Read The Cold Six Thousand Online
Authors: James Ellroy
The Cold Six Thousand (58 page)
Wayne nodded. Wayne leaned on the bedrail.
Pete said, “I got a pouch from Bob. He’s got two truckloads of bazookas and high explosives pilfered out of Fort Polk. It’s a big haul, and it might take two boat runs. You take care of the Cuban transport, but in that case and in all future fucking cases, don’t go near the weaponry transactions and let Laurent and Flash drive the shit from New Hebron to Bon Secour. Bob’s got FBI cover, so I want him to stand as our most expendable guy. Laurent and Flash drive the guns, so they’re less expendable than Bob and a shitload more expendable than you.
You
stay safe, and
you
watch Danny Bruvick, who I do not trust worth a fucking shit.”
Wayne clapped. “Your wind is back.”
Pete checked the stat board. “Not bad. I’ll be out of here soon.”
Wayne stretched. “I talked to Tran. He said some slaves escaped with some M-base. They’re ex-VC, and Tran thinks they hooked up with some VC guys running a lab near Ba Na Key. He thinks they plan to cook up some shit and distribute it to our troops in the south, to demoralize them.”
Pete kicked the bedpost. The stat board fell.
“Have Mesplède interrogate the rest of the slaves. We might learn something that way.”
Wayne stood up. “Get some rest, boss. You look tired.”
Pete smiled. Pete grabbed Wayne’s chair. Pete snapped the back slats.
Wayne clapped.
Pete said, “Rest, shit.”
Barb danced. Barb obliged horny sailors. They swarmed her. They cut in. They swarmed three per song.
Canned songs/all staples/service club stock. “Sugar Shack”/surf shit/the Watusi.
Wayne watched. Barb’s hair bounced. Wayne saw new grays in the red. “Surf City” tapped out. Sailors clapped. Barb walked on back.
Wayne pulled her chair out. She sat down. She lit a match.
“I want a cigarette.”
Wayne plucked those new grays. Barb made an uggh face. Wayne sheared a few reds.
“You’ll get over it.”
Barb lit the grays. They poofed and burned up.
“I should go home. If I stay, I’ll start seeing things I don’t like.”
“Like our business?”
“Like the boy three wards down with no arms. Like the boy who got lost and got napalmed by his own guys.”
Wayne shrugged. “It goes with the job.”
“Tell Pete that. Tell him, ‘The next one might kill you, if the war doesn’t get you first.’ ”
Wayne plucked a gray. “Come on. He’s better than that.”
Barb lit a match. Barb lit the hair. Barb watched it burn.
“Get him out. You and Ward know the guys who can make it happen.”
“They won’t go for it. Pete’s in hock, and you know why.”
“Dallas?”
“That and the fact that he’s too good to let go.”
A sailor bopped by. Barb signed his napkin. Barb signed his jumper sleeve.
She lit a match. “I miss the cat. Vietnam gets me mushy for Vegas.”
Wayne checked her hair. Perfect—all red now.
“You’ll be home in three days.”
“I’ll kiss the ground, believe me.”
“Come on. It’s not that bad.”
Barb snuffed the match. “I saw a boy who lost his equipment. He was joking with a nurse about the Army buying him a new one. The second she walked out, he started to cry.”
Wayne shrugged. Barb tossed the match. It hit him. It stung. Barb walked. Sailors watched her. Barb walked to the john.
“Sugar Shack” kicked on. Time warp—that song on Jack Ruby’s jukebox.
Barb walked out. A sailor braced her. He was colored. He was tall. He looked like Wendell D.
Barb danced with him. They danced semi-slow. They shared some contact.
Wayne watched.
They danced nice. They danced hip. They danced by the table. Barb was loose. Barb was cool. Barb wore white dust on her nose.
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 9/16/65. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. (OPERATION BLACK RABBIT Addendum.) Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director, BLUE RABBIT.
DIR: Good morning.
BR: Good morning, Sir.
DIR: Let’s discuss WILD RABBIT’s work in Mississippi. The oxy-moronic phrase “Redneck Intelligence Network” comes to mind.
BR: WILD RABBIT has been doing well, Sir. Our stipends have allowed him to recruit and secure intelligence, and FATHER RABBIT has supplied him with funds as well. He told me that he’s donating a portion of his hate-tract profits to WILD RABBIT’s incursion.
DIR: And the well-funded WILD RABBIT is achieving results?
BR: He is, Sir. His Regal Knights have been infiltrating other hate groups and supplying WILD RABBIT with information. I think we’ll have some mail-fraud indictments before too long.
