The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [242]
She nailed him. She said you’re going back—I know it. He copped out. He said let me go. He said let me brace Stanton.
She said no. He said yes. It went waaaay bad. They yelled. They threw shit. They gouged walls. They scared the desk clerks. They scared the bellboys. They scared the hotel staff.
Barb split to Sparta. He roamed San Francisco. The hills bonked his heart. He drove to the airport. He sat in the bar. He saw some Carlos cats: Chuck “the Vice” Aiuppa and Nardy Scavone.
They hailed him. They bought him drinks. They got tanked and bragged. They said they clipped Danny Bruvick. It was a twosky. They clipped Danny’s ex Arden-Jane. They supplied details. They supplied sound effects.
Pete walked out. Pete caught his plane. Pete ate Nembutal. He slept. The plane pitched. He saw vices snap heads.
The cab crawled. The driver grazed monks. The driver monologued: Tet kill many. Tet fuck things up. Tet kill GIs. Victor Charles naughty! Victor Charles evil! Victor Charles baaad!
The cab pitched. The cab lurched. Pete gagged on truck fumes. Pete’s knees bumped his head.
There’s the Go-Go. It’s still gook graffitied. You’re back. It’s still ARVN-guarded. There’s two Marvs door-posted. You’re back.
Pete grabbed his duffel. Pete grabbed Wayne’s satchel—beakers and test tubes prewrapped. Drop them off/check the lab/hit Hotel Catinat.
The driver braked. Pete got out and stretched. The Marvs snapped to. Said Marvs knew Pete—le frog grand et fou.
They saluted. Pete walked in the Go-Go. Pete smelled white horse residue. Piss and sweat/stale excrement/cooked dope residue.
The niteclub was mort. The niteclub was a dope den. It was ground-floor Hades. It was the river Styx boocoo.
Slopes on pallets. Tube tourniquets. Lighters. Cooking spoons. Dope balloons. Spikes. Fifty junkies/fifty dope beds/fifty launch pads.
Slopes cooked horse. Slopes tied off. Slopes geezed. Slopes swooned. Slopes grinned wide. Slopes sighed.
Pete walked through it. Marvs and Can Laos sold balloons. Marvs and Can Laos sold spikes. Pete walked upstairs—dig it—there’s the river Styx revived.
More slopes on pallets. More tube ties. More needles. More toe-crack injections. More arm and leg pops.
Pete walked upstairs. Pete hit the lab door. Pete saw a Can Lao cat. He saw Pete. He knew Pete—le frog fou.
Pete dropped the satchel. Pete talked Anglo-gook:
“Equipment. From Wayne Tedrow. I leave with you.”
The Can Lao smiled. The Can Lao bowed. The Can Lao reached and grabbed.
Pete said, “Open up. I check lab now.”
The Can Lao bristled. The Can Lao blocked the door. The Can Lao pulled a belt piece. The Can Lao snapped the slide.
The door popped open. A gook stepped out. Pete caught a view: trays/sorting chutes/bindles prepacked.
The gook bristled. The gook slammed the door. The gook blocked Pete’s view. The gook braced the Can Lao. They jabbered en gook. They eyed le frog fou.
Pete got goose bumps. Pete hinked out. Pete hinked out boocoo.
They sold balloons downstairs. They packaged two ways upstairs. They sold bindle pops too. That implied wiiiiide distribution. That implied upscale use.
The gook walked downstairs. The gook walked fast. The gook slung a duffel bag. The Can Lao re-bristled. Pete bowed and smiled. Pete pidgin-gooked:
“Is alright. You good man. I go now.”
The Can Lao smiled. The Can Lao de-bristled. Pete waved bye-bye.
He walked downstairs. He held his nose. He grazed pallets and squashed turds. He walked outside. He looked around. He saw the gook.
He’s on the street. He’s walking south. He’s got that duffel bag.
Pete tailed him.
The gook walked the dock. The gook cut inland. The gook walked Dal To Street. It was hot. The street teemed. It’s a slopehead ant farm run amok.
Pete stood out. Pete duck-walked low. Pete shaved half his height. The gook walked fast. The gook plowed monks. Pete huffed keeping up.
The gook cut east. The gook bopped down Tam Long. The gook swung down a warehouse block. The sidewalk narrowed. Foot traffic thinned. Pete saw