The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [37]
They tortured pushers. They killed them. Local hypes copped in L.A. Local hypes rode the Heroin Highway.
Pills were cool: Red devils/yellow jackets/high hoppers. Ditto liquid meth sans spike. Drink it—don’t shoot it—fear the spike-phobic fuzz.
The fuzz sanctioned pills. Two Narco units—Sheriff’s/LVPD. Pills got pipelined in: T.J. to L.A./L.A. to Vegas. Local quacks consigned pills. They fed barmen and cabbies. They fed pill fiends Vegaswide.
The West LV coons craved white horse. Said coons itched to ride. The No Horse Rule de-horsed them and kept them de-satisfied.
Pete walked. Pete hit the Persian Room. Pete watched Dick Contino rehearse. He knew Dick. Dick played squeeze-box gigs for Sam G. Dick owed the Chicago Cartel. The Boys attached his check. The Boys bought his food. The Boys paid his rent and bought his kids’ threads.
Dick pitched a tale of woe—woe is me—lots of woe and no tail. Pete slid him two C’s. Dick spritzed the Vegas lounge scene.
The Detroit Boys ran the local. The steward took bribes. He usurped the prime snatch. He suborned them to hook. They worked the Lake Mead cruise boats. Lounge kids kept rough hours. They ate breakfast exclusive. The lounge scene ran on Dexedrine and pancakes.
Pete walked. Pete caught Louis Prima in rehearsal. An old geek chewed his ear off.
Pops booked no-name acts. Pops father-henned the girls if they blew him. Pops told them who to avoid:
Shvartze pimps. “Talent scouts.” Cockamamie “producers.” Skin-mag men and schmucks with no address.
Pete thanked him. Pops bragged. Pops relived his salad days as a pimp. I ran trim—the best in the west—I scored for the late JFK.
Pete broke three C-notes. Pete glommed sixty five-spots.
He grabbed a scratch pad. He wrote down his phone number sixty fucking times. He hit a liquor store. He bought sixty short dogs. He grabbed his sap and drove to West Vegas.
He cruised in slow. He wore the sap. He held his automatic. He saw:
Dirt streets. Dirt yards. Dirt lots. Shack chateaus abundant.
Tar-paper pads with cinder-block siding. Beaucoup churches/one mosque. ALLAH IS LORD! signs. Allah signs revised to JESUS!
Lots of street activity. Jigs cooking bar-b-que in fifty-gallon drums.
The Wild Goose Bar/the Colony Club/the Sugar Hill Lounge. Streets named for Presidents and letters. Shit cars ubiquitous—ad hoc housing:
Two-tenant Chevys. Bachelor Lincolns. Bring-the-whole-family Fords.
Pete cruised slooooow. Uppity coons flipped him off. They scowled. They chucked beer cans. They dinged his fender skirts.
He stopped at a rib drum. A halfbreed served short ends. A chow line pressed in. They scoped Pete. They snickered. They sneered.
Pete smiled. Pete bowed. Pete bought them lunch.
He tipped the breed fifty. He passed out short dogs and fives. He passed out his phone-number slips.
A silence ensued. Said silence built. Said silence lapsed slooooow.
Say what, big man? Say what, daddy-o?
Pete talked:
Who sells shit? Who’s seen Wendell Durfee? Who’s hot to buck the No-Horse Law? Shouts overlapped—little gems—some nuggets in rebop & jive.
These busboys sell red devils. They works at the Dunes. Dig on fucking Monarch Cab. Them guys push whites and RDs. Monarch got soul. Monarch work West LV. Monarch go where other cabs won’t.
Dig on Curtis and Leroy—they gots plans—they wants to push horse. They baaaaaaaaad. They say fuck the rules. They say fuck them wop motherfuckers.
Shouts overlapped—more rebop/more jive. Pete yelled. Pete displayed charisma. Pete restored calm.
He told the breed to call the Wild Goose. He told the spooks to call HIM.
IF you see Wendell Durfee. IF Curtis and Leroy move horse.
He pledged a fat reward. He got an ovation: YOU THE FUCKIN’ MAN!
He drove to the Wild Goose. Some spooks jogged along. They capered and waved their short dogs.
The Goose was packed. Pete replayed his act. The coons loved it. Pete cut through jive & rebop.
He got no dish on Curtis and Leroy. He got rumors on Wendell D. Wicked Wendell—worse than his rep—a rape-o/a shitbird/a heel. A homing pigeon—Vegas born-and-bred