The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [125]
Wayne stared at Chuck. Wayne cracked his thumbs.
Chuck said, “Wayne’s a Martin Luther Coon fan. He’s seen all his films.”
Wayne stared. Chuck stared back. The stretch swerved. Chuck blinked first. Wayne blinked last.
The stretch swayed. The driver dodged a pig. Pete looked out. Pete looked up.
He saw tracer rounds. Tracers as firefly flares.
They cruised Khanh Hoi. They scoped the clubs. They hit the Duc Quynh.
It was small. It was dark. It was French. Banquettes/mood lights/jukebox. They got a booth. They ordered wine. They ate bouillabaisse.
Wayne sulked. Pete watched him.
Ward snipped his daddy cord. Hey, Wayne, dig this: Daddy bought you Dallas. Wayne took it hard. Wayne held his mud. Wayne waxed sullen resultant.
The food rocked—garlic and squid—chow indigène. Bar girls performed.
They peeled to pasties. They lip-synced tunes. They sang some Barb cover songs.
Chuck got drunk. Bob got drunk. They talked Klan shit resultant. Flash got drunk. Guéry got drunk. They talked patois.
Chaffee got drunk. Chaffee waved shrunken heads. Chaffee spooked the girls off resultant.
Stanton sipped martinis. Wayne sipped vichy. Mesplède smoked a Gauloise a minute. Pete heard bombs. Pete gauged directions.
Small bombs—two clicks over—reverb off water.
Chaffee called it—White Mice and VC. Gadfly stuff—pipe bombs pas beaucoup.
The club filled up. Stag GIs cruised stag nurses.
They hobnobbed. They danced. They hogged the jukebox. They played Vietrock—Ricky Nelson in gook—“Herro, Maly Roo.”
Two niggers showed up. They vibed jungle stud. They vibed plantation buck.
They hit on white nurses. They sparked rapport. They sat with them. They danced with them. They danced sloooow.
Wayne seized up. Wayne watched them. Wayne gripped the table.
They danced. They did the Stroll. They did the Watusi. Wayne watched them. Chuck caught it. Chuck signaled Bob.
They watched Wayne. Pete watched Wayne. Wayne watched the niggers dance. They worked their hips. They lit cigarettes. They fed the nurses puffs.
Wayne gripped the table. Wayne tore a plank loose. The stew pot fell. Fishheads flew.
Pete said, “Let’s walk.”
They hit the docks. They met Stanton’s ARVNs. Two trung uys—junior grade—first-lieutenant gooks.
The lab was close. They walked over. The ARVNs walked point. Tracers popped. Red light tinged the water.
There—
The building’s white brick. It’s smeared with gook graffiti. One nightclub/one dope den/one floor per each. Three floors—with lab space on top.
They walked in. They scoped out the Go-Go. There’s a bar. There’s a bandstand. There’s a shrunken-head motif.
Shrunken-head wall mounts. Shrunken-head ashtrays. Shrunken-head candlesticks.
More B-girls. More ARVNs. More GIs. More musk and more Ricky Nelson. More “Herro, Maly Roo.”
They walked upstairs. The ARVNs chaperoned them. There’s the dope den.
Floor pallets/wood planks recumbent/dope beds boocoo. Piss troughs and shit buckets. Four walls as fart envelopes.
O-heads boocoo. O-heads in orbit. Slants and some round-eyes. One jigaboo.
They walked through. They pallet-hopped. They dodged fumes. Pete held his nose. Scents sizzled and mixed.
Sweat/smoke/fart residue.
The ARVNs wiggled flashlights—you rook rook rook:
See the dope skin. See the dope eyes. See the Jockey shorts de rigueur.
Chaffee said, “The Americans are ex-Army. They got discharged and stuck around. The colored guy pimps slant girls out of the Go-Go.”
The ARVNs flashed the spook’s pallet. Said spook flew dee-luxe. Dig his silk pillow. Dig his down bed and silk sheets.
Pete sneezed. Flash coughed. Stanton squashed a turd. Chuck laughed. Guéry kicked a pallet. Guéry dislodged a gook.
Mesplède laughed. Bob laughed. Wayne watched the spook.
They walked. They hit the back door. They took side stairs up. There’s the lab—dig it!
Stoves. Vats. Oil drums. Beakers/kettles/pans. Shelves. Mustard jars with taped labels.
Stanton said, “I got everything Wayne asked for.”
Chaffee sneezed. “It’s quality stuff. I got most of it in Hong Kong.”
Coffee filters. Lime sacks. Suction pumps and