The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [111]
He dumped Koethe’s file. He filled the pit. He siphoned gas and doused it. He lit a match and got a big whooooosh.
The flames built. The flames leveled off. The heat torqued his headache. It was monster. It was Godzilla-plus. It was the Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Pete ran to his car. Pete swerved up the ramp. Pete hit the highway. Let’s ditch Big D. Let’s sedate forever. Let’s eat secobarbital. Let’s geez hair-o-wine.
That car laid back. It’s a spaceship. The driver’s King Kong. He’s got X-ray eyes. He knows you killed Koethe and Betty.
Pete got dizzy. The windshield vaporized. It’s a porthole/it’s a sieve. The road dropped. It’s an inkwell. It’s the Black Lagoon.
The Creature bit his head. Pete puked on the wheel.
There’s a ramp. It’s dropping. There’s a sign:
HUBBARD, TEX, POP 4001.
Japs. Slice cords. Betty Mac. Slant eyes/crossbars/capris.
It came. It went. Roads dropped. Roads resurfaced. Ink blots and lagoons.
He came. He went. He felt Frankensteined. Sutures and staples. Green walls and white sheets.
Behold the Body Snatchers. Behold Doc Frankenstein:
You’re lucky. A man found you. It’s been five days now. God must love you—you cracked up near St. Ann’s.
Doc had acne scars. Doc had halitosis. Doc had a drawl.
It’s been six days. We cut a fat pad from your head—it was benign. I bet you had some darn bad headaches.
Don’t worry now—that man in the car called your wife.
They brought him back.
Frankenstein came. Frankenstein went. Nuns fluttered and fussed. Don’t hurt me—I’m Protestant French.
Frank destapled him. Nuns shaved him. He dehazed. He saw razors and hands. He rehazed. He saw Japs and Betty.
Hands fed him soup. Hands touched his dick. Hands jabbed tubes in. The haze sputtered. Words filtered through. Decrease his dose—don’t addict him.
He dehazed. He saw faces:
Student nuns—the brides of Frankenstein. A slight man—Ivy League threads—John Stanton-like. Memory Lane: Miami/white horse/Outfit-Agency ops.
He squinted. He tried to talk. Nuns went ssshhh.
He rehazed. He dehazed. He dehazed for real. Stanton was real—dig his tan—dig his drip-dry suit.
Pete tried to talk. His throat clogged. He hocked phlegm. His dick burned. He pulled his catheter out.
Stanton smiled. Stanton pulled his chair up.
“Sleeping Beauty awakes.” Pete sat up.
Pete stretched his IV taut.
“You were tailing me. You saw me go off the road.”
Stanton nodded. “And I called Barb and told her you were safe, but you couldn’t have visitors yet.”
Pete rubbed his face. “What are you doing here?”
Stanton winked. Stanton popped his briefcase. Stanton pulled out Pete’s gun.
“You rest. The doctor said we’ll be able to talk tomorrow.”
They grabbed a bench. They lugged it outside. Stanton wore a drip-dry. Pete wore a robe.
He felt okay. Headaches—adieu.
He called Barb yesterday. They caught eight days up. Barb was okay. Stanton prepared her. Barb held in tough.
He read the Times-Herald. He got the gist. The Koethe snuff came and went. DPD worked it. DPD hassled queers. DPD cut them loose. The case vibed open file. It’s a queer job—fuck it.
The Morning News ran a piece. They ragged Koethe. They ragged his “wild talk.” Koethe was a perennial crank. Koethe was a “conspiracy nut.”
He burned Koethe’s notes. The Arden dirt went up. He debated. He decided—don’t tell Ward Littell.
It was sketchy dirt—fill it out first.
A nun walked by—a sweet number—Stanton studied her.
“Jackie Kennedy wore hats like that.”
“She wore one to Dallas.”
Stanton smiled. “You’re a fast study.”
“I took Latin in school. I know what ‘quid pro quo’ means.”
The nun smiled. The nun waved and giggled. Stanton was cute. Stanton lived on salads and martinis.
“Did you hear about that reporter who got killed? I heard he was writing a book.”
Pete stretched. A head stitch popped loose.
“Let’s start over. You were tailing me. You saved my life. I said thank you.”
Stanton stretched. His shoulder rig showed.
“We know that some Agency men were