The Cold Six Thousand Read Online Free Page A

doorbell chimed—the B-flat “Eyes of Texas.” Barb slept through it. Pete walked over. Pete cracked the door.
    Fuck—there’s Guy Banister.
    Guy popped sweat. Guy was sixty-plus. Guy had heart attacks.
    Pete stepped outside. Pete shut the door. Guy waved a highball glass.
    “Come on. I rented a room down the hall.”
    Pete followed him over. The floor rugs sent sparks up. Guy unlocked his door and bolted them in.
    He grabbed a jug—Old Crow bond—Pete snatched it quick.
    “Tell me they’re both dead, and this isn’t about some fuck-up.”
    Guy twirled his glass. “King John the First is dead, but my boy killed a cop and got arrested.”
    The floor dipped. Pete dug his legs in.
    “The cop who was supposed to kill him?”
    Guy eyeballed the jug. Pete tossed it back.
    “That’s right, Tippit. My boy pulled a piece and popped him out in Oak Cliff.”
    “Does
your boy
know your name?”
    Guy uncorked the jug. “No, I worked him through a cutout.”
    Pete slapped the wall. Plaster chips flew. Guy spilled some booze.
    “But your boy knows the cutout’s name. The cutout knows
your
name, and your boy’ll name names sooner or later. Is that a fucking accurate assessment?”
    Guy poured a drink. His hand shook. Pete straddled a chair. His headache retorqued. He lit a cigarette.
His
hand shook.
    “We have to kill him.”
    Guy blotted the spill. “Tippit had a backup man, but he wanted to go in alone. It was a two-man job, so we’re paying the price now.”
    Pete squeezed the chairback. The slats shimmied. One slat sheared loose.
    “Don’t tell me what we should have done. Tell me how we get to your boy.”
    Guy sat on the bed. Guy stretched out comfy.
    “I gave the job to Tippit’s backup.”
    Pete said, “And?”
    “And he’s got access to the jail, and he’s mean enough for the job, and he owes some casino markers, which means he’s in hock to the Outfit.”
    Pete said, “There’s more. You’re trying to sell me a bill of goods.”
    “Well …”
    “Well, shit,
what
?”
    “Well, he’s a tough nut, and he doesn’t want to do it, and he’s stuck on a liaison job with some Vegas cop.”
    Pete cracked his knuckles. “We’ll convince him.”
    “I don’t know. He’s a tough nut.”
    Pete flipped his cigarette. It hit Guy clean. He yipped. He snuffed it out. He burned his pillow.
    Pete coughed. “You’re the first one Carlos will clip if your boy talks.”
    A TV kicked on—one room down. The walls leeched sound: “Nation mourns”/“valiant first lady.”
    Guy said, “I’m scared.”
    “That’s your first fucking sensible comment.”
    “We got him, though. We made the world spin.”
    The old fuck
glowed
. Sweats and shitty grins.
    “Tell me the rest of it.”
    “What about a toast to the fallen—”
    “What about Rogers and the pro shooter?”
    Guy coughed. “Okay, first things first. Mr. Hoover flew Littell in as soon as he heard, and I saw him over at DPD. The cops got Rogers on a sweep, but Littell let him out and misplaced the paperwork. He was carrying fake ID, so I think we’re clear there.”
    Glitches/reglitches—
    “The pro. Did he get out?”
    “Heads up on that. He got down to McAllen and walked across the border. He left a message at my place in New Orleans, and I called him and got the all-clear.”
    “What about Rog—”
    “He’s at a motel in Fort Worth. Littell said the witnesses are confused and telling different stories, and Mr. Hoover’s hell-bent to prove that it was all my boy. Littell said we’ve only got one guy to worry about.”
    Pete said, “Keep going. Don’t make me work so hard.”
    “Okay, then. Littell said a railroad man put a half-ass ID on Rogers, so it’s my considered opinion that we should clip him.”
    Pete shook his head. “It’s too close to the hit. You want him to go back to work like nothing happened.”
    “Then you throw some fear into him.”
    “No. Let the backup do it. Have him pull a cop number.”
    That TV