The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [183]
A siren blew. The room froze. The gook brass drew guns. The siren died. The all-clear blew. The gook brass stashed their guns.
Stanton sipped wine. “We’re covered as is. You and Wayne rotate, because you’re the A-level personnel and you know the in-country and Vegas ends of the business. When Wayne’s caught up at the lab, he’s free to work Vegas and the funnel, and you—”
“John, Jesus Christ, will you—”
“No, let me finish. We lost Chuck, c’est la guerre, but Tran and Mesplède are more than enough to run Tiger Kamp. We keep Mesplède in-country, and we leave Flash and Laurent in Port Sulphur and Bon Secour. In other words, we’re covered, and I don’t want you second-guessing a perfectly operational system.”
The siren blew. The all-clear blew. The AC died. A waiter cracked doors. A waiter cracked windows. A waiter rigged bomb nets.
Pete checked his watch. “I’m meeting Wayne. He’s got a lead on some donation shit in Da Nang.”
Hot air settled in. Waiters pulled fan cords.
“How many scalps did he take?”
“Four.”
“Do you think he enjoyed it?”
Pete smiled. “With Wayne you never know.”
Stanton smiled. “Will you allow me some sort of concession before you go?”
Pete stood up. The ceiling loomed. Pete dodged fan blades.
“Your shit’s operational. It’s just not as passionate as my shit.”
They flew up. MACV ran Hueys—milk flights from Tan Son Nhut.
They sat on the back slats. Some admin pogues flew along. Dig it—let’s catch this show in Da Nang.
Wayne yawned. Wayne just rotated in. Wayne was travel-fucked.
The flight overbooked. The kiddie brass partied. They made noise. They matched coins. They twirled their .45s.
The rotors whipped. The doors shook. The radio screeched. Pete and Wayne huddled. Pete and Wayne talked loud.
Agreed: Bob Relyea bites. Agreed: He’s Wayne Senior’s punk rabbit. Agreed: He shags good guns. Agreed: D. Bruvick’s sly and yellow.
Carlos warned Bruvick. Carlos said don’t call Arden—don’t rat our Cuban runs. Bruvick fudged and tried to call. Wayne interdicted.
Agreed: Let’s oust him. Agreed: Let’s find a new boat man.
They agreed. Pete hedged somewhat. Pete said Carlos wants Bruvick. Bruvick’s his inside man. Carlos distrusts everyone. Carlos plants informants.
Ergo: Bruvick makes Cuban runs. Bruvick calls Carlos. Bruvick informs on us.
Wayne got it. Wayne digressed. Bruvick’s ex Arden—now with Ward Littell. She’s a spy. She watches Ward. She reports to Carlos.
Right—you got it—and that’s all you get.
Wayne said okay. Pete riffed on Carlos—the Graduate Course.
He runs people. He eats people. He’s tight with John Stanton. He’s greedy. He’ll press John—feed me dope points. John will bow. We’ll bow too. We owe Carlos that. Carlos braced the other Boys. They waived Outfit laws. They let us white-dust West Vegas.
Agreed: We owe Big Carlos. Agreed: We owe Blueblood John.
The flight bumped. The gun doors shook. The pogues ate Dramamine.
Agreed: Tiger ops—overhead stratospheric—the lab/Tiger Kamp/Tiger South. Bribes to ARVNs/bribes to Can Lao boss-man “Mr. Kao”/ bribes to Tran Lao Dinh.
Transport bribes. Nellis AFB bribes. Cop bribes: Sheriff’s and LVPD. Ops costs: in-country and out. Ops costs transcontinental.
We ship white horse—big poundage—we dust West LV. Profits soar. Jigs love white horse. Profits dip non sequitur. Because of the fucking Watts Riot—live on fucking TV.
Jigs see the riot. Jigs exult. Monkey see/monkey do. They roam West LV. They chuck some spears. They burn some shacks. We suspend kadre business. We retrieve Tiger Kabs. Cops quell the riot. Jigs go to jail. Profits de-escalate.
Agreed: Biz is down now—we’re in bear-market turf. Agreed: We’ll expand—and we’ll re-escalate. We’ll hire more pushers—expendable jigs—we’ll bull-market reintegrate.
The Huey cruised low. They saw firefights. They saw villages sacked. Wayne talked expansion—let’s re-dust West Vegas. Let’s pre-dust black L.A.
Pete laughed—the Boys won’t vouch it—you fucking know that.
Know shit. Durfee might be there. I fucking