The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [15]
A bomb hits. Flames whoosh. A woman’s hair ignites.
Moore belched. “Schlitz, Milwaukee’s finest beer.”
Pete said, “You’re going to clip Oswald.”
Moore gagged. Moore sprayed beer suds.
“Uuuh-uuuuh. Not this boy. That’s a kamikaze mission that you ain’t sendin’ me on, not when I got an extradition job and a candy-ass partner who won’t pull his weight.”
Guy dipped his seat. Guy pushed Moore back.
“You and Tippit fucked up. You owe that marker, so you have to pay it off.”
Moore cracked beer #3. “Uuuh-uuuuh. I’m not flushin’ my life down the shitter ’cause I owe some eye-talians a few dollars that they won’t even miss.”
Pete smiled. “It’s all right, Maynard. You just find out when they’re moving him. We’ll do the rest.”
Moore burped. “I’ll do that. That’s a job that won’t interfere with the other affairs I got goin’.”
Pete reached back. Pete popped the rear hatch. Moore climbed out. Moore stretched. Moore waved bye-bye.
Guy said, “Peckerwood trash.”
Moore shagged his 409. Moore laid rubber large.
Pete said, “I’ll kill him.”
Betty McDonald lived in Oak Cliff—Shitsville, U.S.A.
Pete called DPD. Pete played cop. Pete got her rap sheet: Four prosty beefs/one hot-check caper/one dope bounce.
He tapped out on “Arden.” He had no last name.
He went by the Moonbeam Lounge. Carlos owned points. Joe Campisi ran the on-site handbook.
Joe owned the DPD. Cops placed bets. Cops lost. Cops made Joe’s collections. Joe shylocked large—vig plus 20%.
Pete schmoozed with Joe. Pete borrowed ten cold. Pete tagged it a margin risk. Nobody said clip them. Nobody said scare them off. Nobody said shit. Guy wasn’t Outfit. Guy’s wishes meant shit.
Joe supplied a calzone. Pete ate on the freeway. The cheese fucked up his teeth.
He got off. He toured Oak Cliff. He found the address: A shotgun shack/dingy/three small rooms tops.
He parked. He dropped five G’s in the calzone box. He schlepped it on up. He knocked on the door. He waited. He checked for eyewits.
Nobody home—zero eyewits.
He got out his comb. He flexed the tines. He picked the lock clean. He walked in and closed the door slow.
The front room smelled—maryjane and cabbage—window light squared him away.
Front room/kitchen/bedroom. Three rooms in a row.
He walked to the kitchen. He opened the fridge. A cat rubbed his legs. He tossed him some fish. The cat scarfed it up. Pete scarfed some Cheez Whiz.
He toured the pad. The cat followed him. He paced the front room. He pulled the drapes. He pulled up a chair and sat by the door.
The cat hopped in his lap. The cat clawed the calzone box. The room was cold. The chair was soft. The walls torqued him back.
Memory Lane. L.A.—12/14/49.
He’s a cop. He breaks County strikes. He works goooood sidelines. He pulls shakedowns. He extorts queers. He raids the Swish Alps.
He’s a card-game guard. He’s a scrape procurer. He’s Quebecois French. He fought the war. He got green-card Americanized.
Late ’48—his brother Frank hits L.A.
Frank was a doctor. Frank had bad habits. Frank made bad friends. Frank whored. Frank gambled. Frank lost money.
Frank did scrapes. Frank scraped Rita Hayworth. Frank was Abortionist to the Stars. Frank played cards. Frank lost money. Frank dug Mickey Cohen’s regular game.
Frank partied with scrape folks. Frank met Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer. Ruth did scrapes. Ruth loved her son Huey. Huey did heists.
Huey robbed Mickey’s game. Huey’s face mask slipped. The players ID’d him. Pete had the flu. Pete took the night off. Mickey told Pete to kill Huey.
Huey laid low. Pete found his pad: An ex-brothel in El Segundo.
Pete torched the pad. Pete stood in the backyard. Pete watched the house flames. Four shapes ran out. Pete shot them. Pete let them scream and burn.
It was dark. Their hair plumed. Smoke blitzed their faces. The papers played it up—FOUR DEAD IN BEACH TORCH—the papers ID’d the vics:
Ruth. Huey. Huey’s girlfriend.
And:
One Canuck doctor—François Bondurant.
Someone called their dad. Someone snitched Pete off. His dad