The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [186]
“I talked to Ward. He said he’s dying to test his pull with the gaming boards. He thinks he can get you a license for a grind joint.” Pete yawned.
Pete rolled his eyes. That meant Fuck You.
A nurse walked in. She took Pete’s pulse. She checked Pete’s eyes. She ran Pete’s blood pressure. She logged it in.
Wayne checked the board. Wayne saw normal stats. The nurse split. Barb fluffed Pete’s pillow.
“We could run the place together. Ward says it’s a revolutionary concept. You with a legitimate source of income.”
Pete yawned. Pete rolled his eyes. That meant Fuck You. His weight was down. His skin was slack. His bones jutted out.
He fell off that bleacher. Wayne caught him. Pete gripped Barb’s shoe. Barb jumped off the stage. A guy caught her. Two medics showed.
One guy resuscitated. One guy grabbed at the shoe. Pete kicked him. Pete bit him. Pete kept the shoe.
Barb said, “I quit smoking. If you can’t do it, I can’t either.” She looked frazzled. She looked fried.
She looked fragged. Call it a pill run—grief-justified.
Pete said, “I want a cheeseburger and a carton of Camels.”
His voice held—good timbre/good wind.
Wayne laughed. Barb kissed Pete. Pete goosed her and went goo-goo eyed. She blew kisses. She walked out. She pulled the door shut.
Wayne straddled his chair. “Ward will make you buy a place. For Barb’s sake, if nothing else.”
Pete yawned. “She can run it. I’m too busy as it is.”
Wayne smiled. “You’re dying to talk business. If that’s the case, I’m listening.”
Pete cranked the bed up. “You’re running things until I get out of here. That means in-country and stateside.”
“All right.”
“We’ve got a backlog of shit at the lab, so we’re freed up there. I want Mesplède and Tran to run Tiger Kamp. I want you, Laurent, and Flash to handle the conduit and oversee the Cuban runs, and I want you to back Milt up at Tiger Kab.”
Wayne nodded. Wayne leaned on the bedrail.
Pete said, “I got a pouch from Bob. He’s got two truckloads of bazookas and high explosives pilfered out of Fort Polk. It’s a big haul, and it might take two boat runs. You take care of the Cuban transport, but in that case and in all future fucking cases, don’t go near the weaponry transactions and let Laurent and Flash drive the shit from New Hebron to Bon Secour. Bob’s got FBI cover, so I want him to stand as our most expendable guy. Laurent and Flash drive the guns, so they’re less expendable than Bob and a shitload more expendable than you. You stay safe, and you watch Danny Bruvick, who I do not trust worth a fucking shit.”
Wayne clapped. “Your wind is back.”
Pete checked the stat board. “Not bad. I’ll be out of here soon.”
Wayne stretched. “I talked to Tran. He said some slaves escaped with some M-base. They’re ex-VC, and Tran thinks they hooked up with some VC guys running a lab near Ba Na Key. He thinks they plan to cook up some shit and distribute it to our troops in the south, to demoralize them.”
Pete kicked the bedpost. The stat board fell.
“Have Mesplède interrogate the rest of the slaves. We might learn something that way.”
Wayne stood up. “Get some rest, boss. You look tired.”
Pete smiled. Pete grabbed Wayne’s chair. Pete snapped the back slats.
Wayne clapped.
Pete said, “Rest, shit.”
Barb danced. Barb obliged horny sailors. They swarmed her. They cut in. They swarmed three per song.
Canned songs/all staples/service club stock. “Sugar Shack”/surf shit/the Watusi.
Wayne watched. Barb’s hair bounced. Wayne saw new grays in the red. “Surf City” tapped out. Sailors clapped. Barb walked on back.
Wayne pulled her chair out. She sat down. She lit a match.
“I want a cigarette.”
Wayne plucked those new grays. Barb made an uggh face. Wayne sheared a few reds.
“You’ll get over it.”
Barb lit the grays. They poofed and burned up.
“I should go home. If I stay, I’ll start seeing things I don’t like.”
“Like our business?”
“Like the boy three wards down with no arms. Like the boy who got lost and got napalmed by his own guys.”
Wayne shrugged. “It goes with the job.”