The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [20]
Brindle flecks and muscle. Jaw power for two.
Wayne said, “Nice dog.”
The man said, “He liked Wendell, so I liked him too.”
Wayne walked up. The pit licked his hand. Wayne scratched his ears.
The man said, “I don’t always go by that rule, though.”
The pit made a fuss. The pit reared and batted his paws.
“Because I’m a policeman?”
“Because Wendell told me how your town works.”
“Wendell tried to shoot me, Mr.…”
“It’s Willis Beaudine, and Wendell tried to shoot you because you tried to shoot him. Now, tell me that Casino Council didn’t give you some recreation money when they put that bounty on Wendell.”
Wayne sat on a porch step. The pit nuzzled him.
Beaudine said, “Dogs can be fooled, just like anyone else.”
“You’re saying Wendell and Rochelle made a run for Mexico.”
Beaudine smiled. “Them and their kids. You want my guess? They’re decked out in sombreros and having a ball this very second.”
Wayne shook his head. “It’s bad for coloreds down there. The Mexicans hate them like some people in Vegas do.”
Beaudine shook his head. “Like most or all, you mean. Like that dealer guy that Wendell cut. The same guy who won’t let coloreds piss in his washroom, the same guy who beat up an old woman for selling Watchtowers out of his parking lot.”
Wayne looked around. The yard furniture trapped dirt. The yard furniture stunk.
Spilled food. Liquor. Dog fumes. Chipped wood and stuffing exposed.
Wayne stretched. His blocked ear popped. He got This Craaazy Idea.
“Can you place a long-distance call for me?”
Beaudine hiked his belt. “Sure … I guess I could.”
“The Border Patrol station at Laredo. Make it person-to-person. Ask for the watch commander.”
Beaudine hiked his belt. Wayne smiled. Beaudine snapped his belt—hard.
Craaazy—
Beaudine walked inside. Beaudine hit some lights. Beaudine dialed a phone. Wayne nuzzled the pit. The pit kissed him. The pit swiped his tongue.
Beaudine pulled the phone out. The cord twanged. Wayne grabbed the receiver.
“Captain?”
“Yes. Who’s this?”
“Sergeant Tedrow, Las Vegas PD.”
“Oh, shit. I was hoping you’d call when we had some good news.”
“Is there bad news?”
“Yes. Your fugitive, a woman, and two children tried to cross at McAllen an hour ago, but were turned back. Your boy was intoxicated, and nobody made him in time. Lieutenant Fritsch sent us a teletype with his picture, but we didn’t make the connection until—”
Wayne hung up. Beaudine grabbed the phone. Beaudine snapped his belt—hard.
“This better be good. That was a two-dollar call.”
Wayne pulled out his wallet. Wayne forked up two bucks.
“If he tries to cross again, they’ll get him. But if he comes back here, you tell him I’ll walk him over myself.”
Beaudine hiked his belt. “Why would you take that kind of risk for Wendell?”
“Your dog likes me. Leave it at that.”
The Adolphus bar—all male at midnight. The big Jack postmortem.
Pro-Jack stools. Anti-Jack stools adjacent. Youth. Outer space. Ich bin ein Berliner.
Wayne sat between factions. Wayne heard hi-fi bullshit in stereo sound.
Cowboy trash—faux tall—big boots don’t count. They called Jack “Jack.” They took liberties—like they all fucked leprechauns in Hyannis.
Fuck them. He slept in Jack’s bed. He thrashed on Jack’s sheets.
Wayne got drunk. Wayne never got drunk. Wayne drank small-batch bond.
Shot 1 burned. Shot 2 played a picture: Lee Bowers’ thumb. Shot 3 gored his gonads. Dig these pix: Janice in halters and shorts.
Jack had hound blood. Wayne Senior said so. Martin Luther King fucked white chicks.
Shot 4—more pix:
Durfee tries to cross. The border cops lose him. Wayne fucked up. Wayne gets called home. Buddy Fritsch recruits a new man. Said man kills Wendell D.
Wayne fucked up. Fritsch fucks him for it. Fritsch fucks him off LVPD. Wayne Senior says don’t fuck my boy. The fucking ascends triumphant.
Shot 5:
The thumb/the alley chase/the crap-game snafu.
Jack put a man in orbit. Jack played chicken with Khrushchev. Jack put that shine in Ole Miss.
Maynard Moore walked in. He brought