The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [184]
Da Nang: Hot sun and hot sea winds. Spritzy sea spray.
Their gun contact no-showed. Pete got pissed. Wayne pitched diversion: Let’s hit that USO show.
They rickshawed in. Their coolie pulled weight. Their coolie ran chop-chop. They raced some shavetails. Said shavetails were bombed. The rickshaw race rocked.
Pete ate Dramamine. Wayne ate salt pills. They hit access roads. They hit the naval base. They hit the bleacher setup.
The coolies saw it. The coolies braked hard. Four wheels brodied. Four wheels slid and locked.
Dead heat.
Pete laughed. Wayne laughed. The shavetails went green and upchucked.
The show was free. A crowd filed in. Pete and Wayne lined up. It was hot-plate hot.
The stage was ground-level. The bleachers ran sixty rows up. Onstage: Hip Herbie & Ho—low-rent topical yuks.
Ho was a puppet. Hip Herbie held him. Hip Herbie held a hand mike. Hip Herbie ventriloquized. Hip Herbie moved his lips. Hip Herbie vibed hophead or souse.
They found seats. They got cramped arm- and legroom. They sat ten bleacher rows up.
Stage speakers tossed sound. Ho tossed a tantrum: “GIs scare me! Me most scared! You kill Cong ricky-tick!”
It was hot. The sun torched down. Pete got queased up. The crowd yukked halfhearted. Ho wore red devil horns. Ho wore red diapers.
Hip Herbie said, “What have you got against Uncle Sam, anyway?”
Ho said, “I come to U.S.! They no let me in Disneyland!”
The crowd yukked distracted. Ho blathered: “I get revenge! I plant land mines! I kill Donald Duck!”
The crowd yukked nonplussed. A stage geek signaled Hip Herbie—wrap this shit up.
Ho raged: “Me try sit-ins! Me try pray-ins! Me shoot Donald Duck!”
The stage geek cued a sound geek. A sax vamped low. Hip Herbie got the bum’s rush.
He bowed. Ho leaked sawdust. A curtain dropped. The crowd clapped lackluster—fuck that puppet and lush.
The sax scaled up sequential. The curtain rose. Pete saw loooooong legs furl up.
No. It can’t be. Please, yes. Slow now, in sync: The curtain and sax—both scaling up.
There—not no, it’s yes.
Pete saw her legs. Pete saw her. Pete caught her kiss standing up. Wayne smiled. The Bondsmen clicked in. Barb launched Viet rock.
Whistles/wolf calls/cheers—
Barb danced. Barb shimmied. Barb kicked a shoe off. The shoe sailed high. Guys grabbed and reached. Pete reached higher up.
It’s close. It’s—
His chest popped. His wind died. His left arm blew up.
It’s close. It’s high-heeled and spangled. It’s green and—
His left arm died. His left wrist torqued. His left hand blew up.
He grabbed right. He caught the shoe. He kissed it. He fell down. He squeezed the shoe. Barb blurred white white.
84
(Washington, D.C., 9/4/65)
Riot. Revolt. Insurrection.
NBC ran replays. TV pundits assessed.
Littell watched.
Negroes threw Molotovs. Negroes threw bricks. Negroes sacked liquor stores. Chief Parker blamed hoodlums. Bobby urged reforms. Dr. King urged dissent.
Dr. King digressed. Dr. King stressed other riots. Dr. King stressed Vegas West.
Replays: Negroes throw Molotovs/Negroes throw bricks/Negroes sack liquor stores.
Littell watched replays. Littell replayed vintage Drac:
“We’ve got to sedate those animals, Ward. We don’t want them that agitated that close to my hotels.”
Don’t say it: “Pete’s selling sedation, sir, but it doesn’t appear to be working right now.”
Ditto Pete. Barb called him last week. Barb said Pete had a heart attack.
It was bad. Pete was stable now. The old Pete was fucked. Barb came on strong. Barb begged him:
Pull strings. Brace Carlos. Make Pete retire. Bring him home. Make him stay. Do this for me.
Littell said he’d try. Littell called Da Nang. Littell talked to Pete. Pete was hoarse. Pete was tired. Pete sounded weak.
Littell called Carlos. Carlos said it’s up to Pete.
Littell killed the TV. Littell eyed his news pic. He’d clipped it. He’d saved it. He’d laminated it.
The Washington Post: “KING ATTENDS AIDE’S FUNERAL.” Aide Lyle Holly—dead per suicide—FBI plant WHITE RABBIT.
King’s RED RABBIT. Bayard Rustin’s PINK. Brother Dwight Holly’s BLUE. They all stand