The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [260]
Sirhan sulked. Sirhan paced. Sirhan kicked paper cups. He studied his scratch sheet. He picked his nose. He flicked hunks of snot.
Some guys sat down—jarheads in dress blues. Sirhan slid close. Sirhan talked shit. Sirhan offered his jug.
The jarheads imbibed. Pete listened. Pete heard:
“The Jews steal our pussy.”
“Robert Kennedy pays them.”
“That is no shit I tell you.”
The jarheads yukked. The jarheads goofed on the spastic. Sirhan got pissed and reached for his jug. The jarheads tossed it over his head. The jarheads goofed double-hard.
They stood up. They stretched tall. They tossed the jug high. Sirhan was short. They were tall. They made Sirhan leap.
Keep away—Semper Fi—three-handed.
They tossed the jug. Sirhan leaped. Sirhan lunged and jumped. Keep away/hot potato/three hands.
The jug traveled. The jug flew shell-game fast. The jug fell and broke. The jarheads laughed. Sirhan laughed—à la Daffy Duck.
An onlooker laughed. He was fat and frizzy-haired. Dig his beanie and mezuzah.
Sirhan called him a “pussylicker.”
Sirhan called him a “vampire Jew.”
Pete watched the races. Pete watched The Sirhan Sirhan Show.
Sirhan noshed candy bars. Sirhan picked his teeth. Sirhan lost bets. Sirhan sulked. Sirhan picked his toes. Sirhan hassled blond girls. Sirhan dug earwax. Sirhan talked shit.
Jews. RFK. The pus puppets of Zion. The Arab revolt.
Sirhan trawled for Jews. Sirhan scratched his balls. Sirhan aired his feet. Sirhan walked to the paddock. Pete tailed him close. Sirhan hassled jockeys.
I was jockey once. I was hot walker. I hate Zionist pigs. The jockeys razzed him—fuck you, Fritz—you’re a camel jockey.
Sirhan walked to the bar. Pete tailed him. Sirhan drank vodka shooters with candy-bar chasers. Sirhan chomped ice cubes.
Sirhan trawled for Jews. Sirhan fixed on big schnozzolas. Sirhan jumped stools. Sirhan walked to the john. Pete tailed him. Sirhan trawled urinals.
Sirhan bagged a toilet stall. Pete loitered close. Sirhan shit long and loud. Sirhan walked out. Pete walked in. Pete saw toilet scrawls:
Pigs of Zion!
Blood Licker Jews!
RFK Must Die!
Pete called Fred O. Pete said, “He looks good.” Pete drove downtown. Pete hit the Hall of Justice. Pete hit the state horse race board.
He flashed a Rice Krispies badge. He conned a clerk. He cadged an employee file check.
The clerk showed him a file bank. He saw six drawers alphabetic. The clerk yawned. The clerk split. The clerk took a java break.
He pulled the S drawer. He finger-walked. He found “Sirhan, Sirhan B.” He skimmed two pages. He got:
Sirhan was a hot walker. Sirhan fell off horses. Sirhan bonked his head repeatedly. Sirhan drank too much. Sirhan gambled too much. Sirhan defamed Jews.
He found a memo. The board sent Sirhan to a shrink. A pork dodger/Dr. G. N. Blumenfeld/out in West L.A.
Pete laughed. Pete walked. Pete found a pay phone. He called Fred O. He said, “He looks great.”
He tired fast. He tired hard. It killed him. The day fucking killed him. Cane tails at age forty-seven.
He hit his motel. He took his pills. He snarfed his blood-thinning drops. He chewed Nicorette gum. He ate his rabbit-food dinner.
He was shot. He was dead whipped. He tried to sleep. His circuits disconnected. Recent shit recohered.
Barb/the boat/the Big Lie. Wayne/the King hit/Bobby.
Barb made sense. Nothing else. Barb dug on Bobby. Barb would mourn Bobby. Barb might link him to the hit. She might do a “Not Again” number. She might freak and split. She might leave him for Bobby and Jack.
It scared him. Nothing else did. No outrage or fugue for la Causa. No fear outside that.
My shit’s too exhausting. I’m dispersed and dead whipped. I’m shot.
He checked the Yellow Pages. He got the shrink’s address. He slept.
He got six hours. He revived. He went out sans cane. G. N. Blumenfeld/office on Pico/out in West L.A.
2:30 a.m.—sleepytime L.A.
He drove out. He parked curbside. He checked the building: Stucco/one-story/six doors in a row.
He grabbed