The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [246]
They hit the docks. Pete saw warehouse blocks. Pete saw loooong buildings laid out. Stanton’s cab braked. Stanton’s cab stopped. Stanton got out.
The rickshaw passed him. Pete’s cab passed him. Pete ducked and looked back. Stanton grabbed his suitcase. Stanton walked. Stanton unlocked a warehouse.
He did it mock-cool. He looked around. He stepped in. He pulled the door shut.
Stanton’s cab waited. Pete’s cab U-turned. Pete’s cab parked down the block. Pete swiveled the fan. Pete ate hot air and watched.
Time the visit. Do it now. Run your time clock.
Pete checked his watch dial. The second hand swept. Six minutes/nine/eleven.
Stanton walked out. Stanton still had his suitcase. Stanton locked the door up.
He shagged his cab. He stretched and yawned. The cab took off north-bound—toward Tan Son Nhut.
Pete paid his driver. Pete got out and walked. The cab peeled off.
The warehouse stretched. It ran two football fields plus. One story/one steel door. Side walkways adjacent. Mesh-covered windows inset.
Pete pushed the buzzer. Chimes ricocheted. No footsteps/no voices/no peephole slid back. Two walkways. Side windows. No witnesses out.
Pete cut south. Pete hit the near walkway. Pete took his coat off.
He found a window. He flexed his hands. He peeled the mesh back. His bad hand tore. Glass specks got reimbedded.
He made a fist. He wrapped it up. He made a coat-fabric glove. He punched out the window. Glass blew inward.
He hauled himself up. He squeezed through the frame space. He rolled to the floor. His hand throbbed. He squeezed blood out. He patted the wall. He caught a switch. Lights went on—two football fields plus.
He saw a space. He saw a floor. He saw merchandise. He saw swag. He saw rows and rows. He saw piles and piles.
He walked. He touched. He looked. He counted. He inventoried. He saw:
Sixty boxes stuffed with watches—pure gold waist-high. Mink coats dumped like trash—forty-three piles hip-high. Six hundred Jap motorcycles—laid side to side. Antique furniture—twenty-three rows stretched wide.
New cars—parked side by side. Thirty-eight rows/twenty-two cars per/stretched out lengthwise.
Bentleys. Porsches. Aston-Martin DB-5s. Volvos/Jaguars/Mercedes.
Pete walked the rows. Pete ID’d booty. Pete saw export tags attached. Point of shipment: Saigon. Point of entry: U.S.
Kall it easy. Kall it kold. Kall it dead:
Swag. Black-market-purchased. Non-U.S.-derived. Swag from Europe/Great Britain/the East.
Stanton ran the gig. His CIA pals helped. They bootjacked kadre money. They laundered it. They glommed luxury shit.
Stanton’s disbanding. They ship the goods now. They ship duty-free. The Boys help them. Carlos walks point. They resell near-retail. Carlos takes points. Carlos pays the Stanton guys. Cold millions accrue.
The dope plan. The funnel. Cash for the Cause. Wrong—the Cause was THIS.
Pete walked the warehouse. Pete kicked tires. Pete smelled leather seats. Pete flicked antennas. Pete buffed rosewood. Pete fondled mink.
THIS.
He tracked logic. He looked for loopholes. He got none.
And:
Stanton stopped here. Stanton lugged in his suitcase.
Why?
He dropped something off. He picked something up.
Which?
Pete walked the walls. Pete tapped the walls. Pete tapped whole cement. No wall panels or hidey holes—shit.
Pete checked the floor. Pete looked for chipped paint. Pete looked for off-color streaks. Pete got whole cement/solid/no streaks.
Pete checked the ceiling. It was solid cement. No patches/no caulking/no streaks.
No bathroom. No storerooms. No closets. Four walls/one looooong strrrretch/two football fields plus.
Something was somewhere. Something was here.
Cars/minks/watches. Motorcycles/antiques. It’s a day’s work. It’s needle meets haystack. It’s do it anyway.
He walked the rows. He plowed watch piles. He dug through mink. He grabbed. He touched. He fished.
Forty-three piles/sixty boxes—shit.
He walked the rows. He popped antique drawers. He rifled and dipped.
Twenty-three