing out the world.
_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 11/23/63. 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.
JEH: Mr. Littell?
WJL: Good afternoon, Sir. How are you?
JEH: Forgo the amenities and tell me about Dallas. The metapbysical dimensions of this alleged tragedy do not interest me. Get to the point.
WJL: I would call things encouraging, Sir. There has been a minimum of talk about a conspiracy, and a very strong consensus seems to have settled in, despite some ambiguous statements from the witnesses. I've spent a good deal of time at the PD, and I've been told that President Johnson has called both Chief Curry and the DA personally, and has expressed his wish that the consensus be confirmed.
JEH: Lyndon Johnson is a blunt and persuasive man, and he speaks a language those cowpokes understand. Now, continuing with the witnesses.
WJL: I would say that the contradictory ones could be intimidated, discredited and successfully debriefed.
JEH: You've read the witness logs, observed the interviews and have been through the inevitable glut of lunatic phone tips. Is that correct?
WJL: Yes, Sir. The phone tips were especially fanciful and vindictive. John Kennedy had engendered a good deal of resentment in Dallas.
JEH: Yes, and entirely justified. Continuing with the witnesses. Have you conducted any interviews yourself?
WJL: No, Sir.
JEH: You've turned up no witnesses with especially provocative stories?
WJL: No, Sir. What we have is an alternative consensus pertaining to the number of shots and their trajectories. It's a confusing text, Sir. I don't think it will stand up to the official version.
JEH: How would you rate the investigation to date?
WJL: As incompetent.
JEH: And how would you define it?
WJL: As chaotic.
JEH: How would you assess the efforts to protect Mr. Oswald?
WJL: As shoddy.
JEH: Does that disturb you?
WJL: No.
JEH: The Attorney General has requested periodic updates. What do you suggest that I tell him?
WJL: That a fatuous young psychopath killed his brother, and that he acted alone.
JEH: The Dark Prince is no cretin. He must suspect the factions that most insiders would.
WJL: Yes, Sir. And I'm sure he feels complicitous.
JEH: I hear an unseemly tug of compassion in your voice, Mr. Littell. I will not comment on your protractedly complex relationship with Robert F. Kennedy.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I cannot help but think of your blowhard client, James Riddle Hoffa. The Prince is his bкte noire.
WJL: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I'm sure Mr. lloffa would like to know what the Prince really thinks of this gaudy homicide.
WJL: I would like to know myself, Sir.
JEH: I cannot help but think of your brutish client, Carlos Marcello. I suspect that he would enjoy access to Bobby's troubled thoughts.