The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [189]
“He said he woke up and saw Tran pull them out of the hut. Tran … qu’est-ce … forced them to run, and he heard shots a few minutes later.”
Pete spit his gum out. “Cut them loose. Give them some extra beans for dinner.”
Mesplède said, “I appreciate compassion.”
The hills hurt.
He breathed hard. He walked slow. He trailed back. Mesplède walked fast. Two guards flanked him.
They cut through camp. They pushed through brush. They dodged biter snakes. The rain held. Brush slapped them. Pete gobbled breath.
He took pills. They thinned his blood. They scrubbed his veins. They sapped him. They fucked him up. They held him back.
He ran. He caught up. He gobbled breath.
They kicked through mud. The mud had weight. The weight hurt his chest. They walked two miles. They hit downslopes. His chest weight slacked off.
Pete heard grunts and oinks. Pete saw a mud pit. Pete smelled human decomp. Pete saw wild pigs root.
There:
Said mud pit. A buffet. Said pigs and boned flesh.
Pete jumped in. The pigs scattered. The mud was deep. The mud had weight. Pete bobbed for flesh.
He rooted. He flailed. He found an arm. He found a leg. He found a head. He shook off mud. He pulled off skin. He peeled off scalp flaps.
He saw a hole. It was bullet-sized. He gripped the jaws. He cracked the skull back.
Good breath. Good strength. Good outpatient stats.
A bullet dropped. Pete caught it. It was butterflied and smashed. It was a soft-point magnum. It was Tran Lao Dinh’s brand.
Tran tried charm. Tran tried shit. Tran tried shuck-and-jive. Mesplède hooked him up. Mesplède hooked dual clamps—gonads and head.
The rain held. Monsoon stats—mud 4-ever.
Pete chewed gum. Pete cracked the door. Pete stirred outside air.
“Your shit’s not working. Give up the details and tell us who you’re in with, and I’ll see what John Stanton says.”
Tran said, “You know me, boss. I no work with Victor Charles.”
Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.
The clamps sparked. His hair sparked. His nuts spasmed. He bit his lips. He bit his tongue. He cracked his false teeth.
Pete said, “That demoralize-the-GIs story you told Wayne was bullshit. Admit it and go from there.”
Tran licked his lips. “Victor Charles, boss. You don’t underestimate.”
Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.
His bladder blew. The clamps sparked. His head twitched. His dentures flew.
Mesplède said, “Il est plus que dinky dau, il est carrément fou.”
Pete kicked the dentures. They hit the doorway and popped out. They hit the mud monsoon. Tran flashed his gums. Pete saw old scars—Cong torture tattoos.
“I’ll double up next time. You don’t want that. You won’t—”
“Okay okay okay. I kill slaves and sell base to ARVN.”
Pete spit his gum out. “That’s a start.”
Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off—le bird boocoo.
“You French fuck number ten. You carrément fou.”
Pete popped more gum. “You’re in with somebody. Tell me who.”
Tran flipped Pete off. The wop stiff-arm—il bah-fungoo.
“Fuck the frogs. You number ten. You run at Dien Bien Phu.”
Pete worked his gum. “Tell me who’s running you. We’ll have a drink and discuss it.”
Tran wiggled. Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off—up and rotated—you twirl boocoo.
“You French cochon. You fuck fat men.”
Pete worked his gum. Pete blew a bubble. It popped ka-poo.
“Who’s running you? You’re not in this all by yourself.”
Tran worked his chair back. Tran spread his legs. Tran humped his hips boocoo.
“I run your wife. I eat red pussy ’cause you homo—”
Pete hit the switch. Pete locked the switch. Tran buckled. Tran humped his hips. Tran worked his chair back boocoo.
He slid it. He squared it. He made the doorway. Mesplède jumped. Pete tripped.
Tran flipped them off. Tran dumped his chair. Tran went BONZAI! He hit the rain. He hit the mud. He electrified.
87
(Los Angeles, 9/28/65)
Mormons:
Mormon lawyers. Mormon aides. Mormon worker drones. Drac’s Mormons—Latter-day Saints.
It was their summit.