The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [249]
There’s Bobby caught candid. He’s standing by a putting green. He’s near some bungalows. The backdrop’s lush. The backdrop’s familiar.
Littell squinted. Wait now, what’s—
He saw the pathway. He saw the door. He saw the “301.” It’s the bungalow. It’s the “Mob meet spot.” It’s his gig for Dwight Holly.
Littell dropped the paper. Thoughts jumped and garbled. The Boys/that gaffe/“box of goodies.”
108
(Los Angeles, 3/30/68)
Death kit:
Four hypos / full loads / premixed: Big “H” and Novocain anesthetic.
One .44 mag. One silencer. One roll of duct tape. One paper-bag carryall. One pack of moist towelettes.
We’re here. We’re at 5th and Stanford. It’s Skid Row. It’s Bum Hell.
Wayne lounged. Wayne watched the hotel. Wayne jiggled his sack. He stood outside a blood bank. Bums hobnobbed. Nurses culled donors up.
He’s there. He’s in the Hiltz Hotel. He’s in room 402. It’s four floors up.
Wayne watched the front door. Wayne savored. Wayne stalled.
He’d rotated south. He hit Bob’s kompound. He found it cleaned out. It vibed raid. It vibed heedless. It vibed state cops. Bob had friends. Bob was Fed-vouched. It vibed dumb state cops.
Wayne flew to Vegas then. Wayne checked the Cavern. Wayne picked messages up:
Call Pete. He’s in Sparta. Call Sonny.
He called Pete. He got no answer. He called Sonny. Sonny was jazzed. Sonny said, “This nigger called me.” Sonny cited said nigger source.
Bam:
Sonny’s guy saw Wendell. Wendell was nom-de-plumed. Wendell’s now Abdallah X.
It was warm. It was eighty at noon. Skid Row was crammed up. Winos/amputees on skateboards/he-shes rouged up.
They jostled Wayne. Wayne felt zero. Wayne felt ate up. His skin buzzed. He rode eggshells. His bloodstream froze up.
He walked over.
He walked through the front door. He passed bums in the lobby. He passed a TV cranked up.
’68 Novas! Buy now! Se habla español at Giant Felix Chevrolet!
A wino convulsed. Wayne dodged his legs. Wayne took side stairs up. He lost his feet. He lost his legs. He fought gravity.
He hit the fourth floor landing. He saw the hallway. He saw wood doors inset.
He passed 400. He passed 401. He hit 402. He touched the knob. He turned it. The door popped.
He’s right there. He’s backlit. You’ve got window light. There’s Wendell in a straight-back chair. There’s Wendell with a short-dog.
Wayne stepped inside. Wayne shut the door. Wayne almost threw up. Wendell saw him. Wendell squinted. Wendell grinned all fucked up.
Wayne stood there.
Wendell said, “You looks familiar.”
Wayne stood there.
Wendell said, “Give me a hint.”
Wayne said, “Dallas.” Wayne almost threw up.
Wendell slurped wine. Wendell looked bad. Wendell wore injection welts. Wendell wore needle tracks.
“That’s a good hint. Makes me think you a certain husband with a grievance. I’ve fucking widowered more than a few of them, so that narrows it down somewhat.”
Wayne scoped the room. Wayne saw empty short-dogs. Wayne smelled wine upchucked.
Wendell said, “That was some weekend. Remember? The President got shot.”
Wayne moved. Wayne took two steps. Wayne kicked out and up. He hit the chair. He hit the jug. He knocked Wendell flat.
Wendell puked wine and bile. Wayne stepped on his neck. Wayne full-weight-pinned him. Wayne dug through his sack.
He grabbed a hypo. Wendell thrashed. He shot his neck up. Wendell de-thrashed. Wendell soared. Wendell went smack-back.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed a hypo. Wayne shot his hands up. Wendell shuddered. Wendell resoared. Wendell went more smack-back.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed a hypo. Wayne shot his hips up. Wendell grinned. Wendell soar-soared. Wendell went waaay smack-back.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed a hypo. Wayne shot his knees up. Wendell grinned. Wendell soooooared. Wendell smaaacked out and up.
Wayne dropped the hypo. Wayne grabbed the tape. Wayne pulled a strip up. He taped Wendell’s mouth. He rolled three loops dense. He cinched Wendell’s neck