The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [250]
He dropped the tape. He grabbed the mag. He cocked it back. He fixed the silencer. He bent low. Wendell’s eyes rolled back.
Wayne grabbed his right hand. Wayne shot off his fingers. Wayne shot off his thumb. Wendell squirmed. Big “H” constrained him. His eyes rolled waaaay back.
Wayne dumped the shells. Wayne reloaded. Wayne cocked his piece back. He grabbed Wendell’s left hand. He shot off his fingers. He shot off his thumb.
Wendell squirmed. Big “H” constrained him. His eyes rolled mooooore back.
Wayne dumped the shells. Wayne reloaded. Wayne cocked his piece back. Wendell puked. Bile blew out his nostrils. Wendell shit in his pants.
Wayne leaned down. Wayne aimed tight. Wayne shot his legs off at the knees. Blood spritzed. Bone chips flew. Wayne grabbed the towelettes.
Wendell’s stumps twitched. Wayne grabbed a chair. Wayne watched him bleed to death.
The flight ran late. He flew numb. He dozed L.A. to Vegas. He smelled things that weren’t there.
Cordite and blood. Cheap wine. Burned silencer threads.
The plane landed. He got off. He smelled things that weren’t there.
Burned bone and vomit. Scented towelettes.
He walked through McCarran. He found a phone. He got an operator. She patched Sparta direct.
He heard eight rings. He got no answer. No Barb and Pete there.
He walked outside. He veered toward the cab line. Two men walked up. They flanked him. They braced him. They slammed a two-cop press.
It’s Dwight Holly. It’s a swarthy guy. It’s that guy Fred Otash.
Shakedown Fred—skinny now—this cadaver.
They grabbed him. They led him. He felt limp. He felt numb. He saw two cars double-parked. He saw a Fed sedan. He saw Wayne Senior’s Cadillac.
They stopped between cars. They patted him down. They let him go slack. He stumbled. He almost fell. He smelled Wendell dead.
Holly said, “Durfee wasn’t for free.”
Otash said, “We stiffed that tipoff through Sonny.”
Holly said, “I’ve got a print transparency on you. If you say no, I’ll have a guy roll it around Durfee’s room.”
Wayne looked at them. Wayne saw them. Wayne got IT. Wayne Senior/his hate talk/the hate-mail intercepts.
Wayne said, “Who?”
Holly said, “Martin Luther King.”
109
(Sparta, 3/31/68)
TV news—breaking:
LBJ’s out. The war fucked him up. He won’t seek Term Two. It’s Humphrey v. Bobby. The race looks tight.
Barb watched the news. Pete watched Barb. Barb dug on the Bobby aspects. The house was cold. Barb’s sister was cheap. Barb’s sister skimped on the heat.
He flew Saigon to Sparta. Barb welcomed him reluctant. Barb ragged him incessant. Barb ragged his travel-ban breach.
Barb flipped channels. Barb caught war news. Barb caught some Memphis strike.
Trash workers. A support march. One riot so far. Sixty injured/looter damage/one nigger kid dead. Crazy King’s there. Crazy King’s between riots. One “Poor People’s” riot on tap.
Barb watched the news. Pete watched Barb. Barb watched the news rapt. Pete popped gum. Pete obeyed Barb’s rule—don’t smoke inside.
He chewed gum. He chewed double sticks. He fretted shit. He called Bob’s kompound. He got a weird tone. It vibed disconnect.
He called the Cavern. He left Wayne a message. Wayne never called back. He punked out. He stalled his speech. He set his flight back.
Barb flipped channels. Barb caught Bobby. Barb caught Crazy King. Pete stood up. Pete blocked the screen. Pete turned off the set.
Barb said, “Shit.”
Pete popped his gum. “Hear me out on some things. You’ll like part of it.”
Barb smiled. “You’re getting ready to snow me. I can tell.”
“Here’s the good part. The Boys want to scuttle the biz, the funnel, and the whole operation. I’m going along with it.”
Barb shook her head. “If that was most of it, you’d be smiling.”
“You’re right. There’s mo—”
“I know there’s more, I know it’s bad, so tell me.”
Pete gulped. Pete swallowed. Pete choked his gum back.
“Part of it went bad. I’ve got to pick Wayne up in Vegas and make one more Cuban run. I need you to hole up somewhere until it’s over and I cut some kind of deal with the Outfit.”
Barb said, “No.”
Boom—case closed