The Cold Six Thousand Read Free Page B

Hallways crossed. They veered left. They hit a mesh-front pen.
    An intercom popped: “Agent Burdick. Front desk, please.”
    Burdick said, “I should catch that.”
    Littell nodded. Burdick fidgeted. Burdick took off from a crouch. Littell grabbed the mesh. The light was bad. Littell squinted hard.
    He saw two bums. He saw Chuck Rogers.
    Chuck was Pete’s man. Wet arts/CIA. Chuck was tight with Guy B.
    Rogers saw Littell. The bums ignored him. Rogers smiled. Littell touched his shield. Rogers mimed a rifle shot.
    He moved his lips. He went “Pow!”
    Littell backtracked.
    He walked down the hall. He turned right. He hit a bisecting hall. He made the turn. He saw a side door.
    He pushed it open. He saw fire steps and rungs. Across the hall: A men’s room and a door marked “Jailer.”
    The men’s room door opened. Mr. Bowers walked out. He stretched. He zipped his fly. He settled his nuts.
    He saw Littell. He squinted. He keyed on his shield.
    “FBI, right?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Well, I’m glad I ran into you, ’cause there’s something I forgot to tell the other guy.”
    Littell smiled. “I’ll pass it along.”
    Bowers scratched his neck. “Okay, then. You tell him I saw some cops rousting these hoboes out of a hay car, and one of them looked like one of the guys I saw by the fence.”
    Littell pulled his notebook.
    He scribbled. He smeared some ink. His hand shook. The book shook.
    Bowers said, “I sure feel sorry for Jackie.”
    Littell smiled. Bowers smiled. Bowers tipped his cap. He jiggled some coins. He ambled. He walked away sloooooow.
    Littell watched his back.
    Bowers ambled. Bowers turned right. Bowers hit the main hall. Littell flexed his hands. Littell caught his breath.
    He worked the Jailer door. He jiggled the knob. He forced it.
    The door popped. Littell stepped in.
    A twelve-by-twelve space—dead empty. A desk/a chair/a key rack.
    Paperwork—tacked to a corkboard:
    Vagrant sheets—“Doyle”/“Paolino”/“Abrahams”—no mug shots attached.
    Call it: Rogers packed fake ID. Rogers booked in with it.
    One key on the rack—cell-size/thick brass.
    Littell grabbed the sheets. Littell pocketed them. Littell grabbed the key. He gulped. He walked out brazen. He walked to the pen.
    He unlocked the door. Rogers primed the bums. He pumped them up. He went “Ssshh now.” He gave a pep talk.
    We got ourselves a savior—just do what I say.
    The bums huddled. The bums stepped out. The bums hugged the wall.
    Littell walked.
    He hit the main hall. He faced the squadroom. He blocked the view. He signaled Rogers. He pointed. The fire door—go.
    He heard footsteps. The bums squealed. The bums giggled loud. The fire door creaked. A bum yelled, “Hallelujah!” The fire door slammed.
    Littell caught a breeze. His sweat froze. His pulse went haywire.
    He walked to the squadroom. His legs fluttered and dipped. He grazed desks. He bumped walls. He bumped into cops.
    The wit bench was smoked in. Twenty cigarettes plumed. Arden Smith was gone.
    Littell looked around. Littell scanned desks. Littell saw the wit log.
    He grabbed it. He checked statements and DLs. Arden Smith’s package—gone.
    He checked the slots. He checked the halls. He checked the main window.
    There’s Arden Smith. She’s on the street. She’s walking fast. She’s walking
away
.
    She crossed Houston. Cars swerved by her. She made Dealey Plaza.
    Littell blinked.
    He lost her. Jack’s mourners shadowed her up.

3

Pete Bondurant
    (Dallas, 11/22/63)
    T he bridal suite. The fuck pad supreme.
    Gilt wallpaper. Cupids. Pink rugs and chairs. A fake-fur bedspread—baby-ass pink.
    Pete watched Barb sleep.
    Her legs slid. She kicked wide. She thrashed the sheets.
    Barbara Jane Lindscott Jahelka Bondurant.
    He got her back early. He sealed up the suite. He closed out the news. She’ll wake up. She’ll
get
the news. She’ll
know
.
    I fucked Jack in ’62. It was lackluster and brief. You bugged some rooms. You got his voice. You