"Whose name you refuse to reveal."
"Yes."
"And your intent was to find and apprehend Wendell Durfee."
"Yes."
Brown said, "You wanted to apprehend him, to make up for not doing it in Big D."
"Yes."
"Then, son, here's what bothers me. How did Durfee know that you were the officer sent down to Dallas to extradite him?"
Wayne coughed. "I told you before. I rousted him a few times when I worked Patrol. He knew my face and my name, and he saw me when we exchanged shots in Dallas."
Fritsch said, "I'll buy that."
Gilstrap said, "I will, too."
Brown said, "I won't. I think something happened between you and Durfee. Maybe in Dallas, maybe up here before they sent you down. I don't see him coming all the way up here, presumably to kill you and get his incidental jollies on your wife, unless he had a personal motive."
Tex was good. Tex was better than the Sheriff's man. Pete chased the dice men. The cops chased him. They popped Pete. They filed paper. The Sheriff's man knew shit-all about it.
Brown said, "Your business up here is your business. I wouldn't care about any of this, except for the proximity of a missing Dallas officer named Maynard D. Moore, who you reportedly did not get along with."
Wayne shrugged. "Moore was dirty. If you knew him, you know that's true. I didn't like him, but I only had to work with him for a few days."
"You said 'knew.' You think he's dead, then?"
"That's right. Durfee or one of his asshole Klan buddies killed him."
Gilstrap said, "We've got two APBs out on Durfee. He won't get far."
Brown hovered. "You're saying Officer Moore was in the Ku Klux Klan?"
"That's right."
"I don't like the sound of that accusation. You're defaming the memory of a brother officer."
The Sheriff's man laughed. "This is hilarious. He kills three Negroes and gets on his high horse about the KKK."
Brown coughed. "DPD has been anti-Klan from the get-go."
"Bullshit. You all get your sheets cleaned at the same laundry."
"Boy, you are wearing me thin."
"Don't call me 'boy,' you redneck faggot."
Brown kicked a chair. Fritsch picked it up.
Gilstrap said, "Come on. This line of talk is getting us nowhere."
Holly rocked his chair. "Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers were moving heroin."
Wayne said, "I know that."
"How?"
"I saw Curtis robbing bindles."
"I've had them under spot surveillance. They were pushing in Henderson and Boulder City, and they were making plans to push in West Vegas."
Wayne coughed. "They wouldn't have lasted two days. The Outfit would have clipped them."
Fritsch rolled his eyes. "He goes from the Klan to the Mob."
Gilstrap rolled his eyes. "You've got the Mob in Vegas like you've got the Klan in Dallas."
Wayne rolled his eyes. "Hey, Buddy, who bought you your speedboat? Hey, Bob, who got you that second mortgage?"
Fritsch kicked the wall. Gilstrap kicked a chair. Brown picked it up.
Holly said, "You're not making any friends here."
Wayne said, "I'm not trying to."
Fritsch said, "You've got the sympathy vote."
Gilstrap said, "You've got the chain of events."
The Sheriff's man coughed. "You're trying to apprehend a fugitive copkiller. You learn that your wife may be jeopardized, so you rush home and find her dead. Your actions from that point on are entirely understandable."
Brown hitched up his pants. "It's your prior relationship with Durfee that I don't understand."
Holly said, "I concur."
Fritsch said, "Look at it our way. We're trying to give the DA a package. We don't want to see an LVPD man go down for three murders."
Gilstrap said, "Let's talk turkey. It's not like you killed three white men."
Brown cracked his knuckles. "Did you kill Maynard Moore?"
"Fuck you."
"Did Wendell Durfee take part in the killing? Is that what all this derives from?"
"Fuck you."
"Did Wendell Durfee witness the killing?"
"Fuck you."
Holly pulled his chair up. Holly bumped Wayne's chair.
"Let's discuss the condition of the shack."
Wayne shrugged. "I only saw the bindles I shoved in Curtis Swasey's mouth. I did not see any other narcotics or narcotics paraphernalia."
