The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [47]
It was overkill. Carlos loved wet work. Carlos thought plans up. Carlos popped his rocks secondhand.
Chuck read a hate tract. The dashboard threw light. Pete saw cartoons and FBI text. Hate and smut—a coon named Bayard Rustin—a queer cluster-fuck.
Pete laughed. Chuck said, “Why’d we go to that party? I’m not complaining, now. I met a few kindred souls.”
The plane dipped. Pete bumped his head.
“I was letting someone know that I won’t go away.”
“You want to tell me who and why?”
Pete shook his head. The plane jumped. Pete’s knees hit the dash.
Chuck said, “Mr. Tedrow’s some kind of American. That’s more than I can say for his son.”
“Junior’s a piece of work. Don’t underestimate him.”
Chuck popped Dramamine. “Mr. Tedrow knows all the right people. Guy B. said he put some cash into a certain operation.”
Pete rubbed his neck. “There was no operation. Don’t you read the fucking New York Times?”
Chuck laughed. “You mean I was dreaming then?”
“Treat it that way. You’ll live longer.”
“Then I must’ve dreamed up all those people that Carlos wants to clip.”
Pete rubbed his eyes. Fuck—Headache #3,000.
“Then I’ll be dreaming when we take out Jack Z., and I’ll really be dreaming when we find old Hank and those cunts Arden and Bet—”
Pete grabbed his neck. “Nothing happened in Dallas, and nothing’s happening now.”
3:42 a.m.
They touched down. The ground was glass. Chuck cut the flaps and braked. They spun. They brodied on ice. They did figure eights and stalled in tall grass.
They put their vests on. They grabbed flashlights/shotguns/magnums. They screwed on silencers.
They hiked southeast. Pete paced it out: .32 miles. Low hills. Caves set in sheet rock. Cloud cover and a high moon.
There—the lodge—down on paved land.
Twelve rooms. A horseshoe court. Dirt-road access. No lights. No sounds. Two jeeps upside the office.
They walked up. Chuck stood point. Pete flashed the door. He saw a spring lock. He saw a loose knob. He saw a workable gap.
He pulled his knife. He wedged it in. He snapped the bolt. He walked in. The door creaked. He kept his beam low.
Three steps to the counter—hold for a ledger on a chain.
He walked up blind. Chuck’s floor plan worked. He bumped the counter. Eyes left—a side door wide open. Room #1—dark.
His eyes adjusted. He squinted. He caught gray tones in black. He looked through room 1. He squinted. He saw the room #2 door ajar.
Ears left—snores in room 1. Ears front—snores behind the counter.
Pete smelled paper. Pete touched the countertop. Pete brushed the ledger. He flashed the top page. He saw three guests logged in—housed in rooms 1/2/3.
Pete leaned on the counter. Pete pulled his piece. Pete flashed his light and aimed at the snores. There’s Jack Zangetty—face-up on a cot—eyes shut and mouth wide for flies.
Pete aimed off the beam. Pete squeezed a shot. Jack’s head snapped. Jack’s teeth exploded.
The silencer worked—sounds like a cough and a sneeze. One more now—safekeeping.
Pete aimed off the beam. Pete squeezed a shot. Pete nailed Jack’s wig. Blood and synthetic hair/a cough and a sneeze.
Impact—the wig flew. Impact—Jack rolled off the cot.
Jack hit a bottle. The bottle fell. The bottle bumped and rolled.
Loud bumps. Loud noise. Loud rolls.
Pete killed his light. Pete ducked low. Knee cartilage crunched. Eyes left/ears left/catch the doorway.
There now—a man laughs/a bed squeaks.
“Jack, is that a fresh jug you got?”
Light hues in the doorway—the geek’s got white pajamas.
Pete flashed his light. Pete tracked up a white swath. Pete hit the man’s eyes. He aimed off the beam. He squeezed a shot. He caught the 10-ring.
Blood and white blotting/a cough and a sneeze.
The man flew. The man hit the door. The man ripped the door loose. Eyes left—there’s light—the #2 doorway. Ears left—there’s boot thunks and zipper snags.
Pete proned out. Pete aimed. Now—watch the door.
A man opened it. Said man paused. Said man walked through room 1. Said man crouched and aimed a 30.06.
Pete aimed his piece.