The Cold Six Thousand Read Online Free Page B

blared—“Nation grieves”/“sole killer.”
    Guy folded his arms. “There’s one more thing.”
    “I’m listening.”
    “Okay, then. I talked to the pro. He thinks there’s a chance that Jack Ruby put it together.”
    Ruby: Bagman/pimp/Littell’s old snitch/strip-club entrepre—
    “I had the crew at a safe house up in Oklahoma. Rogers called Ruby and arranged for some entertainment. The pro said he showed up with two girls and some flunky, and they saw the rifles out back and—wait now—don’t get your tits in a twist—I told the backup to brace Ruby and see what he knows.”
    The room dipped. Crash dimensions. Pete rode out the drop.
    Guy said, “We might have to clip them.”
    Pete said, “No.”
    Guy
re
glowed. Guy previewed Heart Attack 3.
    “
No
? The big man says
no
? The big man says no, like he doesn’t know the Boys are talking, and they’re saying he’s lost his taste for the Life?”
    Pete stood up. Pete cracked his thumbs. Pete flexed his hands. Pete grabbed the chair slats. Pete pulled. Pete ripped the chair to sticks.
    Guy pissed his britches. Guy fucking plotzed. The stain spread. His crotch seeped. He doused the sheets.
    Pete walked out. The hall dipped. The walls balanced him. He walked back to his suite. He stopped ten feet short. He heard his TV.
    He heard Barb sob. He heard Barb throw chairs at a wall.

4
    (Dallas, 11/22/63)
    A dog shit on the runway. A stripper dodged turds. Welcome to the Carousel Club.
    Cops clapped. Cops whooped. Cops ruled the room. The club was closed to the public. The owner loved Jackie. The owner loved JFK.
    Let’s mourn. Let’s ride out this tsuris. Let’s show some respect.
    You badged in. The owner loved cops. Your host—Jack Ruby.
    Wayne walked in. Wayne dropped Maynard Moore’s name. Ruby seated him. Dallas cops ran tall. Boot heels did it. Wayne was six-one. The cops dwarfed him.
    A bandstand adjoined the runway. A sax and drum worked. Two strippers stripped. The blonde looked like Lynette. The brunette looked like Janice.
    Moore was late. The club was loud. The combo played “Night Train.” Wayne sipped 7-Up. The music fucked with him. The drum pops set up pix.
    Pop—he caps Wendell Durfee. Pop—he plants a throwdown piece.
    A stripper swayed by. She wore a pastie-patch. Her crotch stubble showed. A cop snapped her G-string. She swayed his way.
    Ruby worked the room.
    He dumped ashtrays. He tossed scraps. He lured his dog off the ramp. He poured drinks. He lit cigarettes. He laid out some grief.
    A fuck killed his President. The fuck was a beatnik. His bookkeeper split. She blew the coop. She blew him off. She wouldn’t blow his friends.
    He owed the IRS. Arden said she’d help. Arden was skunk cooze. Arden lied and stole. Arden had a fake address. A beatnik shot his hero.
    Maynard Moore walked in.
    He whooped. He rebel-yelled. He sailed his hat. A stripper snagged it.
    Moore walked up to Ruby. Ruby went oh shit. The dog jumped in. Moore grabbed him. Moore kissed him. Moore tweaked his tail.
    Ruby yukked. Boychik—you slay me!
    Moore dropped the dog. Moore manhandled Ruby. He shoved him. He flicked his mezuzah. He knocked off his hat.
    Wayne watched. Moore
squeezed
Ruby.
    He jerked his necktie. He snapped his suspenders. He jabbed at his chest. Ruby squirmed. Ruby bumped a rubber machine.
    Moore dressed him down. Ruby pulled a handkerchief. Ruby pat-dried his head.
    Wayne walked over. Wayne caught Moore in tight.
    “Pete’s in town. People ain’t gonna like what you might know, so you may be owin’ some favors.”
    Wayne coughed. Moore turned around. Ruby squeezed his mezuzah chain.
    Moore smiled. “Wayne, this is Jack. Jack’s a Yankee, but we like him anyway.”
    Moore had pressing shit in Plano. Wayne said okay. Fuck it. Let’s stall—let’s postpone Wendell D.
    Traffic was dead. A breeze stirred. Moore drove his off-duty sled. A Chevy 409—lake pipes and slicks—Stemmons Freeway faaaast.
    Wayne gripped the dash-bar. Moore