The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [169]
“Burgess” sucked a thumbnail. “Burgess” flexed his hand. Pete checked the boat out. The boat enticed. The boat seduced.
Nice: Steel hull/grappling posts/fittings. Nice: Hardwood from the Philippines.
“Burgess” flexed his wrist. “She’s an old rum-runner. She’s got all the—”
Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece. Pete pointed below-deck. “Burgess” stood up. “Burgess” sighed. “Burgess” squared his bum leg and limped.
He wore shorts. Dig his scars. Dig his bullet-pocked knee.
He crossed the deck. He passed the wheelhouse. He took back stairs down. Pete tailed him. Pete scoped details.
Two wheel stands/control posts/full instruments. Teak walls/hall space/rear cabins. Rear engines/rear storage/rear cargo traps.
Pete walked ahead. Pete saw an office: two chairs/one desk/one booze shelf.
He pulled “Burgess” in. He grabbed a chair. He pushed “Burgess” down. He tucked “Burgess” in. He poured a libation.
The boat swayed. Pete sloshed Cutty. “Burgess” grabbed it. “Burgess” drained it. “Burgess” liquor-flushed.
Pete poured a refill. Pete poured big. “Burgess” refueled. “Burgess” sucked Cutty up.
Pete cocked his piece. “You’re Danny Bruvick. I’m Pete Bondurant, and we’ve got some friends in common.”
Bruvick burped. Bruvick flushed. Bruvick vibed lush.
Pete twirled his piece. “I want the whole story of you, ‘Arden,’ and Carlos Marcello. I want to know why Arden is shacked up with Ward Littell.”
Bruvick eyed the bottle. Pete poured him a pop. Bruvick refueled. The boat dipped. Bruvick doused his lap.
“You shouldn’t let me drink too much. I might get courageous.”
Pete shook his head. Pete pulled his silencer. Pete tapped his piece. Bruvick gulped. Bruvick pulled beads out. Bruvick rosaried.
Pete shot the Cutty. Pete shot the Gilbey’s. Pete shot the Jack D. Bottles spritzed. Teakwood cracked. Soft-points tore holes.
The room shook—sonic booms—the boat aftershocked.
Bruvick spazzed out. Bruvick squeezed his beads. Bruvick grabbed his ears.
Pete pulled his hands down. “Start with Arden. Give me her real name and lay out some perspective.”
Bruvick sneezed. Gunpowder tickled noses. Gun cordite stung.
“Her real name’s Arden Breen. Her old man was a labor agitator. You know, a Commie type.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Keep going.”
Bruvick tossed his hair. Glass shards flew.
“Her mother died. She got rheumatic fever. The old man raised Arden. He was a drunk and a whore chaser. He had a different name for every day of the week, and he raised Arden in whorehouses and union halls, meaning bad union halls, meaning the old man talked Red, but cut management deals every chance he got, which was—”
“Arden. Get back to her.”
Bruvick rubbed his knees. “She quit school early, but she always had a head for figures. She met these two whores who went to the bookkeeping school I went to in Mississippi and picked up some skills from them. She kept some whorehouse and union hall books, you know, gigs her old man got her. She’d work these classier houses and spy on the johns. She’d pump them for stock tips and shit like that. She was good at anything involving numbers and ledgers. You know, money calculations.”
Pete cracked his thumbs. “Get to it. You’re working up to something.”
Bruvick rubbed his bad knee. Scar tissue pulsed.
“She started working in some classier houses. She met this money guy Jules Schiffrin. He was tied in with—”
“I know who he was.”
“Okay, so she started tricking with him regular. He kept her, you know, and she met lots of people in the Life, and she helped him with these so-called ‘real’ pension-fund books that he was working on.”
Pete cracked his wrists. “Keep going.”
Bruvick rubbed his knee. “Her old man got killed in ’52. He screwed Jimmy H. on a management deal, so Jimmy had him clipped. Arden didn’t care. She hated the old man for his goddamn hypocrisy and the shitty way he raised her.”
The boat pitched. Pete grabbed the desk.
“Arden and Schiffrin. Spill on that.”
“Spill what? She learned what she could from him and broke it off.”
“And?”
“And she started hooking freelance, and