The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [182]
A jukebox cranked. Mel Tormé crooned. The natives stirred. Wayne drew looks. Wayne drew ooh-la-las.
Colored trade—queens and jockers.
There’s the King. He’s got a booth. He’s got his crown. He’s got the pedigree: Knife scars/mashed ears/pipe-wound regalia.
Wayne walked over. Wayne sat down. King Arthur sipped a frappé.
“You’re too haughty to be Fresno PD, and you’re too butch to be anything but a cop.”
The jukebox vibrated. Wayne reached back. Wayne grabbed and yanked the cord.
“My money. Your information.”
The King tapped his crown. It was kid-pageant issue—rhinestones on tin.
“I just consulted my thinking cap. It said, ‘Policemen demand, they don’t pay.’ ”
The King lisped. The King trilled. The King sashayed. Two fags swished by. One tittered. One waved.
Wayne said, “I was a cop.”
“Oh, pshaw, you silly savage. You didn’t have to say that.”
Wayne pulled out his money. Wayne fanned his money. Wayne flashed a table lamp down.
“Wendell Durfee. I heard you know him.”
The King tapped his crown. “I’m getting a vision … yes … there it is … you’re that Vegas cop who lost his poor wife to Wendell.”
The jukebox popped. Kay Starr popped on. Wayne reached back and popped the cord. A fag grabbed his hand. A fag scratched his palm. A fag giggled lewd.
Wayne pulled his arm back. The fags giggled. The fags withdrew. They swished off. They vamped Wayne. They blew kisses.
Wayne wiped his hand. The King laughed. The King went oh, pshaw.
“I had a brief encounter with Wendell, several months ago. I bought a string of girls from him.”
“And?”
“And the Bakersfield fuzz discouraged me from procuring in their jurisdiction.”
“And?”
“And Wendell was looking for a nom de pimp with irresistible panache. I suggested the name Cassius Cool, which he adopted.”
Wayne tapped the money. “Keep going. I know there’s more.”
The King tapped his crown. “I’m getting a vision … yes … you killed three unarmed Negro men in Las Vegas … and … yes … Wendell made your wife climax before he killed her.”
Wayne pulled his piece. Wayne raised it. Wayne cocked it. Wayne heard echoes. Wayne heard hammers click.
He looked around. He checked the bar. He saw fags. He saw guns. He saw suicide.
He holstered up. The King grabbed his money.
“Wendell enticed some crackers into a rigged dice game and was firmly advised to leave Bakersfield. I heard he lit out for L.A.”
Wayne looked around. Wayne saw fags with guns. Wayne saw mean faces.
The King laughed. “Grow up, child. You can’t kill all the niggers.”
83
(Saigon, 8/20/65)
Pete said, “Wayne took some scalps.”
Cocktail hour. Drinks at the Catinat. Grenade nets and gook brass galore.
Stanton snarfed pâté. “Cuban or Negro American?”
Pete smiled. “He’s back. I’ll tell him you asked.”
“Tell him I was pleased to learn that he’s diversified.”
The bar was packed. MACV guys hobnobbed. Trilingual talk flowed.
Pete lit a cigarette. “The Relyea thing pissed me off. I want to move recognizable U.S.-sourced guns.”
Stanton smeared toast. “You’ve made that clear. That said, I should state that Bob’s done a bang-up job so far.”
“He has, but he’s deep off in all that Klan shit, which could draw heat any fucking second. You want my opinion? We should rotate Laurent back to Laos to work Tiger Kamp, and keep Mesplède in the States permanently to shag guns. He’s got good connections, he’s willing, and he’s fucking capable.”
Stanton shook his head. “One, Bob’s got better connections, and he’s got enough FBI cover to divert any trouble he might create. Two, you brought that Bruvick guy in, which lit a fire under Carlos, who is now all aflutter for the Cause, in a way he hasn’t been since ’62. He’s active now, he’s the only committed Outfit man, and I’m sure he’s got gun sources. Three, Laurent’s tight with Carlos, which is why I want him full-time stateside, instead of Mesplède. He’s the best man to work with Carlos and funnel our weaponry.”
Pete rolled his eyes. “Carlos is a Mob executive. The only gun contacts he’s got are other exile groups with shit ordnance of their own. He won’t be able to shag stuff