The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [206]
He did it. The lock held stiff. He pulled his keys. He unlocked the door. He walked in. He saw:
Pink carpets—deep shag—blood-spritzed. Pizza boxes. Beer cans. Pizza crusts on plates. Dumped chairs. Dumped tables. White walls with red marks scrubbed pink.
Pete shut the door. Pete hit the kitchen. Pete checked the sink.
Ajax. Sponge. Clogged drain meat. Organ meat—hair-clotted—wop skintone meat.
Queers killed butch. Queers killed operatic. Queers killed buon gusto.
Pete checked the bathroom.
No shower curtain/knives in the toilet/knives in the sink. Floor dots—loose bristles—bath mats scrubbed pink.
A thumbprint on a wall. Print-points still visible. Print whorls scrubbed red into pink.
Pete walked the suite. Pete nailed the damage. Pete got the gist. Pete locked up. Pete walked back. Pete unlocked his suite.
There’s Fred T.
He’s slugging Jack Daniel’s. He’s noshing corn chips. He’s fine now. He’s deshocked. He’s blitzed.
Fred laughed. Fred dribbled Black Jack. Fred spewed corn chips.
“I see potential in this. Sal’s an Academy Award nominee.”
Pete pulled drawers. Pete grabbed his Polaroid. Pete snatched film and loaded it in.
Fred said, “I hope he saved Dom’s pecker. I could use a transplant.”
Barb was up. Pete heard her. Pete heard her fluff sheets.
Fred said, “I never liked Dom. He had the arrogance that always complements a big dick.”
Pete grabbed him. Pete pinned his wrists.
“Talk to Barb. Keep her here while I take some pictures.”
“Pete … Jesus … come on … I’m on your side.”
Pete torqued his wrists. “Keep your mouth shut while I work this. I don’t want any shit coming back to the Cavern.”
“Pete, Pete, Pete. You know me. You know I am the Pharaoh’s own fucking sphinx.”
Pete let him go. Pete walked out. Pete jogged through the lot. Pete rehit the suite.
He unlocked it. He stepped in. He shot pix. Polaroids—twelve color prints.
He got the thumbprint. He got the bloodstains. He got the meat. He got the pink rugs. He got the knives. He got the spritz.
Pete shot twelve photos. The camera developed them. The camera made sounds. The camera cranked wet prints.
He grid-searched. He reloaded. He shot more pix:
Dom’s thumb—drain-trapped—stuck between grates. A dildo/a hash pipe/hash dregs.
He dried the prints. He spread them out on a sofa. He grabbed the phone. He dialed L.A. direct.
Three rings—be there—
“This is Otash.”
“It’s Pete, Freddy.”
Otash laughed. “I thought you were pissed at me. The Littell thing, remember?”
Pete coughed. His chest bipped. His pulse raced.
“I’m the forgiving type.”
Otash yukked. “You’re a lying frog fuck, but I’ll let it go for old times’ sake.”
Pete coughed. His chest bipped. His pulse raced.
“Do you know Sal Mineo?”
“Yeah, I know Sal. I pulled him out of some grief with some high-school quiff.”
“He’s in the shit again. It’s a two-man job, and I’ll explain when I see you.”
Otash whistled. “He’s in Vegas?”
“I think he’s driving back to L.A.”
“Money?”
“We’ll muscle him and work something out.”
“When?”
“I’ll catch a noon flight.”
“My office, then. And bring some coin in case Sal craps out.”
Pete hung up. The door jiggled. Lock tumblers clicked. Barb walked in. Pete said, “Shit.”
Barb looked around. Barb saw things. Barb caught the drift. She toed a rug stain. She bent down. She pinched fiber tufts. She sniffed her fingers. She made a face. She said, “Shit.”
Pete watched her. Barb rubbed her cheek. She looked around. She saw the wall stains. She saw the pix.
She studied them. She eyeball-cruised all twenty-four. She looked at Pete.
“Sal or Dom? Fred wouldn’t say.”
Pete stood up. His pulse raced. He grabbed a chair. He steadied in. He checked out Barb’s cheek.
“What happened to your face?”
Barb winced. “Wayne did a good job of getting my attention.”
Pete gripped the chair. Pete dug his hands in. Pete ripped fabric free.
Barb said, “I asked for it. I’ve asked for it from you, but Wayne cares about me in a different way, and he sees things you don’t.”
Pete threw the chair. It hit a wall. It gouged pink bloodstains.