The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [107]
53
(Las Vegas, 9/13/64)
The cat snared a rat. One chomp—adieu.
The cat prowled the hut. The cat paraded. Harvey Brams crossed himself. Donkey Dom laughed.
Milt grabbed the rat. The cat snarled. Milt dropped the rat in the shitter. The cat nuzzled Pete. The cat clawed the switchboard.
Biz was slow. The 6:00 p.m. blues descended.
Champ B. bopped through. Champ B. juked morale. Champ B. dumped some hijacked Pall Malls.
Pete bought them. Call it PR swag—potential Drac donations. Hospital swag—yuk-yuk—lung-ward booty.
Biz picked up. Sonny Liston called. Sonny ordered two cabs. Sonny ordered scotch and red devils.
Pete yawned. Pete stroked the cat. Wayne walked in distracted. Dom checked his basket. Dom eyeball-stroked his bulge.
Pete said, “I’ve been calling you.”
Wayne shrugged. Wayne passed Pete a note. A news clip—two columns. A call came in. Milt plugged it. Pete steered Wayne outside.
Wayne looked frazzled. Pete sized him up. Pete stuck the clip in his pocket.
“Sol Durslag. Ring a bell?”
“Sure. He’s a card cheat. He’s the treasurer for the Liquor Board, and he used to work for my father.”
“Did they fall out?”
“Everybody falls out with—”
“Your father owns the Land o’ Gold, right? He’s got covert points.”
“Right. The Gold and thirteen more.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “Milt’s been digging up shit. He heard that Durslag’s been running card counters out of the Gold. I might need his help down the line.”
Wayne smiled. “My father used to run him.”
“That’s what Milt said.”
“So you …”
“I want you to muscle him. Think about it. You’re Wayne Senior’s son, and you’ve got your own reputation.”
Wayne said, “Is this a test?”
Pete said, “Yes.”
Durslag lived on Torrey. Durslag lived middle-class. Durslag lived in the Sherlock Homes tract.
Said tract was a style clash. Mock Tudors and palm trees. Mock gables and sand lots. Mixed-message mishegoss.
It was dark. The house was dark. Clouds draped the moon.
Pete knocked. Pete got no answer. The garage door was up. They lounged inside.
Pete smoked. Pete got a headache. Pete popped aspirin. Wayne yawned. Wayne shadowboxed. Wayne fucked with a gooseneck lamp.
Milt dished on Sol. Milt said Sol was divorced. Good news—no women.
The wait dragged. 1:00 a.m. went south. They loitered. They stretched kinks out. They pissed the walls green.
There—
Headlights/the driveway/incoming beams.
Pete crouched. Wayne crouched. A Caddy pulled in. The beams dimmed. Sol got out. Sol sniffed—
What’s that smoke sm—
He ran. Pete tripped him. Wayne threw him up on the hood. Pete grabbed the lamp. Pete whipped the neck down. Pete flashed light on Wayne.
“That’s Mr. Tedrow. You used to work for his father.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Pete flashed him. Sol blinked. Sol rolled off the hood. Wayne grabbed him. Wayne pinned him. Wayne pulled his sap out.
Pete flashed him. Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the arms. Sol shut his eyes. Sol bit his lips. Sol squeezed up fists.
Wayne said, “Pull your crew out of the Land o’ Gold.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the chest.
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Pete said, “Say yes twice. That’s all we want.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the ankles/the arms.
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Wayne sapped him. Pete flashed him. The bulb was bright. The bulb was hot. The bulb burned his face.
Wayne raised his sap. Wayne swung it. Pete stopped him short.
“One yes to me, one to Mr. Tedrow. Pull your crew. Do my people some liquor-board favors.”
Sol said, “Fuck you.”
Pete cued Wayne. Wayne sapped him—tight shots—the arms/the ribs. Sol balled up. Sol rolled. Sol clipped the hood ornament. Sol snapped a wiper blade.
Sol coughed. Sol choked. Sol said, “Fuck you, yes, okay.”
Pete pulled the lamp up. The light bounced and fizzed.
“That’s two ‘yes’s,’ right?”
Sol opened his eyes. Sol had singed brows. Sol had scorched lids.