The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [132]
“Tran had some napalm. Chuck and Bob Relyea flew over and dropped it last night. They waxed the barracks and the ops huts at both of the camps next to Dong’s. They spared the refineries and the jails, so you tell me what the fucking upshot of all that is.”
Stanton crossed his legs. “You’re saying …”
“I’m saying we now own the only three poppy farms south of Ba Na Key. I’m saying we’ve got viable slaves at all three locations. I’m saying Tran knows some Chinese chemists we can bring in to work the morphine base and get it ready for Wayne. I’m saying all three camps are fucking physically connected, with forest, mountain, and river cover, and all I need from you is some warm bodies to run the slaves and work under the Laotian end of the kadre.”
Stanton sighed. “Warm bodies cost money.”
“The Marvins work cheap. Bob said they fucking desert a hundred a day.”
“You’re missing the point. Money is money, and we’re stage-1 covert. I’m accountable to other Agency sources, and now I’m going to have to tell them that the cost of your escapade is coming out of the 45% profit nut that we’ve earmarked for the Cause.”
Pete shook his head. “The Cause gets 65. You told me that.”
Stanton shook his head. “There’s too many hands out. The ARVN boss heard about your little adventure and upped the rent on every transport vehicle and live body he lets us have.”
Pete kicked a chair. It hit the bar. It reroused the whores. They twirled their fingers. They touched their heads. They mimed he claaaazy.
Stanton smiled. “Let’s hear some good news.”
Pete smiled. “We took ten kilos of morphine base out of Laos. Wayne’s doing tests now.”
“You shouldn’t have risked him on that raid. He’s the only heroin chemist we’ve got.”
“I needed to see what he had. It won’t happen ag—”
“What else? Did you talk to Litt—”
“Heads up on that. Dracula gave him a hundred grand for the ordnance. It’s coming in on the pouch flight at noon.”
Stanton smiled. “That means …”
“Right, he swung Nellis. Five G’s a month, cheap for what it gets us.”
Stanton coughed. “Have you got a source?”
“Bob does. Some breed in Bao Loc. He’s got some U.S. shit captured back from the Cong.”
“Don’t skimp. Let’s make Hughes and the Air Force look good.”
“You don’t have to tell me that.”
“I’m not so sure.”
“Be sure. We’re in this for the same reason.”
Stanton leaned in. “We’re here now. We’re not in Cuba. When the buildup starts next year, we’ll have a lot more cover to work in.”
Pete looked around. The whores went you claaaazy.
“You’re right. And I’ve been in worse places.”
Bao Loc was north. 94 clicks. They limo’ed up.
Mesplède booked a stretch. Chuck and Flash reclined. The pouch flight landed early. Drac delivered. Ward delivered Drac.
Old bills—C-notes—one hundred K in all.
Pete reclined. Pete dug on the countryside.
He’d called Ward. They’d talked—Saigon to Vegas. Ward ragged him. Ward ragged on narcotics.
Flash back—ten months—Ward loves dope then. Ward lauds dope at the Summit.
Dope made money. Dope pleased Drac. Dope sedated jigs.
Flash up—Ward is pissed—Ward has ideals.
Dope is bad. Dope is crass. Dope means risk. Don’t disrupt my fund-book plan. Don’t disrupt Drac’s incursion.
Ward was Ward. Ward got pissed easy. Ward lugged a Jesus cross in his sewer.
He told Ward to visit Barb. He told Ward to watch Tiger. Check the hut/tail the cabs/vet my no-pill policy.
Pete yawned. The stretch hauled. The wheels kicked mud. Mesplède ran the radio. Chuck and Flash gawked. Dig the rivers. Dig the inlets. Dig the sampans. Dig the kute and komely gook quail.
Chuck loved Laos. Mesplède said napalm glowed. Tran said he saw a white tiger. We own it now—the Bolaven Plateau.
Three poppy farms. The Set River. Big tiger tracks.
Guéry was there now. Tran was there now. Tran ran a shorthanded crew. Six goons for three camps—slaves thus on hiatus.
The slaves survived the bombing. The old goons fried. The refineries stood untorched. Tran knew potential chemists. Tran knew potential Marv guards. Tran knew geography.
Tran say you smart. You raid Bolaven. You no raid Ba Na Key.