The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [178]
Guns: M-14s/pumps/bazookas.
Bob pinched a nostril. Bob blew excess snuff.
“I got all the requisite ammo and eight M-132 Zippos out at the range. Some guys heisted a National Guard post in Arkansas. My contact knows them, so we got first dibs. I figure you got plenty of shit for Tiger South and your Cuban run.”
“How much?”
“Thirty-five, which is a yard-sale fucking price, if you want my opinion.”
Wayne grabbed a pump. Wayne checked the slide. Burn marks/no maker code.
“It’s been dipped. There’s no serial numbers.”
“They’re all that way. The guys didn’t want the shit to be traced back to the heist.”
Wayne grabbed an M-14. Wayne grabbed a bazooka.
“It’s good ordnance. It looks too good to be Guard issue.”
“Don’t complain. We got a fucking bargain.”
Wayne grabbed an M-14. Wayne checked the barrel lug.
“Pete wanted the serial numbers to show. It’s a terror tactic. If the stuff gets captured, the Castro guys will know it’s U.S. donation stock.”
Bob shrugged. “It’s not like you got it at Sears, with the fucking price tag attached and the lifetime warranty.”
Wayne peeled K-notes—all krisp and klean/all logged and laundered.
Bob laughed. “You don’t try to break one of those at your local Tastee Freez.”
Wayne tapped the TV. Wayne got some sound. Guns popped. Sirens hummed. Negroes frolicked.
Boat work:
Laurent rigged the gun nests. Flash scraped the hull. They lugged tools. They dropped tools. They dripped sweat.
They devolved the Ebbtide. They refaced the Ebbtide. They re-Cubafied.
They draped nets. They smeared sails. They scraped teakwood. They camouflaged. They built a mock-Cuban boat.
Flash gripped a sander. Flash scuffed the bridge. Flash scraped mahogany. Danny Bruvick watched. Danny Bruvick moaned. Danny Bruvick sipped Cutty Sark.
Wayne watched. Wayne prickled. Wayne yawned. He drove sixteen hours. He loop-the-looped. He scoured ol’ Dixie.
He split New Hebron. He popped bennies. He drove to Port Sulphur. He hit Tiger South. He dropped the guns. He drove to Bon Secour.
Flash had orders—direct from Pete.
Pete don’t trust Danny. Danny’s got this ex. She’s shacked with Ward Littell. We brace Danny—me and Laurent—Jefe Carlos too. We read Danny Tiger Law. You kowtow to Tiger Kode. You kart us to Kuba.
Danny’s a punk. Danny’s a souse. Danny might call his ex and boo-hoo. Your job—don’t let him.
Dusk hit. Flash rigged work lights. Laurent Cubafied. Wayne sipped beer. Wayne studied maps.
Sexy Cuba and Bakersfield—bumfuck California.
Boat work:
Laurent climbed masts. Laurent stitched sails. Flash tuned the engines. Danny Bruvick watched. Danny Bruvick watched blotto.
Wayne walked to slip 18. Wayne watched long-distance. Flash had new orders—direct from Pete.
The ex is named Arden. Danny’s pussy-whipped. Danny might call her and sing the blues. Your job—don’t let him. It pertains to Carlos—some weird gig—thus mum’s the word.
Flash hauled fuel cans. Laurent soldered drums. Wayne watched. Bennies parched him dry. Wayne sipped apple juice.
A stretch pulled up and idled. A chauffeur popped the back door. Carlos got out. He’s the stock padrone. He’s got the stock sharkskin suit.
He walked slip 19. Laurent snapped to attention. Bruvick rosaried. Flash snapped to. Carlos bowed. Carlos hugged Laurent.
Bruvick snapped to. Carlos ignored him. Carlos walked below deck. Flash walked down. Laurent walked down. Bruvick limped down slow.
The boat pitched and settled. Wayne heard screams.
He found a slip light. He read his maps. The boat pitched. He heard thumps. He heard whimper-screams.
Flash walked up. Laurent walked up. Carlos swaggered à la Il Duce. They walked down slip 19. They wiped their hands on paper towels. They bagged the stretch limo.
The limo pulled out. Wayne watched the boat. Wayne checked his watch and ticked seconds.
There—
Bruvick comes topside. Bruvick limps. Bruvick deboats. He counts change. He hits the dock. He hits the pay phones.
Wayne ran over. Bruvick saw him. Bruvick said, “Fuck.”
Wayne saw the hurt: