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."
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 Unpublished smears--full pieces.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.
88.
(Las Vegas, 9/28/65)
The cat abused him. He loved it. He lived for his shit.
The cat clawed his pants. The cat snagged his socks. The cat dropped turds on his shirts. He loved it. Shit on me more now. I live for your shit.
The AC dipped. Pete slapped the wall unit. The cat clawed his shirt.
Biz was slow. The p.m. lull dragged. Pete shagged calls. His drivers smoked outside.
New rules: The Tiger Kab Manifesto.
Don't smoke near me. Don't eat near me. Don't snarf fat-rich food. Don't tempt me with taste treats--let me get back.
I've got more wind now. I've got more spunk. I've got more pizzazz. I dumped the pills. They fucked with me. I let the cat do that.
Don't smoke. Don't eat bad food--the docs said that.
Okay--I'll play.
Don't worry. Don't work hard. Don't pull rotations--fuck you on that.
Tran iced himself. He worried it. He worked it. He hired some Marvs. They surveilled the lab. They reported: Some Can Lao snuck in. They let chemists in. Said chemists brought M-base boocoo. Said chemists cooked white horse. Said chemists used Wayne's shit.
Pete braced Stanton. Stanton was sheepish. Stanton said: "I was going to tell you--after you got well."
Pete said TELL ME NOW. Stanton said the new regime's tough. You know that. No fuck with Can Lao cat Mr. Kao. He's tough. He's greedy. He's savvy. He's cooking "H" in our lab--on Wayne's rotations. He's shipping "H" to China. He's routing "H" west. He's got a French clientele.
Pete blew up. Pete kicked walls. Pete strained arteries. Stanton smiled. Stanton jollied him. Stanton popped a ledger book.
Said book held figures. Said figures said: Mr. Kao bought his lab time. Mr. Kao paid big coin. The kadre made money.
Stanton reasoned. Stanton explicated. Stanton mollified. He said Kao's pro-U.S. and pro-kadre. He said Kao won't sell dope to GIs.
Pete reasoned. Stanton reasoned. They rehashed Tran's suicide.
Tran killed the slaves. Tran stole the M-base. Mr. Kao bought Tran's base ricky-tick. Tran fears Kao. Tran won't snitch Kao. Tran electrifies.
Stanton said he'd brace Kao. Stanton said he'd say this: We're your friends. Don't use us. Don't fuck us. Don't sell dope to GIs.
Pete was relieved. Pete rotated west. Pete relieved his arteries. Wayne was stateside now. Wayne was in Bon Secour. Wayne dipped south per gun-run rotations.
Pete called him. Pete spilled on Tran. Pete spilled on Can Lao Kao.
Wayne went nuts. Wayne loved his lab/Wayne loved his dope/Wayne loved his chemistry. Pete calmed him down. Pete yelled and cursed. Pete strained his arteries.
Donkey Dom swished in. The cat hissed. The cat hated fags. The cat hated wops.
Dom hissed back. Pete laughed. The phone rang.
Pete picked up. "Tiger."
"It's Otash. I'm in L.A., and I don't need a cab."
Pete stroked the cat. "What is it? Did you find anything?"
"Yeah, I did. The trouble is, I won't fuck one client in favor of another, which means I found those files for Littell, which contained some racy shit on his girlfriend and Carlos M., so I'm telling you, because you're paying me for some version of the same--"
Pete hung up. Pete plugged the switchboard. Pete dialed Bon Secour direct. He got dial tones. He got rings. Ward knows now. Ward will-- "Charthouse Motel."
"Wayne Tedrow. He's in room--"
Dial tones/clicks/rings-- Wayne picked up. "Yeah?"
"It's me. I want--"
"Jesus, calm down. You'll have another--"
"Lock up Bruvick. Make him call Ward at 10:00 p.m. L.A. time."
Wayne said, "What is this?"
Pete said, "I'm not sure."
89.
(Los Angeles, 9/28/65)
Trashed: the living room/the bedrooms/the kitchen.
He saw wisps. He saw cords. They weren't there. He trashed the phones. He looked for taps. They weren't there. He trashed the TV. He looked for bugs. They weren't there.
He trashed his study. He trashed Jane's den. They were cord and bugfree. He walked to a liquor store. He bought Chivas Regal. He walked it on back.