The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [254]
Guéry said, “Which is my problem, too.”
Flash said, “I do not have that problem.”
Wenzel said, “You’re a shrimp, but you’re dangerous.”
They laughed. Pete laughed. Pete went lightheaded.
Four men/no sidearms/good. All relaxed/sipping scotch/good.
Note this oversight. Note this fuck-up and glitch:
You could have brought Seconal. You could have spiked the scotch. You could have killed them asleep.
Stanton said, “We’ll refuel at Snipe Key.”
Wenzel said, “They’re meeting us eighty knots out. It’s the only way to rendezvous before dawn.”
Pete coughed. “It’s my fault. I was late.”
Flash shook his head. “The last time. We no go without you.”
Guéry shook his head. “You were always the one with the … qu’est-ce que … ‘greatest commitment.’ ”
Wenzel slugged scotch. “I’ll miss the runs. I hate the Reds as much as the next white man.”
Flash smiled. “I am not white.”
Wenzel smiled. “In your heart you are.”
Pete faked a yawn. His chest pinged. His pulse raced.
“I’m tired. I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
The guys smiled. The guys nodded. The guys grinned and stretched. Pete walked back. Pete shut the door. Pete ran a cabin check:
Four units/low bulkheads/four sleeping sacks. Please get drunk. Please crap out. Please crap out in shifts.
He opened the cargo hold. The boat rolled. The boat rolled très light. It rolled too drifty—sans-gun-ballast light.
He popped the storage door. He looked in. He hit the light.
Bam:
Empty/no guns/no ordnance packed tight.
He got butterflies. Huge now. Sized like King Kong.
No guns. No gun run. Loose ends scheduled up. They kill you. They dump you. They kill Fuentes and Arredondo.
The boat pitched. Pete dug his legs in. Pete popped the shotgun rack. He got moths—big fuckers—way up in his chest.
He pulled shotguns. He worked slides. He popped the shells chambered in. Butterfingers: four shotguns/shells popping/no hands to catch said.
Shells dropping. Shells spinning. Shells hitting the floor deck. Shells skitting and rolling free.
He grabbed them. He stuffed his pants. He stuffed his teeth. He fumbled the shotguns. He refilled the rack. He heard the cargo door creak.
He turned around. He saw Wenzel. He looked dumb. He looked caught. He had shells in his teeth.
Wenzel shut the door. Wenzel stepped close. Wenzel made fists.
“What the fuck are—”
Pete looked around. Pete saw the flare gun. It’s close. It’s on a wall hook.
He spit the shells out. He stepped back. He grabbed it and aimed. He pulled the trigger. The flare ignited. The flare hit Wenzel’s face. Wenzel screeched. His hair burned. He batted his face.
The flare dropped. It burned Wenzel’s clothes. It shot flames chest to feet.
Pete stepped in. Pete grabbed Wenzel’s neck. Pete snuffed hair flames. He snapped left. He burned his hands. He snapped right.
Wenzel convulsed. Wenzel went limp. Wenzel’s eyebrows shot flames. Pete threw him down. Pete ripped his shirt off. Pete snuffed the flames.
The flare fizzled out. The door stayed shut. Contained stink and flames.
Pete flexed his hand. Burn blisters popped. Pete anchored his legs.
Now.
They’ll miss him. They’ll need him. They’ll yell. The boat’s rolling. It’s on auto pilot. Wenzel stays on call.
Now.
Pete clenched up. Pete listened—ear to the door.
Nothing.
He pulled his Walther. He cocked it. He opened the door. One walkway/four cabins/two per side wall.
Ten yards up: the main cabin/set perpendicular/with the door shut.
Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 1. He looked in. He braced the door.
Nobody.
Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 2. He looked in. He braced the door.
Nobody.
Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 3. He looked in. He braced the door.
There’s Flash. He’s sacked out asleep.
Pete walked up. Pete aimed close. Muzzle to hairline/silencer tight. He shot once. His piece went pffft. Brains doused the bed.
Pete walked out. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 4. He looked in. He braced the door.
Nobody.
Pete inched up. Pete ate jumbo moths and butterflies.