The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [180]
Off the beach. Off loose sand. Off dirt access ruts.
They flanked. They oared left. Breakers slammed them. Wayne and Flash puked.
They cut through it. A current hit. They pulled left. They scraped sand. They capsized. They rolled.
They dragged the raft up to high sand. They scoped out the hut. Twelve-by-twelve/four men in it/forty yards up.
Beside it: The barracks/one doorway/one floor.
They shared binoculars. They honed the lens. They nailed snapshots. One open door. Two bed-rows. 2:00 a.m./thirty men/bunks and bug nets.
Flash hand-talked. Flash said hut first. We go with silencer pops.
They checked their Berettas. They unwrapped the Zip. They bug-crawled three abreast. Laurent lugged the Zip.
Wayne wheezed. Wayne ate sand. Wayne jittered. They got close—six yards out—Wayne saw whole faces.
The Militia guys sat. The Militia guys smoked. Wayne saw four carbines stacked.
Flash lip-synced numbers—shoot prone on three.
One—they aimed prone. Two—they triggered up. They fired on three—synced silencer plops.
They hit strong. They hit main mass. They hit heads and chests. They double-tapped. They aimed up. They shot fast. They hit groins. They hit backs. They hit necks.
Two fucks fell. Two chairs toppled. Two fucks scree-screeched. Two mouths gapped. Two mouths flapped soundless—wave-noise suppressed.
Flash rolled up. Flash got close. Flash shot main mass. The bodies jerked. The bodies sponged lead.
Flash signaled. The barracks—NOW.
Laurent lit the Zippo. The cherry top flared. They crawled up. They got close. There’s the target. There’s the door.
Laurent stood up. Laurent braced the doorway. Laurent Zippo-ized. He strafed the beds. He strafed the bug nets. He strafed putos Red.
Commies burned. Commies screamed. Commies rolled out of fart-sacks. Commies tangled up bug nets and ran.
Laurent burned bed sheets. Laurent burned walls. Laurent burned men in skivvies and pajamas. Commies ran. Commies fell. Commies crashed windows out.
The barracks burned. Commies ran—Reds on fire.
They ran out the back door. They ran to the beach. They fell in the sand. They ran and hit water.
Waves doused them. Waves deflamed them. Waves sucked them in. Waves boiled. The barracks burned. Ammo ignited.
Laurent chased fireballs. Laurent strafed wet sand. Laurent cooked salt water.
Flash walked to the hut. Flash dragged two dead men out. Flash dumped them and pissed on their heads.
Wayne walked up. Wayne got stage fright. Do it. Show them. Show Pete.
He pulled his knife. He picked a scalp. He dug the blade in.
Bakersfield—travel-fucked. Dusty streets/dusty skies/dusty air. The San Joaquin Valley—wall-to-wall dust—farm dirt and glare.
He was travel-fucked. He jumped Cuba to Snipe Key. He jumped Snipe Key to Bon Secour. He jumped Bon Secour to New Orleans. He took three flights west. He got bad sleep. He went off Dexedrine.
He called Saigon. Mesplède patched him to Pete. He praised the run. He praised the guns. He ragged Bob’s number-dips.
Pete was pissed. Pete ragged Bob. Stamp the numbers—scare the Beard—flaunt U.S. Code.
Wayne called Barb. It was tense. Tense off that fight. Barb had news. Barb had a pending gig—adjunct-USO.
We’re doing Saigon. We’re doing Da Nang. Please lure Pete to the show. He said sure. He said I’ll be back. He said I’ll be travel-fucked.
Wayne cruised Bakersfield. Wayne read his maps. He flew in. He glommed a rental car. He cruised straight back out.
Mextown ran east. The truck farms ran east. You had beer bars/trailers/motels. You had dust. You had dust bugs. You had Mex cribs galore.
He hit the bars. He sipped beer. He coaxed information. Barmen talked. Barmen travelogued.
Wetback whores? Shit. Wetbacks are whores.
They jump borders. They steal jobs. They work cheap. They overbreed. They live to fuck. They whelp like chihuahuas. They pick crops. They get paid—they fuck real whores then. Wetback pimps pimp wetback whores—the payday proliFUCKation.
They swarm motels. They production-fuck. They proliFUCKate. Check the Sun-Glo. Check the Vista—check the whole scene. Payday