The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [11]
“Sir, I don’t—”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’ just tell me what you know.”
“Sir, I mean mister, I don’t know where Wendell’s at. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”
“You’re shucking me. Stop it, or I’ll hand you up to that cracker.”
“Mister, I ain’t woofin’ you. I don’t know where Wendell’s at.”
The walls shook. Shit cracked one room over. Wayne made the sounds:
Sap shots. Hard steel meets plywood and glue.
Jeff shook. Jeff gulped. Jeff picked a hangnail.
Wayne said, “Let’s try this. You work at Dr Pepper. You got paid today.”
“That’s right. If I’m lyin’, I’m—”
“And you made your probation payment.”
“You ain’t woofin’ I did.”
“Now, you’ve got some money left. It’s burning a hole in your pocket. Wendell’s your gambling buddy. There’s some kind of payday crap game that you can point me to.”
Jeff sucked his hangnail. Jeff gullllped.
“Then how come I ain’t at that game right now?”
“Because you lent Wendell most of your money.”
Glass broke. Wayne made the sound: One sap shot/one TV screen fucked.
“Wendell Durfee. Give him up, or I tell Tex that you’ve been porking little white kids.”
Jeff lit a cigarette. Jeff choked on it. Jeff coughed smoke out.
“Liddy Baines, she used to go with Wendell. She knowed I owed him money, an’ she came by an’ said he was lookin’ to get down to Mexico. I gave her all but five dollars of my check.”
Wood cracked. The walls shook. The floor shook.
“Address?”
“Seventy-first and Dunkirk. The little white house two up from the corner.”
“What about the game?”
“Eighty-third and Clifford. The alley by the warehouse.”
Wayne opened the door. Jeff stood behind him. Jeff got in a runner’s crouch. Moore saw Wayne. Moore bowed. Moore winked.
The TV was dead. The shelf shrine was dust. The walls were pulp and spit.
It got real.
Moore had a throwdown piece. Moore had a pump. A coroner owed him. He’d fudge the wound text.
Wayne went dry. Wayne got pinpricks. Wayne’s nuts shriveled up.
They drove. They went Darktown-deep. They went by Liddy Baines’ shack. Nobody was home—Liddy, where you at?
They hit a pay phone. Moore called Dispatch. Moore got Liddy Baines’ stats: No wants/no warrants/no vehicle extant.
They drove to 83rd and Clifford. They passed junkyards and dumps. Liquor stores and blood banks. Mohammed’s Mosque #12.
They passed the alley. They caught a tease: Streetlights/faces/a blanket spread out.
A fat man rolled. A plump man slapped his forehead. A thin man scooped cash.
Moore stopped at 82nd. Moore grabbed his pump. Wayne pulled his piece. Moore popped in earplugs.
“If he’s there, we’ll arrest him. Then we’ll take him out to the sticks and cap him.”
Wayne tried to talk. His throat closed. He squeaked. Moore winked. Moore yukked haw-haw.
They walked over. They cleaved to shadows. They crouched. The air dried up. The ground dropped. Wayne lost his feet.
They hit the alley. Wayne heard jive talk. Wayne saw Wendell Durfee.
His legs went. He stumbled. He toed a beer can. The dice men perked up.
Say what?
Who that?
Mama, that you?
Moore aimed. Moore fired. Moore caught three men low. He sprayed their legs. He diced their blanket. He chopped their money up.
Muzzle boom—twelve-gauge roar—high decibels in tight.
It knocked Wayne flat. Wayne went deaf. Wayne went powder blind. Moore shot a trashcan. The sucker flew.
Wayne rubbed his eyes. Wayne got partial sight. Dice men screamed. Dice men scattered. Wendell Durfee ran.
Moore aimed high. Moore sprayed a wall. Pellets bounced and whizzed. They caught Durfee’s hat. They sliced the band. They blew the feather up.
Durfee ran. Wayne ran.
He aimed his piece up and out. Durfee backward-aimed his. They fired. Blips lit the alley. Shots cut the walls.
Wayne saw it. Wayne felt it. Wayne didn’t hear shit.
He fired. He missed. Durfee fired. Durfee missed. Barrel flames. Sound waves. No real sound worth shit.
They ran. They stopped. They fired. They sprinted full-out.
Wayne popped six shots—one full cylinder. Durfee popped eight shots—one full-load clip.
The flares stopped. No light. No directional signs—
Wayne stumbled.