The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [234]
He watched Negroes. Negroes watched him. He stayed cool. He stayed calm. He knew his ABCs. Wendell was nowhere. Wendell, where you be? I hate you. I’ll kill you. Hate won’t hinder me.
Hate smart—like Wayne Senior. P for Poised. B for Brave. C for Collected.
He did intercepts. He culled hate. He caught lunacy.
Weird:
He muscled a deadbeat. It was late ’66. The clown was named Sirhan Sirhan. Sirhan had hate tracts. RFK got some hate notes. They were margin scrawled the same way.
All cap letters/headaches and pus/“Jewish Cancer Machine.” Sirhan drools. Sirhan hates stupid. Sirhan foists lunacy.
Don’t do it. It’s counterproductive. It’s dumb. It’s insanity.
Hate smart. Like Wayne Senior. Like me.
105
(Las Vegas, Sparta, Bay St. Louis, Cuban Waters, 11/4/67–12/3/67)
You’re homeless.
You’re a Vegas transient. You’re embargoed at home. You’re a fucking refugee.
It’s jail. It’s Skid Row. It mocks rotation. It’s Splitsville. It’s mock-divorce. It’s past separation.
Barb split. Pete traveled—all-love rotations. Pete flew back alone—non-love rotations. The trips trashed him. The trips taught him. The trips made him see: You hate Vegas now. Without Barb it’s shit. You’re Joe Vegas Refugee.
He had the trifecta. It was all Vegas-bred—Tiger/the dope biz/the Cavern. He couldn’t split. The Boys held his lease. It was sealed and marked “Dallas.”
He loved the trifecta. He hated the venue. They all intertwined.
Stateless.
He met Barb. She slung plates. No high heels/no spangles. Her sister worked her. Her sister lubed her—goooood profit perks. Barb B.—ex-lounge queen. Waitress/restaurateur.
He couldn’t have her. He couldn’t have her on his terms. He couldn’t have her at his location.
He hubbed in Vegas. He flew to Mississippi. He hated it. Dumb crackers and dumb niggers. Bugs and sand fleas.
He made boat runs. He got seasick. His pulse raced. He snarfed Dramamine. The runs bored him. Stealth and scalps and nothing more. No good resistance.
He was a transient. He was travel-screwed. He was a rotation refugee.
You want things. You can’t have things. You can’t give things up. You’ve got habits. You don’t need them. You can’t give them up.
Cigarettes. Pizza pie and pecan pie. Stiff drinks and steak.
He hid his habits in Sparta. Barb never saw. He flew out. He de-purified. He binged on rotations.
Transient. Glutton. Exile. Exiled on boat runs/exiled down south/exiled in Vegas.
Drac’s town now—Drac’s town cosmetic.
He knew Drac. They went back. They met in ’53. He worked for Drac. He scored Drac dope. He scored Drac his women. Drac was a glutton then. Drac was a glutton still.
He cruised the DI. He bribed a Mormon for a look-see. He bought a looooong look.
Drac dozed. Drac wore drip cords. Drac got a transfusion. Mormon blood/hormone-laced/pure. Drac was gaunt. Drac was svelte. Drac was chic. Drac wore a Kotex-box hat and Kleenex-box slippers.
Drac was on dope. Barb was off dope. Pete pushed dope non-boocoo. Pete was hamstrung. Pete was profit-screwed. Pete was a dope refugee.
He begged Stanton. He said let me expand. Stanton always refused. He pouched Stanton. He pleaded and begged. Stanton always refused. Stanton always cited Carlos. Stanton always cited the Boys.
They don’t want it. Live with it. It stands as their call. He lived with it. He hated it. He felt refugized.
He got ideas.
I’ll fly to Saigon. I’ll brace Stanton. I’ll break the truce. I’ll tell Barb to stamp my visa. I’ll make her unleash my gonads.
I’ll tell Stanton to expand the biz or shove it up your ass. Stanton would shit. Carlos would shit. The Boys might temporize.
It might work. It might shake them. It might serve to de-refugize. He needed it. He needed something. He needed MORE.
He got bored. He got crazed. He fretted shit.
Like: Cuba—mucho boat runs—no at-sea resistance.
Like: Bob Relyea—nervous and hi-amped.
He’s talking trash. He’s saying our work’s dead. He’s saying I’ve got work transcendent.
He went by Bob’s kompound.