The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [136]
“You should have come next week. It would have been better all around.”
“You wanted me here, so I came. Now you’re leaving.”
Littell nodded. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
“You wanted to see if I’d come. You were testing me. You broke a rule that we set for ourselves, and now I’m stuck in this suite.”
Littell shook his head. “You could take a walk. You could get a golf lesson. You could read instead of watch TV for sixteen goddamn hours.”
Jane threw her ashtray. It hit the TV.
“Given the date, how could you expect me to do anything else?”
“Given the date, we could have talked about it. Given the date, we could have stretched the rules. Given the date, you could have given up some of your goddamn secrets.”
Jane threw a cup. It hit the TV.
“You carry a gun. You carry briefcases full of money. You fly around the country to see gangsters, you listen to tapes of Robert Kennedy when you think I’m sleeping, and I’ve got secrets?”
They slept solo.
He scooped up her butts. He packed a bag. He packed his briefcase. He packed three suits. He packed appeal briefs and money—ten grand in cash.
He made up the couch. He stretched out. He tried to sleep. He thought about Janice. He thought about Barb. He thought about Jane.
He tried to sleep. He thought about Barb. He thought about Janice.
He got up. He cleaned his gun. He read magazines. Harper’s ran a piece—Mr. Hoover misbehaves.
He gave a speech. He fomented. He attacked Dr. King. He disrupted. He appalled. He stirred hate.
Littell turned the light off. Littell tried to sleep.
He counted sheep. He counted money. Skim cuts and embezzlements—civil-rights tithes.
He tried to sleep. He thought about Jane. He counted her lies. He lost count. He ricocheted.
Barb goes knock-kneed. Janice waves her cane. Janice smiles. Janice limps. Janice drops her cane.
He got up. He got dressed. He drove to McCarran. He saw a sign for Kool Menthol—all swimsuits and sun.
He turned around. He drove back. He drove to the Sands. He parked. He primped in his rearview mirror.
He walked by the golf course. He found the cottage and knocked. Janice opened up.
She saw him. She smiled. She plucked her curlers out.
65
(Saigon, 11/28/64)
White Horse—grad research.
Wayne mixed morph clay and ammonia. Wayne ran three hot plates. Wayne boiled three kilos. Shit filtered out.
Wayne dumped the ammonia. Wayne cleaned the beakers. Wayne dried the bricks.
Call it: Test batch #8.
He blew twenty bricks. He filtered wrong. He fucked the process. He learned. He added steps. He sluiced out organic waste.
Pete postponed the ship date. Pete let him learn.
Wayne boiled water. Wayne gauged it. Roger—182F.
He dumped it. He poured acetic anhydride. He filled three vats. He boiled it. He got it.
Roger—182F.
He measured base. He chopped it. He added it. He got the mix. He got the look. He got the smell—vinegar and prune.
He sniffed it. His nose burned. It looked good—good bonds—good reaction mix.
Call it batch #9—diacetyl morphine/impure.
Wayne sneezed. Wayne rubbed his eyes. Wayne scratched his nose.
He lived at the lab. He worked at the lab. He sniffed caustic agents. He built allergies. The kadre bunked away. He dodged them. He dodged Chuck and Bob.
They bugged him. They said go Klan. They said hate spooks. They said hate like we do.
His hate was his hate. They didn’t KNOW.
He lived at the lab. He slept all day. He worked all night. Day noise bugged him. He heard mopeds and chants outside. He heard slogan gobbledygook.
He slept through it. He set his clock—tracer rounds at six.
Night noise unbugged him. He heard jukebox clang downstairs. He heard music up his vents.
He did dope work. He built shelves. He filed newspapers. He crossfiled his clips. The Dallas rag and Vegas rag—a week old here.
The Dallas rag flaunted the birthday. The Dallas rag flaunted old stuff. Sidebars and more birthdays—“unrelated” stuff.
Where’s Maynard Moore? Where’s that Wendell Durfee?
Wayne checked batch #9. There—the right smell/the right burn/the right mass. Precipitants—visible—nondiacetyl mass.
Wayne worked