Holly smiled. "You anticipated the intent of my question very nicely."
Wayne coughed. "You're a narcotics agent. You want to know if I stole the large quantity of heroin that you think the victims had. You don't care about the murders or my wife."
Holly shook his head. "That's not entirely true. You know I'm friends with your father. I'm sure he cared for Lyn--"
"My father despised Lynette. He doesn't care for anyone. He only respects hard-ons like you. I'm sure he's full of warmth for your days in Indiana and your good times with Mr. Hoover."
Holly leaned in. "Don't turn me into an enemy. You're getting there already."
Wayne stood up. "Fuck you and fuck my father. If I wanted his help, I'd be out now."
Holly stood up. "I think I've got what I need."
Gilstrap shook his head. "You're playing kamikaze, son. And you're bombing your own goddamn friends."
Fritsch shook his head. "You can cross me off that list. We do our best to keep Vegas clean, while you go out and kill three niggers, which is going to bring out every civil-rights chimpanzee in captivity."
Wayne laughed. "Vegas? Clean?"
The cops walked out. Wayne took his pulse. It ran 180-plus.
33.
(Las Vegas, 1/17/64)
The room was cold. A heat coil blew. It chilled down the jail.
Littell read his notes.
Wayne Junior was good. He diverted Sergeant Brown. He deflected his attack. Pete briefed Littell beforehand. Pete dropped a bomb: Wayne Junior knows about Dallas.
Pete liked Wayne Junior. Pete mourned Lynette. Pete took the blame. Pete stopped there. Pete implied a Dallas snafu.
Littell checked his notes. The smart call: Wayne Junior killed Maynard Moore. The details played schizzy. Wendell Durfee played in somehow.
Wayne Junior had the board files. Littell needed them. Littell might need Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior called him. Wayne Senior made nice. He said I want to help my son. He said I want him to ask.
He informed Wayne Junior. Wayne Junior said no. He told Wayne Senior that. It angered him. That was good. He might need Wayne Senior. The "no" knocked him flat.
Wayne Junior was good. Wayne Junior pissed off Dwight Holly. Littell called Lyle Holly. They talked last night. They discussed the Bayard Rustin meet. Lyle said Dwight was mad. The killings fucked with him. Wayne Junior deep-sixed his surveillance.
He chatted Lyle up. He said, "I'm Junior's lawyer." Lyle laughed. Lyle said, "Dwight never liked you."
Littell checked his notes. The room was cold. His breath fogged and steamed. Bob Gilstrap walked in. Dwight Holly followed him. They sat down and kicked back.
Holly stretched. His coat gapped. He wore a blued .45.
"You've aged, Ward. Those scars put some years on you."
"They're hard-earned, Dwight."
"Some men learn the hard way. I hope you have."
Littell smiled. "Let's discuss Wayne Tedrow Junior."
Holly scratched his neck. "He's a punk. He's got all of his daddy's arrogance and none of his charm."
Gibstrap lit a cigarette. "They broke the mold on Senior and him. I've never been able to figure either one of them."
Holly laced his hands. "Something happened with him and Durfee. Where or when, I don't know."
Gilstrap nodded. "That likelihood is what scares me."
A vent thumped. The heat kicked on. Holly hack-coughed.
"The kid mouths off to me and passes his bug on."
Gilstrap said, "You'll survive."
Holly said, "Let's cut the shit. I'm the only one who doesn't want to bury this."
"It's not your agency he hung out to dry."
"Shit, he hung me out."
The room warmed up. Holly took his coat off.
"Say something, Ward. You look like the cat who ate the canary."
Littell popped his briefcase. Littell showed the Vegas Sun. There's a headline. It runs 40 points. There's a subhead 16: "POLICEMAN HELD IN TRIPLE SLAYING--CIVIL-RIGHTS PROTESTS FEARED.".
"NAACP: 'KILLINGS SPRINGBOARD TO EXPLICATE RACISM IN LAS VEGAS.".