The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [133]
The radio blared—discordant shit—Mesplède loved nigger jazz. The highway veered. They hit Tran Phu Street. Bao Loc—2 km.
They cut right. They passed silk looms. They passed rubber farms. They crossed the Seoi Tua Ha River. They passed beggar squads.
Mesplède tossed some chump change. The beggars descended. The beggars scratched and clawed. They passed a province hut. They passed tea farms. They passed gook priests on mopeds.
There’s Bob. There’s the ARVN’s dump.
Dig it:
ARVN guards. K-9 Korps. Gun stacks under dropcloths—open for biz.
They pulled in. They got out. Bob saw them. Bob walked a breed up.
“This is François. He’s half French, and I think he likes boys, which don’t discredit all the fine shit he’s got for sale.”
François wore pink pj’s. François wore hair curlers. François wore Chanel No. 5.
Chuck vamped him. “Hey, sweetcakes, have we met before? Did you take my ticket at Grauman’s Chinese?”
François said, “Fuck you. You cheap Charlie. American Punk No. 10.”
Chuck howled. Flash yukked. Mesplède roared. Pete took Bob aside.
“What have we got?”
“We got .50-caliber HMGs, MMGs up the wazoo, M-132 flamethrowers with replacement parts, .45-caliber SMGs with 30-round magazines, a fucking shitload of M-14s and 34 M-79 grenade launchers.”
Pete looked over. Pete saw six pallets—fat under dropcloths.
“You figure six planeloads?”
“I figure six big planeloads, ’cause each stack has two stacks behind it, and we got to string out the flights to keep Wayne’s shit going in.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “Run down the quality.”
“It’s just below Army standard, which is what we want, ’cause then it qualifies as surplus, which means it won’t draw no suspicion when it goes through Nellis.”
Pete walked over. Pete pulled dropcloths. Pete smelled cosmoline. Wood crates/nailed planks/stencil-mark designations.
Bob walked over. “It goes to Nellis, right? Some EM unload it and drive to an Agency drop.”
“Right. They won’t know that they’re transporting covert, so we’ve got to hide the shit in with some stuff they won’t want to pilfer.”
Bob scratched his balls. “Flamethrower parts. I got to say there ain’t much demand for them in Lost Wages.”
Pete nodded. Pete whistled. Pete cued Mesplède. Mesplède grabbed François and bartered in.
Pete signaled—six loads/six payments.
Mesplède bartered. François bartered. Mesplède bartered back. They talked polyglot—French-Viet—diphthongs and shouts.
Pete walked up. Pete listened. He got the bonnes affaires. He got the tham thams. He got the Lyonnaise slang.
François rolled his eyes. François stamped his feet. François steamed up his pajamas. Mesplède rolled his eyes. Mesplède balled his fists. Mesplède smoked three Gauloises.
François went hoarse. Mesplède went hoarse. They coughed. They slapped backs. They bowed.
François said, “Okay, big daddy-o.”
They drove back. They talked shit. They cut through Bien Hoa. The Cong hit ten days back—mortars predawn.
The stretch got close. They saw the mess. They saw flags at half-mast.
They cut back. They laughed. They slugged Bacardi. They told tales—Paraguay to Pigs—they goofed on CIA gaffes.
It’s ’62. Let’s pluck the Beard. Let’s shave him impotent. Let’s dope the water. Let’s spook the spics. Let’s stage a visit from Christ.
They laughed. They drank. They vowed to free Cuba. They stopped and hit the Go-Go.
There’s Wayne.
He’s alone—per usual. He’s pissed—per always. He’s watching Bongo and his whores.
64
(Las Vegas, 11/22/64)
One year.
He knew it. Jane knew it. They never said it.
Littell drove to Tiger Kab. Littell played the radio. Radio pundits assessed. One fool stressed Jackie. One fool stressed the kids. One fool stressed innocence lost.
Jane drove to Vegas. Jane holed up. Jane stayed in his suite. They called it “Thanksgiving.” The date hit. They never factored it in.
The papers rehashed it. The TV rehashed it. It rehashed all day. He left early. Jane kissed