The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [155]
The jarheads stood up. A jarhead tripped a punji stick. Spikes slammed him—knees to nipples—punctures and rips.
Wayne rolled to the medic. Wayne grabbed his Syrettes—pure morphine cc’s.
He rolled to the jarhead. He shot up the jarhead. The jarhead convulsed. The jarhead hurled chunks of his spleen.
Wayne had white horse—one spike in his pocket—one short test dose.
He found a vein. He geezed the man. The man gasped. The man smiled. The man nodded out.
Wayne timed his death. He went out in sixteen seconds. He went out wispy and numb.
Pete was World War II. Pete had a rule: Don’t sell to GIs. It was naive. It negated the real rule: provocation meets response.
“Our Boys” would fight the war. “Our Boys” would look for outs. “Our Boys” would find Big “H.”
Stanton had terms: “the Agency’s War” and “the Personal Commitment.”
He killed Bongo. He committed. He joined the war then. He squashed a bug. It felt right. It felt impersonal. He killed Bongo. He dumped Bongo. He took his own pulse. Sixty-two beats a minute—no malice/no stress.
Rats ate Bongo. Some Marvs found his bones. A rumor spread: Chemist do it—chemist kill pimp.
Whores braced Wayne. They said be our pimp—we love you. He said no. He saw that colored whore. He saw her trailer.
The rumor spread. Chuck heard it. Chuck told Bob. Bob braced him. Bob said come south and join my Klan—we’ll fuck niggers up.
Wayne said no. Bob dropped hints: I work for your dad. Wayne said no. Bob laughed. Wayne said he might come to WATCH.
He watched in Saigon. He watched in Bao Loc. He watched in Vegas. He watched the pushers. He tailed the pushers. He ensured subservience.
He watched West LV. He watched the bars. He watched that trailer. Junkies used it now. Junkies geezed within. They ignored the soot. They ignored the smell. They ignored the whore’s bones.
He watched West LV. He asked around. He trawled for Wendell Durfee. The locals ignored him. The locals misled him. The locals spit on his shoes.
He logged tips. He paid rewards. He logged futile data. He hit the bars. He logged fear. He brought Sonny Liston along.
Sonny quaffed J&B. Sonny popped pills. Sonny ran riffs: Wendell Durfee went Muslim—Muhammad speaks—it gots to be!
Wendell runs a mosque. Wendell knows Cassius Clay. Wendell knew the late Malcolm X.
Storm the Nigger Mosques. Climb the Nigger Grapevine. Comb the Nigger Underworld. Patch the Nigger Switchboard. Punch the Nigger Teletype—and track that nigger down!
Sonny peeled his nigger eyes. Sonny filed his nigger claws. Sonny tapped his nigger intuition. Sonny logged tips. Sonny dished out rewards. Sonny pledged results.
Pete said Durfee was dead. DPD killed him unpublicized. They killed him for Maynard Moore.
Wayne said no—you’re wrong. Wayne logged tips and WATCHED.
He logged lounge time. He watched Barb. He took side seats. He looked backstage. He got candid shots.
The Bondsmen smoked weed there. Barb popped pills. Barb popped Johnnie Black. Her eyes showed it. Her pulse showed it. She cleaned up for Pete’s rotations.
He watched. He saw things everywhere. He felt invisible.
He logged lounge time. He caught Barb’s gigs. He saw Janice and Ward Littell. They sat close. They held hands. They brushed knees.
He saw them. They never saw him. Sonny had a theory: Only niggers see you.
71
(Las Vegas, 6/18/65)
Janice hit balls.
She chipped off her porch. Said porch as golf range—tee/putting strip/net.
It was hot. Janice wore a middy blouse and shorts. Littell watched her concentrate. Littell watched her hit.
Janice teed balls. Janice hit shots. Janice stretched the net. She swiveled. Her blouse gapped. Her beating scars flexed.
She said, “I saw Wayne Senior at the DI. He was making a phone call.”
Littell smiled. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you hate him, and you’re curious about the men I’ve slept with.”
Littell sipped coffee. “I hope I haven’t been prying.”
“That’s impossible with me. You know how I love to divulge.”
“I do know. It’s something that separates—”
“Me from Jane, I