The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [27]
Goooood cover spots.
A men’s room. A ladies’ room. Two stucco huts and a crawl space between. The huts fronted sand drifts. Said drifts ran way inland. The wind stirred loose sand.
Wayne parked. Beaudine said 3:00. He told Moore to meet him at 4:00. The current time—2:49.
He pulled his piece. He popped the glove box. He pulled out the money—six cold.
He got out. He walked through the men’s room. He checked the stalls gun-first. The wind kicked cellophane through.
He walked out. He hit the ladies’ room. Empty stalls/dirty sinks/bugs pooled in Lysol.
He walked out. He hugged the walls. He moved around back. Shitfire—there’s Wendell Durfee.
He’s got pimp threads. He’s got a hair net. He’s got a jigaboo conk. He’s got a piece—it’s a quiff automatic.
Durfee stood by the wall. Durfee ducked sand. It messed up his conk good.
He saw Wayne. He said, “Well, now.”
Wayne drew down on him. Durfee raised his hands. Wayne walked up slow. Sand filled his shoes.
Durfee said, “Why you doin’ this for me?”
Wayne grabbed his piece. Wayne popped the clip. Wayne tucked it down his pants barrel first.
The wind tore a scrub pile. Durfee’s sled got exposed. It’s a ’51 Merc. It’s sand-scraped. It’s sunk to the hubs.
Wayne said, “Don’t talk to me. I don’t want to know you.”
Durfee said, “I might need me a tow truck.”
Wayne heard gravel crunch—back in the lot. Durfee futzed with his hair net. Durfee heard shit.
“Willis said you had money.”
Gravel crunch—tire crunch—Durfee missed the sounds dead.
“I’ll get it. You wait here.”
“Shit. I ain’t goin’ nowhere without it. You fuckin’ Santa Claus, you know that?”
Wayne holstered his piece. Wayne circled back to the lot. Wayne saw Moore’s 409.
It’s upside his car. It’s idling hard. It’s throbbing on hi-end shocks. There’s Moore. He’s at the wheel. He’s chomping Red Man.
Wayne stopped. His dick fluttered. Piss leaked out.
He saw something.
A speck—up the freeway—some kind of mirage or a car.
He anchored his legs. He walked up jerky. He leaned on Moore’s car.
Moore rolled down his window. “Hey, boy. What’s new and noteworthy?”
Wayne leaned in close. Wayne braced on the roof.
“He isn’t here. That guy gave me a bad lead.”
Moore spat tobacco juice. Moore hit Wayne’s shoes.
“Why’d you tell me four o’clock, when you’re here before three?”
Wayne shrugged. How should I know? I’m bored with you.
Moore pulled a knife. Moore picked his teeth. Moore sheared pork chop fat. He sprayed juice haphazard. He doused Wayne’s shirt.
“He’s out back. I reconnoitered a half hour ago. Now, you get your ass back there and kill him.”
Wayne saw reruns—in slooooow motion.
“You know Jack Ruby.”
Moore picked his teeth. Moore tapped the blade on the dash.
“So what? Everyone knows Jack.”
Wayne leaned in the window. “What about Bowers? He saw Kennedy get—”
Moore swung the knife. Moore snagged Wayne’s shirt. Moore grabbed Wayne’s necktie. They hit heads. Moore swung the knife. His hand hit the door ledge.
Wayne pulled his head back. Wayne pulled his piece. Wayne shot Moore in the head.
Recoil—
It knocked him back. He hit his car. He braced and aimed tight. He shot Moore in the head/Moore in the neck/Moore with no face and no chin.
He ripped the seats. He tore up the dash. He blew the windows out. It was loud. It echoed loud. It outblew wind gusts.
Wayne froze. The 409 bounced—reverb off hi-end shocks.
Durfee ran out. Durfee lost his legs. Durfee slid and fell flat. Wayne froze. There’s that speck up I-35—it’s a car oh fuck.
The car drove up. The car pulled in. The car stopped by Moore’s sled. Sand blew. Scrub balls bounced. Gravel scattered.
The speck-car idled. Pete got out. Pete put his hands up.
Wayne aimed at him. Wayne pulled the trigger. The pin clicked—you’re empty—you’re fucked.
Durfee watched. Durfee tried to run. Durfee stood up and fell flat. Pete walked up to Wayne. Wayne dropped his gun and pulled Durfee’s gun. Wayne popped in the clip.
His hand slipped. The gun fell. Pete picked it up.
He said, “Kill him.”
Wayne looked at Durfee. Pete said, “Kill him.”
Wayne looked at Durfee.