The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [61]
Duane Hinton lived off Sahara. Wayne late-logged in: 3:07 a.m.—the late-late show.
He parked. He dumped his milk can. He yawned. He stretched. He scratched.
Hinton’s pad was new—all prefab—one window glowed. TV test patterns—flags and geometric bands—KLXO.
Wayne watched the window. Time sluiced. Time slithered. Time slid. The pattern popped off. A room light popped on. Hinton walked outside.
Wayne clocked it: 3:41 a.m.
Hinton wore work clothes. Odds on a store run—the Food King ran all night. Hinton shagged his van. Hinton backed out. Hinton turned north.
Late tails ate shit. Wayne hated them—no traffic/no cover.
Wayne stalled. Wayne clocked off two minutes. Wayne ran up lead and leash time. 1:58, 1:59—Go—
He hit the key. He drove north. He made up time. He caught Hinton.
They passed the Food King. Wayne hovered back. Hinton cut west—Fremont to Owens.
They hit traffic. Wayne moved in close. They hit West Vegas. They hit more traffic—pimp cars and jalopies—Negro nite owls on the stroll.
Hinton stopped. There—he’s braking—upside Owens and “H.”
Upside Woody’s Club. Famous for all-nite grease. Renowned for fried everything food.
Hinton parked. Hinton walked in. Wayne parked catty-corner. A bum walked up.
He bowed. He Watusi’d. He groomed the windshield. Wayne hit his wipers. The bum mooned him. Wino spectators cheered.
Wayne rolled down his window. P-U—the air stunk. He smelled puke. He smelled chicken grease. He rolled his window up.
Hinton walked out. Hinton held the door. Hinton squired a whore. She was dark. She was fat. She looked bombed.
They walked to the van. They got in. They drove around the corner. Wayne doused his lights. Wayne tailed them. Wayne hovered close up.
They stopped. They parked. They walked through a vacant lot. Weeds and sagebrush. Tumbleballs. A trailer on blocks.
Wayne hovered and pulled curbside. Wayne parked ten yards back. The whore unlocked the trailer. Hinton stepped in. Hinton fumbled some object.
Maybe a jug. Maybe a camera. Maybe some sex gear.
The whore stepped in. The whore shut the door. A light blipped on and blipped off.
Wayne ran his clock. Two minutes crawled. Hold for some semblance of fuck.
There—2.6 in:
The trailer rocks. The blocks sway. Both parties are fat. The trailer’s thin tin.
The shakes stopped. Wayne clocked the fuck: 4.8 minutes.
The light went on. Blips blipped out a window. Blue blips—as in flashbulbs.
Wayne yawned. Wayne stretched. Wayne scratched his balls. Wayne dumped his piss cup. The trailer rocked—a minute tops—the light went off.
Hinton walked out. Hinton stumbled. Hinton fumbled some object. He cut through the lot. He got his van. He laid some good tread.
Wayne hit his lo-beams. Wayne tailed him. Wayne rubbed his eyes and yawned. The road dipped—dots hit the windshield—say what?/say what?
The car swayed. He swerved. He blew a red light. He hit his brakes. He popped the clutch and stalled the car out.
The van hit a rise. The van vamoosed. Duane Hinton—out of sight.
Wayne hit the key. Wayne punched the gas. Wayne swamped his engine too fast. He clocked two minutes. He hit the key. He kicked the gas slooooooooow.
The engine caught. He yawned and got traction. The whole world sleepytime bluuuured.
Dawn came up. Wayne got in bed dressed. Lynette stirred. Wayne played possum.
She touched him. She felt his clothes. She pulled off his gun.
“Are you having fun? Hiding out from your wife, I mean.”
He yawned. He stretched. He banged the headboard.
He said, “Rock Hudson’s queer.”
Lynette said, “What happened in Dallas?”
He slept. He got two hours tops. He woke up woozy. Lynette was gone. Nothing happened in Dallas.
He fixed toast. He drank coffee. He went back out. He parked behind Hinton’s house. He scoped the backyard.
The alley was packed—construction work next door. His shit car fit right in.
He scoped the driveway. Right there per always—Hinton’s van and Deb Hinton’s Impala. Clock the tail in: 9:14 a.m.
Wayne watched the house. Wayne yawned and scratched. Wayne pissed out his a.m. coffee. The workers