DIR: FATHER RABBIT’s donations are in part self-serving. He aids WILD RABBIT’s cause and depletes the resources of his hate-tract rivals.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Is WILD RABBIT remaining tractable?
BR: He is, although I’ve learned that he’s running weaponry to Pete Bondurant’s narcotics cadre. As I understand it, he secures the weapons from armory heists and army base pilfering, which is odd, because I haven’t been able to find any recently filed reports on such incidents, anywhere in the south.
DIR: Yes, odd does describe it. That said, do you think WILD RABBIT will retain an acceptable level of deniability pertaining to his gun-running activities?
BR: I do, Sir. But should I tell him to stop?
DIR: No. I like his connection to Bondurant. Remember, we’ll be approaching Le Grand Pierre when we move BLACK RABBIT into the shakedown phase.
BR: I heard that he had a heart attack last month.
DIR: A pity. And the prognosis?
BR: I think it’s guardedly positive, Sir.
DIR: Good. We’ll let him recover and then add some stress to his overtaxed arteries.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Let’s discuss CRUSADER RABBIT. Have you accrued any substantive data?
BR: Yes and no, Sir. We’ve gotten nothing off the spot tails and the trash and mail covers, and I’m convinced that he’s too technically skilled to bug and tap. He’s retained his friendship with PINK RABBIT and visits him in D.C., which is hardly incriminating, since you urged him to do so.
DIR: Your tone betrays you. You’re tantalizing me. Shall I hazard a guess?
BR: Please do, Sir.
DIR: Your revelations pertain to CRUSADER’s women.
BR: That’s correct, Sir.
DIR: Expand your answers, please. I have a lunch date in the year 2000.
BR: CRUSADER has been seeing Janice Lukens, FATHER RABBIT’s ex-wife, in Las—
DIR: We know that. Pray continue.
BR: He lives with a woman in Los Angeles. Her alleged name is Jane Fentress.
DR: “Alleged” is correct. I helped to establish her identity two years ago. A New Orleans agent planted her college transcript.
BR: There’s much more to her, Sir. I think she could serve as our wedge if we need to disrupt CRUSADER.
DIR: Expand your thoughts. The millennium bodes.
BR: I had her spot-tailed. My man took a set of prints off a glass she left at a restaurant. We ran them and got her real name, Arden Louise Breen, B-R-E-E-N, married name Bruvick, B-R-U-V-I-C-K.
DIR: Continue.
BR: Her father was a left-wing unionist. The Teamsters killed him in ’52, and it’s still a St. Louis PD unsolved. Allegedly, the woman held no grudge against the Teamsters, allegedly because her father forced her to become a call-house prostitute. She absconded on a KCPD receiving stolen goods warrant in ’56, at the same time her husband embezzled some money from a Kansas City Teamster local and disappeared.
DIR: Continue.
BR: Here’s the ripe part. Carlos Marcello’s front corporation bailed her out on the Kansas City bounce. She disappeared then, she’s got a bookkeeping background, and she’s rumored to have had a long-term affair with that old Mob hand Jules Schiffrin.
DIR: Boffo news, Dwight. Well worth your vexing preambles.
BR: Thank you, Sir.
DIR: I think your tale boils down to one salient truth. Carlos Marcello does not trust CRUSADER RABBIT.
BR: I came to that conclusion, Sir.
DIR: Pull the tails, along with the trash and mail covers. If we need to get at CRUSADER, we’ll go through the woman.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Good day, Dwight.
BR: Good day, Sir.
(Saravan, 9/22/65)
T
orture:
Six slaves strapped down. Six Cong-symps wired. Six hot seats / six juice buttons / six testicle feeds.
Mesplède worked the juice box. Mesplède ran the juice. Mesplède asked the questions. Mesplède talked franglogook.
Pete watched. Pete chewed Nicorette gum. It was wet and hot—rainstorm boocoo. The hut sponged heat. The hut stored heat. The hut was a hot-plate boocoo.
Mesplède talked gook. Mesplède talked threat. Mesplède talked fast. His words slurred—gobbledeGOOK.
Pete knew the gist. Pete wrote the script. Pete read six faces.
Slaves escape. All pro-Cong. Who let them? I no know!—all six say it—I know no who!
It droned on—you tell me!—no no! Pete watched. Pete chewed gum. Pete read eyes.
Mesplède lit a Gauloise. Pete cued him. Mesplède hit the buttons. Juice flooowed.
Testicle ticklers—black box to balls—nonlethal volts. Gooks tingle. Gooks absorb. Gooks yell boocoo.
Mesplède cut the juice. Mesplède pidgin-gooked: Congs run! Steal M-base! Tell what you know!
