The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [197]
He watched in Vegas. He watched in L.A. He watched in Vietnam. The war escalated. The war was the Life uncontained.
Pete was wrong. We couldn’t win. We couldn’t force containment. Pete was wrong. White horse would reign. White horse would smash containment. Barb proved him wrong. GIs would follow her. White horse would reign uncontained.
Wayne watched the war. Wayne read body counts. Wayne prowled dope galleries. Wayne logged rumors.
More troops were pledged. That meant more bomb runs. That meant more ground expansion.
Mr. Kao expanded. Mr. Kao bombed Ba Na Key. Dope fields burned. Mr. Kao’s Laotian rivals de-expanded.
Stanton said Kao’s kool. Kao won’t fuck us. We’re localized. We’re self-contained. We’re fine in West Vegas.
Wayne and Pete knew otherwise. Wayne and Pete knew this:
We’re too localized/we’re too contained/we’re hamstrung in West Vegas.
Wayne pressed Pete. Wayne pressed the case. Let’s press Stanton. Let’s press Carlos. Let’s tell them this: Let’s push white horse in L.A.
Pete said, “Don’t shuck me.” Pete said, “It’s about Wendell Durfee.” Pete knew him. Pete knew his shit. Pete knew his dreams.
Bongo/King Arthur/Cassius Cool/black faces/white backdrops/white sheets. Cur-ti and Leroy. Otis Swasey. The dead whore/her trailer/the ball in her teeth.
The dreams reran. The dreams dredged Wayne Senior. It was dream clockwork. Dream and wake. Father Rabbit’s there on your pillow.
The dreams recycled. The dreams reran. The dreams ran in rotation.
Rotate east—see Bongo—you killed him there. Rotate west—see black faces—you found them there. Rotate south—see new faces—they lynch that type there.
White sheets. Klan sheets. Bob Relyea—Wild Rabbit. Bob tweaked him.
Bob told him: Your daddy loves you. He misses you. He told me so. He digs on you. He’s Daddy Rabbit. He’s hip. He’s cool. He funds my Klan. We fight mail fraud. We help Mr. Hoover.
We hate smart. We contain. We consolidate. We fuck the bad haters. We spread the good hate.
Dreams. Reruns. Rotations.
Sleep on planes—crash time zones—see faces. Hate smart. Consolidate. Hail Father Rabbit!
The dreams reran. The concept held. The gist accrued: He needs you. He sees you. He wants you.
91
(Las Vegas, Bay St. Louis, Cuban Waters, 4/1/66–10/30/66)
Wars:
The real war. The TV war. Barb’s running fire.
They watch the news. He comments. He says we’ll win. Barb says we shouldn’t. Barb says we can’t and we won’t.
He says I’ve been there. He says I know. She says I’ve been there. She says I know. They escalate. They debate control. They debate containment. TV wars—parlor shit—sniper attacks.
It raged. It escalated. It stopped. Barb nuked him. Barb won.
She said, “Nobody’s controlling the war, and you don’t control the dope traffic, because I met a doctor in Da Nang, and he sends me little tastes, and I boot them when I get bored to death or afraid that you’ll fall off a fucking boat in the fucking Cuban sea.”
He flipped out. He threw shit. He taxed out his heart. He tossed chairs. He broke windows. He chucked the TV out. One hoist—two hundred pounds airborne. One badass heart-patient trick.
The TV flew. The TV dropped fourteen stories. The TV dive-bombed a blue Ford.
He raged. His veins throbbed. His pump swelled. He crashed. He dive-bombed the couch. Barb talked up a truce.
I’m no junkie. I sniff it. I taste it. I never shoot up. I hate your work. I hate the war—it covers you.
He tried to fight. He gobbled air. His pump puttered and slogged. Barb held his hands. Barb held the cat. Barb talked très slow.
I hate your work. I hate the Life. I hate Vegas now. We’ll ride it out. We’ll survive it. We’ll win.
They made up. He got calm. He got some back-end wind. They made love. They wrecked the couch. The cat refereed.
Shit got said. Shit got aired. Shit went unsaid. No vows of abstinence/no vows to stop/no vows to change.
Truce.
They split the Stardust. They moved into the Cavern. They bought a new TV. Barb watched the war. Barb sulked and judged. He worked the biz. He