American Tabloid - James Ellroy [158]
He flipped the Piper belly to backside. Pete spun topsy-turvy.
His head hit the roof. His seatbelt choked him immobile. Chucky rolled and flew upside down all the way to U.S. waters.
Dusk hit. Blessington glowed under high-wattage arc lights.
Pete popped two Dramamines. He saw redneck gawkers and ice cream trucks perched outside the front gates.
Chuck fishtailed down the runway and brought the plane to a dead stall. Pete hopped out woozy—Benzedrine and incipient nausea packed this wicked one-two punch.
A prefab hut stood in the middle of the drill field. Triple-strength barbed wire sequestered it. Unsynchronized shouts boomed out—a far cry from your snappy PIGS PIGS PIGS!
Pete stretched and worked out some muscle kinks. Lockhart ran up to him.
“Goddamnit, get in there and calm those spies down!”
Pete said, “What happened?”
“What happened is Kennedy’s stalling. Dick Bissell said he wants a win, but he don’t want to go the whole hog and get blamed if the invasion goes bust. I got my rusty old cargo ship all ready to go, but that Pope-worshiping cocksucker in the White House won’t—”
Pete slapped him. The little shitbird weaved and stayed upright.
“I said, ‘What happened?’ ”
Lockhart wiped his nose and giggled. “What happened is my Klan boys sold the provisional government guys some moonshine, and they started arguing politics with some of the regular troops. I whipped up a crew and isolated the troublemakers with that there barbed wire, but that don’t alter the fact that you got sixty frustrated and liquored-up Cuban hotheads in there biting at each other like copperheads when they should be concentrating on the problem at hand, which is liberating a Commie-held dictatorship.”
“Do they have guns?”
“No sir. I got the weapons shack locked and guarded.”
Pete reached into the cockpit. Right upside the dashboard: Chuck’s fungo bat and all-purpose tool kit.
He grabbed them. He pulled out the tin snips and tucked the bat into his waistband.
Lockhart said, “What are you doing?”
Chuck said, “I think I know.”
Pete pointed to the pump shed. “Let go with the fire hoses in exactly five minutes.”
Lockhart hooted. “Them hoses will tear that prefab right down.”
“That’s what I want.”
The sequestered spies laughed and yelled. Lockhart took off and hit the pump shed at a sprint.
Pete ran over to the fence and snipped out a section of coiling. Chuck wrapped his hands in his windbreaker and pulled down a big wall of barbs.
Pete scrunched down and crawled through. He ran up to the hut in a deep fullback crouch. One fungo bat shot took the door down.
His crash-in went unnoticed. The government-in-exile boys were preoccupied.
With arm wrestling, card games and shine-guzzling contests. With a baby-alligator race right there on the floor.
Dig the rooting sections. Dig the blankets covered with bet chits. Dig the bunks weighted down with moonshine jugs.
Pete choked up a bat grip. On-GO: that good old boot-camp pugel-stick training.
He waded in. Tight swings clipped chins and ribcages. The government-in-exile boys fought back—odd fists hit him haphazardly.
His bat shattered bunk beams. His bat shattered a fat man’s dentures. The gators scurried outside while the getting was good.
The government boys got the picture: Do not resist this big Caucasian madman.
Pete tore through the hut. The spies made like a backdraft and got waaay behind him.
He tore out the rear door and swung at the porch-to-roof stanchions. Five swings left-handed, five swings right—switch-hitting like fucking Mickey Mantle.
The walls shuddered. The roof wiggled. The foundation shimmy-shimmied. The spies evacuated—Earthquake! Earthquake!
The hoses hit. Jet-pressure tore the fence down. Hydraulic force ripped the hut roofless.
Pete caught a spritz and went tumbling. The hut burst into cinderblock shingles.
Dig the government-in-exile:
Running. Stumbling. Doing the jet-spray jigaboo jiggle.
Call it Hush-Hush style:
WATER-WHACKED WETBACKS WIGGLE! BOOZE-BLITZED AND BESOAKED BASTION BOOGIE-WOOGIES!
The hoses snapped off. Pete started laughing.
Men