The gooks buzzed. The gooks squirmed. The gooks afterglowed. Talk now! You tell me! Tell what you know! Six gooks jabbered—this gook ensemble—we no know who!
One gook squeals. One gook yips. One gook salivates. Loincloths to ankles/grounded gonads/feed plugs to feet. One gook squirms. One gook prays. One gook urinates.
Pete cued Mesplède. Mesplède hit the buttons. Juice flooowed.
The gooks buckle. The gooks absorb. The gooks gyrate. The gooks scream. The gooks thrash and pop veins.
Pete cogitated. Pete chewed gum. Pete brainstormed eyes shut.
Tran tells Wayne—slaves escape—steal M-base boocoo. They cook it. They dump it. Fuck up our GIs boocoo.
But:
You don’t dump Big “H.” You
sell
it.
And:
Wayne rotates home. Wayne’s lab is empty. Rival dope cooks could sneak in. Said cooks could utilize. Said cooks could appropriate.
Surveille the lab—do it soon—before
you
rotate.
Mesplède coughed. “Has that chewing gum put you in a trance, Pierre?”
Pete opened his eyes. “One of them has to know something. Ask them
why
the guys ran, and turn up the juice if they shit you.”
Mesplède smiled. Mesplède coughed. Mesplède pidgin-gooked. He talked fast. He blurred inflections. He fastballed his words.
Gooks listen. Good absorb. Gooks say: No No No No—
Mesplède hit the buttons. Juice flowed. Near-lethal volts. The gooks screamed. Their nuts flushed. Their nuts swelled.
Mesplède cuts the juice. Gooks absorb pain. Gook 5 talks ricky-tick. Mesplède smiles. Mesplède absorbs. Mesplède translates.
“He said he woke up and saw Tran pull them out of the hut. Tran …
qu’est-ce
… forced them to run, and he heard shots a few minutes later.”
Pete spit his gum out. “Cut them loose. Give them some extra beans for dinner.”
Mesplède said, “I appreciate compassion.”
The hills hurt.
He breathed hard. He walked slow. He trailed back. Mesplède walked fast. Two guards flanked him.
They cut through camp. They pushed through brush. They dodged biter snakes. The rain held. Brush slapped them. Pete gobbled breath.
He took pills. They thinned his blood. They scrubbed his veins. They sapped him. They fucked him up. They held him back.
He ran. He caught up. He gobbled breath.
They kicked through mud. The mud had weight. The weight hurt his chest. They walked two miles. They hit downslopes. His chest weight slacked off.
Pete heard grunts and oinks. Pete saw a mud pit. Pete smelled human decomp. Pete saw wild pigs root.
There:
Said mud pit. A buffet. Said pigs and boned flesh.
Pete jumped in. The pigs scattered. The mud was deep. The mud had weight. Pete bobbed for flesh.
He rooted. He flailed. He found an arm. He found a leg. He found a head. He shook off mud. He pulled off skin. He peeled off scalp flaps.
He saw a hole. It was bullet-sized. He gripped the jaws. He cracked the skull back.
Good breath. Good strength. Good outpatient stats.
A bullet dropped. Pete caught it. It was butterflied and smashed. It was a soft-point magnum. It was Tran Lao Dinh’s brand.
Tran tried charm. Tran tried shit. Tran tried shuck-and-jive. Mesplède hooked him up. Mesplède hooked dual clamps—gonads and head.
The rain held. Monsoon stats—mud 4-ever.
Pete chewed gum. Pete cracked the door. Pete stirred outside air.
“Your shit’s not working. Give up the details and tell us who you’re in with, and I’ll see what John Stanton says.”
Tran said, “You know me, boss. I no work with Victor Charles.”
Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.
The clamps sparked. His hair sparked. His nuts spasmed. He bit his lips. He bit his tongue. He cracked his false teeth.
Pete said, “That demoralize-the-GIs story you told Wayne was bullshit. Admit it and go from there.”
Tran licked his lips. “Victor Charles, boss. You don’t underestimate.”
Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.
His bladder blew. The clamps sparked. His head twitched. His dentures flew.
Mesplède said, “
Il est plus que dinky dau, il est carrément fou.
”
Pete kicked the dentures. They hit the doorway and popped out. They hit the mud monsoon. Tran flashed his gums. Pete saw old scars—Cong torture tattoos.
“I’ll double up next time. You don’t want that. You won’t—”
“Okay okay okay. I kill slaves and sell base to ARVN.”
Pete spit his gum out. “That’s a start.”
Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off—
le bird boocoo
.
