The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [205]
“I’m sorry for Dallas, son. It’s the one thing in this life I am truly sorry for.”
Look—he means it—those eyes getting wet.
Wayne smiled. “There’s times when I think I was born there.”
“Are you grateful?”
Wayne torqued his hands free. Wayne shook some blood in. Wayne cracked his thumbs.
“Don’t press me. Don’t make me regret coming out.”
Wayne Senior stubbed his cigarette. The ashtray jumped. His hand shook.
“Have you killed Wendell Durfee?”
“I haven’t found him.”
“Do you know—”
“I think he’s in L.A.”
“I know some LAPD men. They could issue a covert APB.”
Wayne shook his head. “This is mine. Don’t press me.”
Gunshots popped—ten o’clock/northwest.
Wayne said, “I’m sorry for Janice.”
Wayne Senior laughed. Wayne Senior howled. Wayne Senior roared shitfire.
“My son fucks my wife and tells me he’s sorry. Excuse me for laughing and saying I don’t care, but I always loved him more.”
Look—wet eyes and laugh lines—he means it.
A breeze stirred. Cold air whipped. Wayne prickled.
Wayne Senior coughed. “Will you entertain an offer?”
“I’ll listen.”
“Dwight Holly’s going to be running some very sophisticated civil-rights ops. You’d be a perfect backup man.”
Wayne smiled. “Dwight hates me. You know that.”
“Dwight’s a smart hater. He knows how you hate, and I’m sure he knows how useful you could be.”
Wayne cracked his thumbs. “I only hate the bad ones. I’m not some Klan fuck who gets his rocks off bombing churches.”
Wayne Senior stood up. “You could run high-level ops. You know how the world works and how to keep things stable. You could get all this risky business out of your system, hitch your star to the right people and do some very exciting things.”
Wayne shut his eyes. Wayne ran signs: Hate/Love/Work.
“You’re waxing pensive, son. You’ve got your daddy’s nose for opportunity.”
Wayne said, “Don’t press me. You’ll fuck it all up.”
95
(Las Vegas, 11/28/66)
The cat prowled. The bed was his turf.
He clawed the headboard. He clawed the sheets. He clawed Pete’s pillow. Pete woke up. Pete kissed Barb. Pete saw this big bruise.
He sacked out early. Barb sacked out late. He missed her coming in.
He touched her hair. He kissed the bruise. The doorbell rang—Barb slept through it.
Shit—7:40 a.m.
Pete got up. Pete put a robe on. Pete walked out and popped the door. Shit—it’s Fred Turentine.
Frizzy-haired Freddy—fucked-up and frazzled. In his robe. In fuzzy slippers. In fucking shock.
With a tape rig. With a tape. With the jit-jit-jit-jitters.
Pete pulled him inside. Pete grabbed his gear. Pete shut the door. Fred got his sea legs. Fred quashed his shit-shakes and jitters.
“I was at the listening post. I was running last night’s tapes off the swinger suites. I heard this grief with Dom and Sal Mineo.”
Hold on. What’s—
Pete cleared chair space. Pete laid the gear out. Pete plugged the rig in. Pete looped the tape.
He hit the volume. He hit Play. He heard static hiss. He heard timed beeps—no voice to activate.
There—Sal’s voice/the on-click/we activate.
“Dom … hey … you hump, that’s my wall—”
Dom: “… not what you … just looking … that phone numb—”
Sal: “You hump. You fucking sissy cocksucker.”
Dom: “You’re the cocksucker. You suck my big braciol’ every chance you get, you fucking has-been cock—”
Crash sounds/breath sounds/clatters. Kitchen noise/drawer noise/glass shatters.
Clatters. Knife pings. “Sal no no no.” Yelps/gurgles/choked breath.
Silence. Timed beeps. Static. Sobs. Drag sounds. Clatters.
Sal: “Please please please. God please please please.”
Sobs. Heaves. Breath and prayers—this papal shit: “O my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of—”
Pete got prickles. His balls contracted. His neck hair stood up. He hit Stop. He grabbed his pass keys. He grabbed his piece.
He walked outside. He checked the lot. He scoped the bungalow suites. 8:00 a.m./cars parked/all quiet.
Sal flew to Vegas. Dom drove to their tryst. Dom always drove to his shack jobs.
Dom’s T-Bird: Gone.
Pete walked over. Easy now—there