The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [251]
Pete gulped. “I’ll dump Tiger Kab and the Cavern then. We’ll go someplace else.”
Barb said, “No.”
No drumroll—no pause—no inflection.
Pete gulped. “I can finesse it. There’s some risk, sure, but I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t think the Boys would buy my explanation.”
Barb said, “No.”
No fanfare—all deadpan—no shit.
Pete gulped. Pete coughed his gum up.
“If I don’t pay this off, the word will go out. The wrong guys will think, ‘He knew the story and let it all go.’ They’ll start thinking I’m weak, which will cause us trouble somewhere down the line.”
Barb said, “No. Whatever it is is bullshit, and you know it.”
No recourse—I know you—that’s that. No tears yet—tears pending—eyes wet.
Pete said, “I’ll be back when it’s over.”
Charter flight: La Crosse to Vegas. Junket geeks/smoky cabin/cramped seats.
The geeks were insurance men. The geeks were Shriners and Moose. They drank. They swapped hats. They cracked jokes.
Pete tried to sleep. Pete fucked with IT.
He’d called Stanton. He called loooong distance. He called Saigon to Bay St. Louis. He brought up the Cuban run. He said I want to go. Please let me say adios.
Stanton said yes.
He mopped up in Saigon. He laid cover tracks. He bought weapons. He fixed the warehouse window. He worked on the QT. He installed new glass/new mesh. He called Mesplède. He said I’ll handle it. He said I’ll breach the breach.
He bought three guns: one Walther and two Berettas. He bought three silencers. He bought three inside-the-pants rigs.
Booty. Swag. Cars/furs/watches/antiques. THE BIG FUCKING LIE revealed.
The flight bumped. They ran low-pressure sweeps. The junket geeks pawed the stews. The junket geeks laughed. The junket geeks preached.
Pro-war stuff. All clichés. We can’t pull out. We’ll forfeit Asia. We can’t look weak.
Pete shut his eyes. Pete heard the geeks. Pete saw home movie flicks.
There’s Betty Mac. It’s visit twelve million. There’s Chuck the Vice Freak. There’s Barb. She says, “No”—eyes working on tears.
We stand firm. We bong the Cong. We never surrender. We stomp the peace freaks.
It droned on. It went stereophonic. He tried to sleep. He failed. He fought this exhaustion. He got this idea:
Fuck it all. Fuck it now. Forfeit the kadre kode breach.
The plane touched down. Pete got off. Pete walked to Air Midwest.
He bought a ticket. He splurged. He booked first-class to Milwaukee/connector to Sparta/two flights one-way.
He had a layover. He had four hours to kill.
He walked to the gate lounge. He schlepped his gun bag. He sprawled across four seats. He fell. It was soft and dark. He had newspapers as sheets.
He opened his eyes. He saw ceiling lights. He saw Ward Littell. Ward had his ticket. Ward flicked the edge.
“You were going back. Barb will like that.”
Pete sat up. His newspaper sheets fell.
“Jesus, you scared me.”
Ward cleaned his glasses. “Barb called. She said you were going south on some insane errand, and could I stop it.”
Pete yawned. “And?”
“And I put a few things together and called Carlos.”
Pete lit a cigarette. It was 6:10 now. His flight left at 7:00.
“Don’t stop there. I want to see where this is going.”
Ward coughed. “Part of it is from Carlos, part of it I put together my—”
“Jesus, just tell—”
“Carlos is cutting off your business. It was part of a ruse to get weapons to Castro, so that he could funnel them to rebels in Central America. It all played into my foreign-casino plan, and I never knew anything about it.”
Fill-in/paint-by-number/link-the-dots diverse. Stanton and Carlos/the fake funnel/the BIG LIE complete.
“It was a shuck, Ward. The whole thing.”
“I know.”
“Bob Relyea. What about—”
“He dropped his Klan gig and went off on another operation. Wayne’s working with him, and Carlos said that’s all he knows.”
Pete grabbed the ticket. Ward grabbed it back.
“You flew to Saigon. You put some things together. I’m going off what you told Barb.”
Pete grabbed his bag. The guns rubbed and scraped.
“You’re leading me. You talked to Barb, you talked to Carlos, you found me. Let’s start there.”
Ward squared