The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [204]
The bum groveled. The bum gave thanks. The bum wore mismatched shoes. The bum braced a baby slot. The bum yanked the arm. The bum blew his dole.
He shrugged. He regrouped. He panhandled. He hit up Chester. Chester said, “Fuck you.”
Janice limped. Janice strolled. Janice left Wayne’s view. She’s out the back door now—dig that golf-course view.
She’s heading to Ward’s suite. It’s a late-night rendezvous.
Wayne sniffed the napkin. Wayne smelled Barb. Wayne got a Janice jolt. His thoughts raced. He vibed rendezvous.
He drove straight out. The road dipped. He drove eighty-proof. He walked straight in. He grabbed a jug off the bar. He walked straight through.
There’s the deck. There’s Wayne Senior. He’s close to old now. He’s sixty-plus. He’s old as brand-new.
He’s got the same grin. He’s got the same chair. He’s got the same view.
“You drink from the bottle now. Two years away gets me that.”
Wayne grabbed a footstool. “You make it sound like it’s the only thing I’ve learned.”
“Not hardly. I get reports, so I know there’s more.”
Wayne smiled. “You’ve been putting out feelers.”
“You’ve been rejecting them.”
“I guess the time wasn’t right.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “Howard Hughes and my son the same evening. Be still, my heart.”
The stool sat low. Wayne looked straight up.
“Don’t labor it. It’s just a coincidence.”
“No, it’s a confluence. Bondurant precipitates Hughes. Hughes means that Ward Littell will be begging favors soon.”
Wayne heard gunshots due north. Call it cop familiar. Broke gambler blows town. Broke gambler unwinds.
“Ward doesn’t beg. You should know that.”
“You’re leading me, son. You’re trying to get me to praise your ex-lawyer.”
Wayne shook his head. “I’m just trying to steer the conversation.”
Wayne Senior toed the footstool. Wayne Senior toed Wayne’s knee.
“Shitfire. What’s a father-son reunion without a few blunt questions?”
Wayne stood up. Wayne stretched. Wayne kicked the stool.
“How’s the hate business?”
“Shitfire. You’re more of a hater than I ever was.”
“Come on, answer the question.”
“All right. I’ve relinquished my hate-tract business, in order to serve the cause of changing times at a higher level.”
Wayne smiled. “I see Mr. Hoover’s hand.”
“You see twenty-twenty, which tells me the years have not dulled your—”
“Come on, tell me.”
Wayne Senior twirled his cane. “I’ve been working with your old chums Bob Relyea and Dwight Holly. We’ve derailed some of the most outlandish overhaters in the whole of Dixie.”
Wayne slugged bourbon. Wayne sucked dregs. Wayne killed the jug.
“Keep going. I like the ‘overhaters’ part.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “You should. There’s hating smart and hating dumb, and you’ve never learned the difference.”
Wayne smiled. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for you to explain it.”
Wayne Senior lit a cigarette—gold-filigreed.
“I fully believe that coloreds should be allowed to vote and have equal rights, which will serve to increase their collective intelligence and inure them to demagogues like Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. Your pharmaceutical endeavor gives them the sedation that most of them want and insulates them from the fatuous rhetoric of our era. My policemen friends tell me that colored crime in white Las Vegas has not increased appreciably since your operation began, and your operation serves to isolate coloreds on their side of town, where they would much rather be anyway.”
Wayne stretched. Wayne looked north. Wayne checked the Strip view.
Wayne Senior blew smoke rings. “You’re looking pensive. I was gearing up for a smart answer.”
“I’m all out.”
“I got you at the right time, then.”
“In a sense, yeah.”
“Tell me about Vietnam.”
Wayne shrugged. “It’s futile bullshit.”
“Yes, but you love it.”
Wayne grabbed the cane. Wayne twirled it. Wayne did dips. Wayne did spins. Wayne did curlicues.
Wayne Senior snatched it. “Look at me, son. Look at me while I say this one thing.”
Look: you’ve got his face. Look: you’ve got his eyes.
Wayne Senior dropped the cane. Wayne Senior grabbed his hands. Wayne Senior