The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [181]
Wayne dropped the name “Wendell Durfee.” Wayne dredged up some shrugs.
Who’s that? Some jigaboo?
That’s right—he’s colored. He’s quite loud and tall.
Sheeeit—
Wetbacks hate jigs. Crop men hate jigs. That jig better haul.
Payday:
Wayne cruised truck farms. Wayne loitered. Wayne watched.
Wets pick cabbage. Wets yank weeds. Wets fill garbage drums. Sirens blow. The wets yell. The wets drop hoes and run.
They hit pay trucks. They line up. They shag cash and run—families/hombres/muchachos.
Some clique up. Some walk off. Some liiiiinger. Hombres todos—men with shit-eater grins.
Trucks pull up. Hombres greet hombres. Hombres dispense: Jar brew/rubbers/French ticklers/T-Bird/white port/nude Polaroids. Beaver pix of Mexi-whores—let’s proFUCKate.
Wayne walked over. Hombres cringed. Wayne vibed Migra fuzz. Wayne mollified. Wayne spoke pidgin-Mex. Wayne coaxed info.
Dig:
The truck men pimped. They signed johns up early—supply meets demand. Go to the Sun-Glo and Vista. See the Fuckathon.
Wets scoped the beaver pix. Wets signed up. Wayne flashed Wendell Durfee pix and got nada. Shit—we ain’t seen him/we don’t know him/we hate negritos.
Wayne split. Wayne braced more truck pimps. Wayne got more nada. He regrouped. He read his maps. He crossed the tracks and cruised Darktown. De facto segregation—wets north/coloreds south.
He yawned. He fought sleep-fuckification. He slept too long last night. He slept fourteen hours. He logged some bad dreams.
Barb rags him—don’t pop pills—he rags Barb back. Don’t you do it—you’ll age bad—I love you.
Bongo co-starred. Bongo convulsed. Bongo snitched Wendell Durfee. Wendell’s in Cuba. He’s got the cold six thousand. He’s got a Castro beard.
Wayne cruised Darktown. Wayne hit pool halls. Wayne hit lounge spots. He vibed cop. He vibed grief. He wore his gun out.
Cops saw him. Cops waved. Cops vibed brother cop. He braced coloreds. He flashed his Wendell pix. He got huh?s. He got indignation.
You dig Watts? It could happen here. It could happen NOW.
He worked through it. He worked all day. He wore Darktown out. Nobody knew Wicked Wendell. Nobody knew jackshit.
Dusk hit. He drove to the Sun-Glo. He caught the Fuckathon.
Ten rooms/ten whores/ten parking-lot lines. Wets twenty-deep and pimps with stopwatches—you fuck off my clock.
Snack stands—all jerry-rigged/all run by mamacitas. They served beans. They served cerveza. They served carnitas.
It was hot. Fried pork spattered. Jalopy pipes popped.
Doors opened. Doors shut. Wayne got snapshots: Nude girls and wide-leg poses. Soiled sheets trashed up.
The lines moved fast—six minutes per fuck. Cops stood around. Pimps greased them—a dollar a fuck.
The cops ate carnitas. The cops worked the line. The cops sold bootjack penicillin. Wayne stood in line. Wayne drew stares. Wayne showed his snapshots.
Que? No se. Negrito muy feo.
Wayne braced a mama-san. Wayne waved fifty bucks. He pidgin-talked. He told her—beer on the house.
She smiled. She shagged Lucky Lagers. She served the wets. She served the pimps. She served the cops.
She praised Wayne—gringo muy bueno.
Wayne got applause. Wets pumped his hands. Pimps waved sombreros. He re-showed his pix. They went around. They toured all the fuck-istos. The pix circuited. The pix got pawed. The pix came back.
A cop nudged Wayne. “I ran that smoke out of town three months ago. He was trying to pimp white girls, which didn’t sit right with me.”
Wayne goose bumped. The cop tapped his teeth.
“I heard he was tight with a smoke named King Arthur. I think he owns a queer bar in Fresno.”
The Playpen Lounge was a storefront. The Playpen Lounge sat off skid row.
Wayne drove to Fresno. Wayne polled street creeps. Wayne found it. The creeps spieled lore—the Pen’s a pus-pit—all fear the King!
He’s this mean swish. He’s Haiti-bred. He’s pure calypso. He sports a crown. He’s a he-she. He’s a hermaphrodite.
Wayne walked in. The decor clashed—Camelot meets Liberace.
Velvet walls. Purple drapes. Nail-studded armor. A bar and wall booths—pink Naugahyde.