The Cold Six Thousand Read Free

I’m noplace worth bein’. But you meet me at eight o’clock.”
    “Where?”
    “The Carousel Club. You be there, and we’ll find us that burrhead.”
    Wayne hung up. Wayne got butterflies.
    Wendell, I don’t want to kill you.

2

Ward J. Littell
    (Dallas, 11/22/63)
    T here’s the limo. It’s on the runway. It’s late-model FBI black.
    The plane taxied up. It passed Air Force One. Marines flanked the tailhatch. The pilot cut the engine. The plane fishtailed. The ramp popped and dropped.
    Littell got out. His ears popped. His legs uncramped.
    They worked fast. They rigged his flight plan. They flew him two-seat non-deluxe.
    Mr. Hoover called him—D.C. to L.A.
    He said, “The President was shot and killed. I want you to fly to Dallas and monitor the investigation.”
    The hit occurred at 12:30. It was 4:10 now. Mr. Hoover called at 12:40. Mr. Hoover got the news and called fast.
    Littell ran. The limo driver popped the door. The backseat was stuffy. The windows were smoked. Love Field was all monochrome.
    Stick figures. Baggage crews. Newsmen and charter planes.
    The driver pulled out. Littell saw a box on the seat. He opened it. He emptied it out.
    One special agent’s shield. One FBI photo ID card. One Bureau-issue .38/holster.
    His
old photo.
His
old gun.
    He gave them up in ’60. Mr. Hoover forced him out. He had cover tools now—new and old—he had cosmetic reinstatement.
    Mr. Hoover stashed said tools.
In Dallas
. Mr. Hoover predicted the hit.
    He knew the locale. He sensed the time frame. He was passively complicit.He sensed Littell’s involvement. He sensed Littell’s need to quash talk.
    Littell looked out his window. The tint made funhouse distortions. Clouds imploded. Buildings weaved. People blipped.
    He brought a radio. He played it flying in. He got the basic stats:
    One suspect caught—a kid—a sheep-dipped leftist. Guy Banister dipped him. The kid killed a cop. Two cops were set to kill him. Phase Two went bad. The second cop botched his assignment.
    Littell holstered up. Littell studied his ID.
    Cop/lawyer then. Mob lawyer now. Hoover foe to Hoover ally. A one-man law firm with three clients:
    Howard Hughes/Jimmy Hoffa/Carlos Marcello.
    He called Carlos. Ten a.m. L.A. time. Carlos was happy. Carlos beat Bobby K.’s deportation bill.
    Bobby tried Carlos in New Orleans. Carlos
owned
New Orleans. Carlos was jury-proof there.
    Kennedy hubris:
    The jury acquits Carlos. Bobby sulks. Jack dies one hour on.
    The streets were dead. Windows zipped by. Ten thousand TVs glowed.
    It was
his
show.
    He developed the plan. Pete Bondurant helped. Carlos okayed it and went with Guy Banister’s crew. Guy embellished
his
plan. Guy revised it. Guy botched it.
    Pete was in Dallas. Pete just got married. Pete was at the Adolphus Hotel. Guy B. was here. Guy B. was somewhere close.
    Littell counted windows. All tint-distorted. Smudges and blurs. His thoughts blew wide. His thoughts cohered:
    Talk to Pete. Kill Oswald. Ensure a one-shooter consensus.
    The limo hit downtown Dallas. Littell pinned on his shield.
    There’s Dealey Plaza. The PD building’s close. Look for:
    The book building/a Hertz sign/Greek columns.
    There—
    The columns. The sign. Mourners at Houston and Elm. A hot-dog vendor. Nuns sobbing.
    Littell shut his eyes. The driver turned right. The driver pulled down a ramp. The driver stopped hard and fast. The back windows slid down.
    Somebody coughed. Somebody said, “Mr. Littell?”
    Littell opened his eyes. Littell saw a basement garage. There’s a kiddy Fed standing there. He’s all uptight.
    “Sir, I’m Special Agent Burdick, and … well, the ASAC said you should come straight up and see the witnesses.”
    Littell grabbed his briefcase. The gun chafed his hip. He got out. He stretched. He cleaned his glasses.
    Burdick stuck close. Burdick rode him tight. They walked to a freight lift. Burdick pushed 3.
    “Sir, I have to say it’s a madhouse. We’ve got people saying two shooters,