The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [34]
Pete Bondurant: Ex-cop/ex-CIA/ex–Howard Hughes goon. Current mobbed-up enforcer.
He runs hotel registrations. 11/25: Pete and Frau Pete hit the Stardust. Their suite is comped. Pete’s mobbed up. Chi-Mob connections implied.
Car traffic was bad. Foot traffic ditto. Rubes lugged highballs and beers.
Tail Pete. Do it discreet. Hire a patrolman. Pay him in Land o’ Gold chips.
Wayne circled back. Wayne recruised Fremont. Wayne dodged Lynette and his dinner.
Lynette was running trite. Lynette ran trite lines verbatim. Jack was young. Jack was brave. Jack realllly loved Jackie.
Jack and Jackie lost their baby. Circa ’62. Lynette fell for them then. He didn’t want kids. Lynette did. She got pregnant in ’61.
It froze him up. It shut him down. He froze her out. He told her to get an abortion. She said no. He addressed the Latter-day Saints. He prayed for a dead baby.
Lynette caught the gist. Lynette ran to her folks. Lynette mailed off chatty letters. She came home bone skinny. She said she miscarried. He went along with the lie.
Daddy Sproul called him. Daddy waxed revisionist. Daddy dropped details. He said Lynette got scraped in Little Rock. He said she hemorrhaged and almost died.
The marriage survived. Trite shit would tear it for real.
Lynette set up TV trays. LBJ crashed their dinner. He announced some Warren probe.
Wayne killed the sound. LBJ moved his lips. Lynette toyed with her food.
“I thought you’d want to follow it more.”
“I had too much stuff going on. And it’s not like I had a stake in the man.”
“Wayne, you were there. It’s the kind of thing people tell their grand …”
“I told you, I didn’t see anything. And we’re not in the grandchild business.”
Lynette balled her napkin. “You’ve been nothing but sullen since you got back, and don’t tell me it’s just Wendell Durfee.”
“I’m sorry. That crack was ugly.”
Lynette wiped her lips. “You know I gave up on that front.”
“Tell me what it is, then.”
Lynette turned the TV off. “It’s the new sullen you, with that patronizing attitude that all the cops have. You know, ‘I’ve seen things that my schoolteacher wife just wouldn’t understand.’ ”
Wayne jabbed his roast beef. Wayne twanged the fork.
Lynette said, “Don’t play with your food.”
Wayne sipped Kool-Aid. “You’re so goddamn smart in your way.”
Lynette smiled. “Don’t curse at my table.”
“You mean your TV tray.”
Lynette grabbed the fork. Lynette mock-stabbed him. Blood juice dripped and pooled.
Wayne flinched. Wayne hit the tray. His glass tipped and doused his food.
Lynette said, “Shit.”
Wayne walked to the kitchen. Wayne dumped his tray in the sink. He turned around. He saw Lynette by the stove.
She said, “What happened in Dallas?”
Wayne Senior lived south—Paradise Valley with land and views.
He had fifty acres. He grazed steers. He butchered them for bar-b-que meat. The house was tri-level—redwood and stone—wide decks with wide views.
The carport covered an acre. A runway adjoined it. Wayne Senior flew biplanes. Wayne Senior flew flags: The U.S./the Nevada/the Don’t-Tread-on-Me.
Wayne parked. Wayne killed his lights. Wayne skimmed the radio. He caught the McGuire Sisters—three-part harmony.
Janice had a dressing room. It faced the carport. She got bored. She changed clothes. She left her lights on to draw looks.
Wayne settled in. The Sisters crooned. “Sugartime” merged with “Sincerely.” Janice walked through the light. Janice wore tennis shorts and a bra.
She posed. She dropped her shorts. She picked up capris. Her panties stretched and slid low.
She put the capris on. She unpinned her hair and combed it back. Her gray streak showed—silver in black—the pink capris clashed.
She pirouetted. Her breasts swayed. The Sisters supplied a soundtrack. The lights dimmed. Wayne blinked. It all went too fast.
He calmed down. He turned the car off. He walked through the house. He went straight back. Wayne Senior always perched outside. The north-deck view magnetized.
It was cold. Leaves strafed the deck. Wayne Senior wore a fat sweater. Wayne leaned on the rail. Wayne killed