The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [192]
Don’t smoke. Don’t eat bad food—the docs said that.
Okay—I’ll play.
Don’t worry. Don’t work hard. Don’t pull rotations—fuck you on that.
Tran iced himself. He worried it. He worked it. He hired some Marvs. They surveilled the lab. They reported:
Some Can Lao snuck in. They let chemists in. Said chemists brought M-base boocoo. Said chemists cooked white horse. Said chemists used Wayne’s shit.
Pete braced Stanton. Stanton was sheepish. Stanton said: “I was going to tell you—after you got well.”
Pete said TELL ME NOW. Stanton said the new regime’s tough. You know that. No fuck with Can Lao cat Mr. Kao. He’s tough. He’s greedy. He’s savvy. He’s cooking “H” in our lab—on Wayne’s rotations. He’s shipping “H” to China. He’s routing “H” west. He’s got a French clientele.
Pete blew up. Pete kicked walls. Pete strained arteries. Stanton smiled. Stanton jollied him. Stanton popped a ledger book.
Said book held figures. Said figures said: Mr. Kao bought his lab time. Mr. Kao paid big coin. The kadre made money.
Stanton reasoned. Stanton explicated. Stanton mollified. He said Kao’s pro-U.S. and pro-kadre. He said Kao won’t sell dope to GIs.
Pete reasoned. Stanton reasoned. They rehashed Tran’s suicide.
Tran killed the slaves. Tran stole the M-base. Mr. Kao bought Tran’s base ricky-tick. Tran fears Kao. Tran won’t snitch Kao. Tran electrifies.
Stanton said he’d brace Kao. Stanton said he’d say this: We’re your friends. Don’t use us. Don’t fuck us. Don’t sell dope to GIs.
Pete was relieved. Pete rotated west. Pete relieved his arteries. Wayne was stateside now. Wayne was in Bon Secour. Wayne dipped south per gun-run rotations.
Pete called him. Pete spilled on Tran. Pete spilled on Can Lao Kao.
Wayne went nuts. Wayne loved his lab/Wayne loved his dope/Wayne loved his chemistry. Pete calmed him down. Pete yelled and cursed. Pete strained his arteries.
Donkey Dom swished in. The cat hissed. The cat hated fags. The cat hated wops.
Dom hissed back. Pete laughed. The phone rang.
Pete picked up. “Tiger.”
“It’s Otash. I’m in L.A., and I don’t need a cab.”
Pete stroked the cat. “What is it? Did you find anything?”
“Yeah, I did. The trouble is, I won’t fuck one client in favor of another, which means I found those files for Littell, which contained some racy shit on his girlfriend and Carlos M., so I’m telling you, because you’re paying me for some version of the same—”
Pete hung up. Pete plugged the switchboard. Pete dialed Bon Secour direct. He got dial tones. He got rings. Ward knows now. Ward will—
“Charthouse Motel.”
“Wayne Tedrow. He’s in room—”
Dial tones/clicks/rings—
Wayne picked up. “Yeah?”
“It’s me. I want—”
“Jesus, calm down. You’ll have another—”
“Lock up Bruvick. Make him call Ward at 10:00 p.m. L.A. time.”
Wayne said, “What is this?”
Pete said, “I’m not sure.”
89
(Los Angeles, 9/28/65)
Trashed: the living room/the bedrooms/the kitchen.
He saw wisps. He saw cords. They weren’t there. He trashed the phones. He looked for taps. They weren’t there. He trashed the TV. He looked for bugs. They weren’t there.
He trashed his study. He trashed Jane’s den. They were cord and bugfree. He walked to a liquor store. He bought Chivas Regal. He walked it on back.
He opened it. He smelled it. He dumped it out.
He rebuilt the phones. He reread the story. Arden Breen Bruvick/Carlos and Jane.
He clipped the piece. He cropped the pic. He taped them inside the front door. He taped them at Jane’s eye-level.
Jane was late. Jane was due—Arden Breen Bruvick Smith Coates.
Littell grabbed a chair. Littell sat outside. The terrace view enticed. West L.A./count the lights/gauge that long drop.
There’s the key. It’s her. It’s Arden Breen Bruv—
The lock clicked. The door slammed. There’s the pause. There’s the gasp.
She dropped her keys. She scraped a match. She’s scheming. She’s lighting up. She needs hand props.
Littell heard her foot scuffs. High heels tapped hardwood. Littell smelled her smoke.
There