The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [46]
Wayne fucked with the light.
He swiveled it. He dipped it. He strafed the airplane. He caught a window. He saw shotguns and vests.
The hatch popped open. Pete B. jumped out. Wayne flashed him. Pete waved and winked.
Wayne fretted it. Wayne walked inside and rejoined the party. Midnite hit. Drunks waved mistletoe.
The eggnog was out. Ditto the prewar cognac. Ditto the pre-Castro cigars.
The elves were sloshed. The nymphs were bombed. The Mormons were blotto. The ice sculptures leaked. The manger scene dripped. Baby Jesus was slush. Said Savior played ashtray. His cradle held butts.
Wayne circulated. The Bondsmen packed up. Barb lugged mike stands and drums. Wayne watched her. Lynette watched him.
Wayne Senior held court. Four Mormon elders and chairs tucked in tight. Chuck Rogers sat in. Chuck balanced two bottles. Chuck sucked gin and blueberry schnapps.
Wayne Senior dropped names—Mr. Hoover said this/Dick Nixon said that. The elders laughed. Chuck shared his jugs. Wayne Senior passed him a key.
Chuck palmed it. Chuck stood up. The elders laughed. The elders shared frat-boy looks.
They stood up. They walked down the side hall. Chuck bird-dogged them. They rendezvoused. They all braced the gun-room door.
Chuck unlocked it. The elders piled in. The elders chortled and yukked. Chuck stepped in. The elders snatched his booze. Chuck shut the door fast.
Wayne watched. Wayne grabbed a stray drink. Wayne guzzled it. Vodka and fruit pulp—lipstick on the glass.
The pulp killed the burn. The lipstick tasted sweet. The rush hit him low.
He walked to the gun room. He heard yuks inside. He jerked the door. He popped it.
Movie time.
Chuck ran the projector. Film hit a pull screen. Tight on: Martin Luther King.
He’s fat. He’s nude. He’s ecstatic. He’s fucking a white woman hard.
They fucked. They fucked sans sound. They fucked missionary-style. Static hiss and film flecks. Sprocket holes and numbers—FBI code.
Covert work/surveillance film/some lens distortion.
King wore socks. The woman wore nylons. The elders yukked. The projector clicked. Film cut through a slide.
The mattress sagged—plump Reverend King—the woman more so. An ashtray bounced on the bed—butts scattered and flew.
Chuck grabbed a flashlight. Chuck centered the beam. Chuck palmed a 4-by-6 tract.
King thrashed—the camera panned—Trojan rubbers on a nightstand.
Chuck yelled—pipe down now—Chuck read from the tract. “Big Bertha said, ‘Maul me, Marty! We shall overcoooooome!’ ”
Wayne ran up. Chuck saw him. Chuck gawked—what the—
Wayne kicked the projector. The spools flew and rolled. The film hit three walls and went dead. The elders backed up. The elders tripped and banged heads. The elders knocked the screen down.
Wayne grabbed the tract. Chuck backed off. Wayne shoved him and ran out. He cut down the side hall. He grazed the bandstand. He side-swiped some nymphs and elves.
He made the front deck. He grabbed the rail light. He honed it and flashed on the tract.
There—Wayne Senior’s print style. The paper stock/the margins/the type.
Text and cartoons. Martin Luther Coon and the plump woman. Fat Jews with fangs.
Martin Luther Coon—priapic.
His dick’s a branding iron. It’s red hot. The head’s a hammer-and-scythe.
Wayne spat on the picture. Wayne ripped it crossways. Wayne shredded it up.
21
(New Mexico, 12/24/63)
Gusts kicked in. The plane dipped resultant.
The sky was black. The air was wet. Ice hit the props. Altus, Oklahoma—due east.
Chuck flew low. Chuck flew radar-proof. Chuck flew minus landing log. No airstrip. No runway. We’re heading for Jack’s rural lodge.
The cockpit was cramped. The cockpit was cold. Pete goosed the heat. He called ahead. He played tourist. He heard that Jack Z. had three guests.
Quail hunters. Praise Jesus—all men.
Chuck knew the lodge. Chuck spent time there. Chuck knew the floor plan. Jack slept in the office. Jack parked his guests close. There’d be three rooms with through doors.
Pete checked the cargo hold:
Flashlights/shotguns/magnums. Kerosene/gunnysacks. Friction