The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [108]
“Yeah, two. You think I want this as a steady diet?”
Pete pulled his flask—Old Crow bond—instant headache relief.
Sol grabbed it. Sol drained it. Sol coughed and flushed—Man-o-Manischewitz, that’s good!
He winced. He rolled off the hood. He stood straight up. He grabbed the lamp. He bent the neck. He flashed light on Wayne.
“Your father told me some things about you, sonny boy.”
Wayne said, “I’m listening.”
“I could tell you some things about that sick hump.”
Wayne bent the lamp down. The light bounced and fizzed.
“You can tell me. I won’t hurt you.”
Sol coughed. Sol hacked phlegm—thick and blood-infused.
“He said you had it bad for his wife. Like a little pervert puppy.”
Wayne said, “And?”
“And you never had the gumption to act.”
Pete watched Wayne. Pete watched his hands. Pete got in close.
Wayne said, “And?”
“And Daddy shouldn’t preach, ’cause he’s a sick hump as far as his wife is concerned.”
Pete watched Wayne. Pete blocked his hands. Pete closed in close.
Wayne said, “And?”
Sol coughed. “And Daddy has Mommy screw these guys that he wants to cultivate, and Mommy had this unauthorized thing with a colored musician named Wardell Gray, and Daddy beat him to death with his cane.”
Wayne swayed. Sol laughed. Sol flipped his tie in his face.
“Fuck you. You’re a punk. You’re a hump like your daddy.”
54
(Las Vegas, 9/14/64)
The Golden Gorge—11:00 p.m.
Twelve rooms. Sleepy braceros. Room #5—empty. Room #4—trysted up.
They showed at 9:00. They brought two cars. Kinman brought liquor. Janice brought the key.
Wayne watched. Wayne walked the parking lot. Wayne brought tools. Wayne brought lockpicks and a penlight.
Pervert pup. Hump like your—
The lot was dead. No loungers/no muchachos/no drunks flaked in cars. Room #5—no windows. Room #4—dark.
Wayne braced door 5. Wayne got his tools out. Wayne flashed the locks.
Eleven brown doors. One green door as standout. One pervert-pup joke.
Wayne worked the picks. Wayne rotated clockwise and counter. Wayne tapped both locks.
His hands jumped. He dripped sweat. He gored his thumbs. Clockwise/reverse it/go count—
The top lock snapped.
He popped one tumbler. He wiped his hands. He popped one mo—
The bottom lock snapped.
Wayne wiped his hands. Wayne leaned on the door. Wayne rode the door and stepped in.
He shut the door. He flashed the room. It was small. It smelled familiar.
Old smells—embedded. Wayne Senior’s booze. Wayne Senior’s tobacco.
Wayne flashed the floor. Wayne flashed the walls. Wayne got the gestalt.
A chair. A sideboard. One ashtray/one bottle/one glass. One mirror-peek. Room #4 access. A wall speaker/soundproof wall pads/a sound switch.
Wayne sat down. Wayne made the chair—surplus from Peru, Indiana. The peek was dark. Room #4 was dark. Wayne poured a drink.
He downed it. It singed. He rode the burn out. The peek was 3-by-3. The standard cop size—the stock mirror-mount.
Wayne hit the switch. Wayne heard Kinman moan. Wayne heard Janice moan counterpoint.
Janice moaned arch. Janice moaned smut-actress style—Stag Loop 101.
Wayne poured a drink. Wayne downed it. Wayne rode the burn out. Kinman came—ooo-ooo-ooo. Janice came concurrent. Janice came mezzo-falsetto—smut meets the Met.
Wayne heard soft talk. Wayne heard giggles. Wayne heard speaker warp. A light went on. Room #4 flared.
Janice got out of bed. Janice stood up nude. Janice walked to her side of the mirror. She lingered. She posed. She grabbed her cigarettes off a dresser.
Wayne leaned in tight. Janice blurred. Wayne leaned way back to reframe. Kinman said something. Kinman murmured sweet talk. Kinman was oblivious. Kinman knew fuck-all.
Janice rubbed her appendix scar. Janice tossed her hair.
Her breasts swayed. Her hair tousled. She raised steam. She dripped sweat. She smiled. She licked a finger. She wrote “Junior” on the mirror.
55
(Dallas, 9/21/64)
Jim Koethe was queer.
He bolstered his crotch. He prowled fag bars. He brought boys home. Home was Oak Cliff—bumfuck Big D. Home was the Oak View Apartments.
Three floors. Outside walkways. All courtyard