The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [243]
Can Lao classics—goons in civvies—perched outside a warehouse. Cabs out front—good numbers—cabs perched down the block.
The gook stopped. A Can Lao checked his duffel. A Can Lao got the door. The gook walked in the warehouse. A Can Lao slammed the door. A Can Lao double-locked.
Six buildings down. Side alleys between each one. One connecting alley in back.
Pete walked.
He cut sideways. He hit the back alley. He cut down six buildings. He walked half a block.
Six warehouses/all glazed cement/all three-story jobs.
He cut back streetside. He saw first-floor windows. He heard the Can Laos out front. The windows were covered/mesh over glass/burglar-proof stuff.
Pete checked a window. Pete saw light through glass.
He took a breath. He grabbed the mesh. He pulled it back. He made a space. He made a fist. He punched the glass out.
He saw pallets. He saw tourniquets. He saw white arms tied up. He saw GIs buy bindles. He saw GIs cook horse. He saw GIs shoot up.
He slept bad. He slept weird. Jet lag plus Nembutal. He dreamed bad. He saw vices and crossbars. He saw white kids geezing up.
He woke up. He got some focus. He de-raged. He called John Stanton. He said I’m fried. I can’t see straight. Let’s meet tomorrow night. Stanton laughed. Stanton said why not?
Pete sedated. Pete reslept. Pete roused and jumped up. Dream shots reran wide awake—all broken-glass shots.
That boy with the tattoos. That boy with the gone eyes. That boy with the spike in his shvantz.
Pete hired a cab. Pete hunkered low. Pete ran tail ops. Cab stakeout by Hotel Montrachet—John Stanton’s billet-drop.
He got more focus. The sleep helped. He totaled it all up. One GI dope den/one at least—kadre kode breach.
Don’t sell to GIs. It’s sacrilege. Sell and die hard. Stanton knew it. Stanton cosigned it. Stanton said Mr. Kao agreed. Ditto all the Can Lao.
Stanton assured Pete. Stanton assuaged Pete. Stanton puffed and mollified.
Mr. Kao ran dope Saigon-wide. Mr. Kao ran the Can Lao. Stanton knew Kao. Stanton quoted Kao: Me no push to GIs!
He had that much. That to start. “That” could go wide.
It was hot. The cab broiled. A dash fan swirled. It stirred hot air. It stirred gas fumes. It stirred tailpipe farts.
The Montrachet boomed. The MACV brass loved it. Dig the bay windows with grenade nets.
Pete watched the door. The driver ran the radio. The driver played Viet rock. The Bleatles and the Bleach Boys—all gook redubbed.
9:46 a.m. 10:02, 10:08. Fuck, this could go on—
There’s Stanton.
He’s walking out. He’s got a briefcase. He shags a cab quick. Pete nudged his driver—tail that cab quick.
Stanton’s cab pulled out. Pete’s cab pulled up. A cab pulled between them. Cabs boxed them in. Cab traffic stalled and sat.
Traffic moved. They got free. They drove south. They drove slow. They snail-trailed.
The driver was good. The driver stayed close. The driver laid back discreet. They drove south. They hit Tam Long Street. They hit that warehouse block.
Stanton’s cab braked. Stanton’s cab stopped at the warehouse. Two Can Laos walked straight up.
They saw Stanton. They heel-clicked. They passed an envelope. Pete watched. Pete’s cab hovered back.
Stanton’s cab gunned it. Stanton’s cab hauled south. Pete’s cab pulled out and tailed back. A truck cut between them. Stanton’s cab cut west. Pete’s cab blew a red light.
Stanton’s cab stopped. It’s halfway down a side street. It’s an all-warehouse block.
A short street/six warehouses/good warehouse block.
All Can Lao–guarded. Cabs perched curbside. Cabs perched down the block.
Pete watched. His cab idled. His cab hovered back.
The Can Laos ran up. The Can Laos swarmed Stanton’s cab. The Can Laos dropped envelopes. A warehouse door popped. Four GIs walked out. Four GIs weaved on white horse.
Stanton’s cab U-turned. Stanton’s cab passed Pete’s cab. Pete hunkered waaay low. Stanton’s cab turned east. Pete’s cab tailed it. Pete’s cab tailed discreet.
Traffic slogged. Snail trail. Fucking turtle speed. Pete prickled. Pete chain-smoked. Pete chewed Tums.
They hit Tu Do Street. Stanton