The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [245]
Two years in? Maybe one. Maybe Tet-time stuff.
Bogus gun sales. GI dope sales—kadre kode breach. Stanton’s nailed. Bob’s nailed—kadre kode breach. Who else made money? Who else gets breached?
Pete chained cigarettes. Pete sweated gobs. Pete mainlined caffeine. He brainstormed in bed. He sopped up his clothes. He soaked up the sheets.
His logic felt strong. His logic felt big. His logic felt incomplete. His pulse raced. His chest pinged. He got bips to his feet.
Stanton said, “You look tired.”
Drinks at the Montrachet. Code 3 Tet Alert. More door guards. More bomb nets. More fear.
“Travel fucks with me. You know that.”
“Unnecessary travel, too.”
Pete seized up. Pete juked his performance. Get mad/stay mad/reveal shit.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’ve got eyes. You flew over to convince me to expand the business, but I’m going to say no and go you one better. I’m glad you’re here, because I owe it to you to tell you to your face.”
Pete flushed. Pete felt it—blood to the face.
“I’m listening.”
“I’m disbanding the operation. The whole funnel. Tiger Kamp through to Bay St. Louis.”
Pete flushed. Pete felt it—cardiac hues.
“Why? Give me one good fucking reason.”
Stanton stabbed his swizzle stick. A piece broke off and flew.
“One, the Hughes thing has brought too much attention on Vegas, and Carlos and the Boys want to reinstate the no-dope rule. Two, the war’s out of control, and it’s become too unpopular at home. There’s too many journalists and TV people in-country who’d love to nail some rogue CIA men for doing what we do. Three, our on-island dissidents are getting nowhere, Castro’s in to stay, and my Agency colleagues all agree that it’s time to pull the plug.”
Pete flushed. Pete felt it—deep purple hues. Be shocked/be pissed/be irate.
“Four years, John. Four years and all that work for this? ”
Stanton sipped his martini. “It’s over, Pete. Sometimes the ones who care the most are the ones least able to admit it.”
Pete gripped his glass. Pete snapped the rim. Ice chips spritzed and spewed. He grabbed a napkin. He blotted blood. He stanched cut residue.
Stanton leaned in. “I cut Mesplède loose. I’m selling Tiger Kamp to Mr. Kao, and I’m leaving for the States tomorrow. I’m going to disband the Mississippi end of the team and make one last Cuban run to pacify Fuentes and Arredondo.”
Pete squeezed his napkin. Scotch burned the cuts. Glass shards worked through.
Stanton said, “We did what we could for the Cause. There’s some consolation there.”
Cab stakeout 2. 6:00 a.m./the Montrachet cab line/heat and cab fumes.
Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete ran logic through: Stanton’s disbanding/Stanton’s regrouping/Stanton’s kutting kadre kosts and konnektions.
Pete yawned. Pete got zero sleep. Pete prowled bars past 2:00. Pete found Mesplède. He was pissed and drunk. He was fried on his frog ass boocoo.
Stanton sacked him. Mesplède raged—le cochon/le putain du monde.
Pete gauged Mesplède. Mesplède gauged sincere. Mesplède gauged non-Stantonite. Pete rigged a test. Pete rigged a tour.
They drove by the dope cribs. They saw cabs pull up. They saw GIs walk out. They saw GIs bop zombified.
Mesplède was shocked. Mesplède vibed très sincere and très horrified. On va tuer le cochon. Le cochon va mourir.
Pete said yes. Pete amended. Pete said Die Tough.
It was hot. It was a.m.-sticky. The dash fan puffed. Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete chewed Tums.
6:18. 6:22. 6:29. Fuck, this could go on—
There’s Stanton.
With a suitcase. Errands first? Then the airport?
Stanton got a cab. The cab pulled out. The cab pulled out slow. Pete nudged his driver—tail that cab fast.
The driver gunned it. A cab cut him off. The driver swung around fast. Tu Do was busy. Gun trucks goosed traffic chop-chop.
Stanton’s cab cut south. Pete’s cab bird-dogged it. Pete’s cab stuck two car lengths back. A rickshaw cut in. A coolie lugged cargo—tail cover boocoo.
Traffic slowed. They drove south. They bopped toward the docks.
Pete’s cab goosed the rickshaw. The driver rode his horn. The