The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [10]
Wayne felt rain. “His pamphlets make money. And you won’t see him wearing a sheet in Pigshit, Texas.”
“You certainly won’t, to his everlasting discredit.”
The rain came. The rain went. Wayne fugued on out. The fumes tickled. The car droned. He rehashed recent shit.
West Vegas: Assault One/eight counts. A white man beats up colored whores.
He picked them up. He took them home. He beat them and took snapshots—and LVPD didn’t care.
He cared. He told Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior pooh-poohed it.
Moore pulled off the freeway. Moore trawled side streets. He hit his brights. He scanned curb plates. He drove down a tract row.
He grazed curbs. He read mailbox names. He found the box. He pulled over and stopped.
Wayne squinted. Wayne saw the name: “Bowers.”
Wayne stretched. Moore stretched. Moore grabbed a sandwich bag.
“This won’t take no more than two minutes.”
Wayne yawned. Moore got out. Wayne got out and leaned on the car.
The house was drab. The lawn was brown. The house had peeled paint and chipped stucco.
Moore walked to the porch. Moore rang the bell. A man opened up. Moore badged him. Moore shoved him inside. Moore kicked the door shut.
Wayne stretched some kinks out. Wayne dug on the car.
He kicked the slicks. He touched the pipes. He popped the hood. He sniffed the fuel valves. He nailed the smell. He broke down the oxide components.
You’re a cop now. You’re a good one. You’re a chemist still.
Somebody screamed. Wayne slammed the hood. It muffled scream #2.
Dogs barked. Curtains jerked. Neighbors scoped the Bowers pad.
Moore walked out.
He grinned. He weaved a tad. He wiped blood off his shirt.
They drove back to Big D. Moore chewed Red Man. He tuned in Wolfman Jack. He mimicked his howl. He lip-synced R&B.
They hit Browntown. They found the guy’s shack: Four walls—all plywood and glue.
Moore parked on the lawn. Moore grazed a boss Lincoln. The windows were down. The interior glowed.
Moore spat juice. Moore sprayed the seats good.
“You best believe they’ll name a car after Kennedy. And every nigger in captivity’ll rob and rape to get one.”
Wayne walked up. Moore trailed back. The door stood open. Wayne looked in. Wayne saw a colored guy.
The guy crouched. The guy worked. The guy fucked with his TV set. He tapped the dials. He tweaked the cord. He raised static and snow.
Wayne knocked. Moore walked in. Moore scoped this shrine shelf:
A plug-in JFK. Bobby cutouts. A Martin Luther King doll.
The guy saw them. He stood up. He shivered. He double-clutched.
Wayne walked in. “Are you Mr. Jefferson?”
Moore sprayed juice. Moore doused a chair.
“He’s the boy. Aka ‘Jeff,’ aka ‘Jeffy,’ you think I don’t do my homework?”
Jeff said, “That’s me. Yessir.”
Wayne smiled. “You’re in no trouble. We’re looking for a friend of—”
“How come you people got all these President names? Half the boys I take down got names more distinguished than mine.”
“Yessir, that’s true, but I don’t know what answer to tell you, so—”
“I popped a boy named Roosevelt D. McKinley, and he didn’t even know where his mama stole them names from, which is one sorry-ass state of affairs.”
Jeff shrugged. Moore mimicked him. He went slack. He bugged his eyes. He pulled a beavertail sap.
The TV sparked. A picture blipped. There’s Lee H. Oswald.
Moore spat on the screen. “There’s the boy you should name your pickaninnies after. He killed my friend J. D. Tippit, who was one dick-swingin’ white man, and it offends me to be in the same room as you on the day he died.”
Jeff shrugged. Jeff looked at Wayne. Moore twirled his sap. The TV popped off. Bum tubes crackled.
Jeff twitched. His knees shook. Wayne touched his shoulder. Moore mimicked him. Moore swished.
“You boys are suuuch the pair. You’ll be holdin’ hands any damn second.”
That tore—
Wayne shoved Moore. Moore tripped. Moore knocked a lamp down. Jeff shook nelly-style. Wayne shoved him in the kitchen.
They fit tight. The sink cramped them. Wayne toed the door shut.
“Wendell Durfee’s running. He always runs to Dallas, so why don’t you tell me what you know