AMERICAN TABLOID by James Ellroy

Pete scratched one prospect and kept walking. All the Caucasoids wore hoods–he couldn’t match Hudspeth or Lockhart to their mug shots.

“Bondurant! Down here!”

It was Guy Banister’s voice, booming up from below ground level.

A hatch snapped out of the dirt. A periscope thingamajig popped up and wiggled.

Guy had rigged himself a fucking bomb shelter.

Pete dropped down into it. Banister pulled the hatch shut behind him.

The space was twelve-by-twelve square. Playboy pinups covered the walls. Guy had socked in a shitload of Van Camp’s pork & beans and bourbon.

Banister retracted the telescope. “You looked lonesome all by yourself with no sheet.”

Pete stretched. His head grazed the ceiling.

“It’s sweet, Guy.”

“I thought you might like it.”

“Who’s paying for it?”

“Everybody.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I own the land, and the Agency put up the buildings. Carlos Marcello donated three hundred thousand for guns, and Sam Giancana put up some money to buy off the State Police. The Klan folks pay to enter and sell their wares, and the exiles work four hours a day on a road crew and kick back half their pay to the Cause.”

An air cooler hummed full-blast. The shelter was a goddamn igloo.

Pete shivered. “You said Hudspeth and Lockhart would be here.”

“Hudspeth was arrested for grand theft auto this morning. It’s his third offense, so there’s no bail. Evans is here, though. And he’s not a bad fellow, if you stay off the topic of religion.”

Pete said, “He’s got to be psycho. And Boyd and I don’t want psychos working for us.”

“But you’ll employ more presentable psychos.”

“Have it your way. And if it’s Lockhart by default, I want a few minutes alone with him.”

“Why?”

“Any man who parades around in a sheet has got to be able to convince me he can keep things compartmentalized.”

Banister laughed. “That’s a big word for a guy like you, Pete.”

“People keep telling me that.”

“That’s because you’re dealing with a higher type of person now that you’re Agency.”

“Like Evans?”

“Point taken. But offhand, I’d say that that man has stronger anti-Communist credentials than you do.”

“Communism’s bad for business. Don’t pretend it’s anything more than that.”

Banister hooked his thumbs in his belt. “If you think that makes you sound worldly, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“Yeah?”

Banister smiled, too smug to live. “Accepting Communism is synonymous with promoting Communism. Your old nemesis Ward Littell accepts Communism, and a friend of mine in Chicago told me that Mr. Hoover is building a pro-Communist profile on him, based on his inactions more than his actions. You see where being worldly and accepting gets you when the chips are down?”

Pete cracked some knuckles. “Go get Lockhart. You know what Boyd wants, so explain it to him. And from here on in, shitcan the lectures.”

Banister flinched. Banister started to open his mouth.

Pete went “Boo!”

Banister scurried out the hatch, double-time quick.

The silence and cold air felt sweet. The canned goods and liquor looked tasty. The wallpaper looked sweet–Miss July, especially.

Say the Russians drop the A-bomb. Say you hole up here. Cabin fever might set in and convince you the women were real.

Lockhart dropped down the hatch. He wore a soot-flecked sheet, cinched by a gunbelt and two revolvers.

He had bright red hair and freckles. His drawl was deep Mississippi.

“The money I like, and the move to Florida don’t bother me. But that no-lynching rule has gotta go.”

Pete backhanded him. Dougie Frank stayed upright–give him an A-plus for balance.

“Man, I have killed oversized white trash for less than what you just did!”

Punk bravura: Give him a C-minus.

Pete slapped him again. Lockhart pulled his right-hand piece– but didn’t aim it

Nerves: A-plus. Sense of caution: B-minus.

Lockhart wiped blood off his chin. “I like Cubans. I might stretch my racial-exclusion policy and let your guys into my Klavern.”

Sense of humor: A-plus.

Lockhart spit a tooth out. ‘Give me something. Let me know that I’m more than just some punching bag.”

Pete winked. “Mr. Boyd and I might put you on a bonus plan. And the Agency just might give you your own Ku Klux Klan.”

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