The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [158]
Pete hung up. Pete got it: Thefts/fake docs/explosives.
Guéry screamed. Pete heard it loud. It carried from forty yards up.
He ran back. He smelled smoke and piss. He cracked the door and saw it.
There’s Guéry.
He’s tied up. He’s pantless. He’s scared. Stanton’s got the hot box. Stanton’s got the switch. Stanton’s got the clamps on his balls.
The gooks watched. The gooks smoked bootjack Kools. The gooks slurped gook wine.
Stanton said, “What did Chuck Rogers steal?”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
Stanton said, “If the theft is kadre-adjunct and you didn’t participate or report it, I’d be inclined to go easy.”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
Stanton said, “Where’s Rogers now? What did he steal and who did he steal it from?”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
Pete got it—for real now.
Chuck and Guéry worked Dallas. Stanton’s got no clue. Guéry won’t talk. Guéry won’t rat Chuck for anything.
Stanton said, “Is Rogers in-country? Did he fly back to the States?”
Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.
The gooks laughed—he claaazy—he dinky dau.
Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled. Guéry screamed. Guéry yelled, “Assez!”
Stanton cued the gooks. The gooks pulled the clamps. The gooks untied Guéry. The gooks sprayed his balls with baby oil. The gooks fed him gook wine.
He slurped it. He stood up. He teetered. He fell back in his chair.
Stanton leaned in. “If I said it hurt me more than it hurt you, I’d be a fucking liar.”
Pete sneezed—the hut smelled—fried ball hair and sweat.
Guéry said, “The ammo dump … Bao Loc … Chuck, qu’est-ce que c’est, burglarized bomb material … from François.”
Stanton shook his head. “Did he tell you what he had in mind?”
Pete leaned in. “Chuck flew to the States. If you let me talk to him alone, I’ll get the rest of it.”
Stanton nodded. Stanton stood up. Stanton cued the gooks—venez, venez.
They walked out together. Pete grabbed the bottle. Guéry snatched it. Guéry drained it. Guéry hitched his pants up.
“I will never have children now.”
“It’s not like you want them.”
“No. The world has become too communistic.”
“I think I know why you held back.”
Guéry wiped his nose. “I did not betray the kadre.”
“I know you didn’t.”
Guéry rubbed his balls. “Chuck … qu’est-ce … received a letter from his parents. I think they are not sane.”
Pete lit two cigarettes. Guéry snatched one.
“Chuck lives at their house. They said they found his … journal?”
“Journal, right.”
“Which described our operation in Dallas … for which … they demanded an explanation … which … Chuck said he would fly home and … qu’est-ce … take care of it.”
Pete kicked a doorpost. “He stole bomb ordnance for that?”
Guéry coughed. “No. For something else. He would not tell me.”
Pete walked outside. Slaves double-timed past him. Guards popped rubber rounds.
Stanton straddled a fence rail. “How bad?”
Pete shrugged. “You tell me. Laurent said it’s a family grudge, and Chuck flew out with explosives.”
Stanton chewed a hangnail. “There’s a courier flight leaving for Fort Sam Houston. You and Wayne go find him and kill him.”
73
(Houston, 6/21/65)
Gulf heat:
Low clouds and thick air. Air as bug propellant.
And bug catalyst. And bug haven. And bug launching pad. Bug heat—80 at 2:12 a.m.
The freeway was dead. Bugs bipped off the car. Pete drove. Wayne read maps.
Chez Chuck was on Driscoll. Chez Chuck was close. Chez Chuck was near Rice U.
Wayne yawned. Pete yawned. They yawned contrapuntal. They flew eighteen hours—Saigon to Houston—they plowed six time zones.
They flew transport. They sat on crates. They ate canned corn exclusive. Stanton set a car up—a ’61 Ford—there at Fort Sam.
Bum wheels altogether. No muffler. No fucking Air King.
Stanton knew some of it. Pete said so. Pete said he withheld the key shit. Maybe Chuck’s here. Maybe