The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [62]
10:24:
Deb Hinton walks out. Deb Hinton splits. Deb’s Impala knocks and pings.
12:08:
The workers break. They hit their cars. They grab lunch pails and sacks.
2:19:
Duane Hinton walks out.
He walks through the backyard. He lugs some clothes. He wore said clothes last night. He walks to the fence. He feeds the incinerator. He lights a match.
GOD FUCK JESUS CHRIST.
Wayne drove to Owens and “H.” Wayne parked by Woody’s Club.
He popped his trunk. He grabbed a pry bar. He circled the block—the street was dead—no wits out and about.
He walked through the lot. He knocked on the trailer. He looked around—still no wits out.
He leaned on the pry bar. He snapped the lock. He walked in. He smelled blood. He slammed the door shut.
He tapped the walls. He tripped a switch. He got overhead light.
She was dead. On the floor/stage-one rigor/maggots on call. Contusions/head wounds/shattered cheeks.
Hinton gagged her. Hinton wedged a handball in her mouth.
Ear blood. Socket blood. One eyeball gone. Buckshot on the floor. Buckshot in her blood.
Hinton wore sap gloves. The palm fabric broke. The buckshot flew.
Wayne caught his breath. Wayne tracked blood trails. Wayne read splash marks.
He slid on a rug. He stepped on the eyeball.
Eight assaults. One beating snuff.
He heard it. He thought it was fuck #2. It was Murder One. It vibed Manslaughter Two. Hinton was white. Hinton had pull. Hinton killed a colored whore.
Wayne drove back. Wayne thought it all through. The gist cohered.
The assault vics pressed charges. They said the assault man took pix. He saw flashbulbs pop. He knew the MO. He was fried to exhaustion. The gist flew by him.
He fucked up. He owed the whore. The cost meant shit.
Wayne parked in the alley. Wayne watched the house. Workmen yelled. Saws buzzed. Jackhammers bit.
Wayne pissed. Wayne missed his can. Wayne sprayed the seat.
Time whizzed. He watched the house. He watched the driveway. Time cranked. Dusk hit. The workmen split.
They grabbed their cars. They cut tracks. They blew horn-honk farewells. Wayne waited. Time labored and lulled.
6:19 p.m.:
The Hintons walk out. They schlep golf bags. Odds on night golf. The range down Sahara.
They take off. They take Deb’s Impala. Duane’s van stays put.
Wayne clocked down two minutes. Wayne got some nerve up. Wayne got out and stretched.
He walked up. He braced the fence. He vaulted it. He came down hard. He scraped his hands and brushed them off.
He ran to the porch. The door looked weak. The latch wiggled. He shook the door. He forced some slack. He snapped the latch off.
He opened the door. He hit a laundry room. Washer/dryer/clothesline. Window light from inside—and one connecting door.
Wayne stepped inside. Wayne shut the door. Loose floor planks popped up. Wayne stubbed his feet.
He braced the inside door. He jiggled the knob. Bingo—unlocked.
He hit the kitchen. He checked his watch. Give it twenty minutes tops.
6:23:
The kitchen drawers—nothing hot—flatware and Green Stamps.
6:27:
The living room—nothing hot—blond wood to excess.
6:31:
The den—nothing hot—skeet guns and bookshelves.
6:34:
Hinton’s office—go slow here—it’s a logical spot.
File shelves/ledgers/a pegged key ring. No wall safe/one wall pic—Hinton and Lawrence Welk.
6:39:
The bedroom—nothing hot—more blond wood excess. No wall safe/no floor safe/no loose panel strips.
6:46:
The basement—go slow here—it’s a logical spot.
Power tools/a workbench/Playboy magazines. A closet—locked up. That key ring—remember—keys on a peg.
Wayne ran upstairs. Wayne grabbed the ring. Wayne ran downstairs. Wayne jabbed keys at the lock.
6:52:
Key #9 works. The door pops. The closet unlocks.
He saw one box. That’s it, no more. Let’s inventory it.
Handcuffs. Handballs. Friction tape. Sap gloves. A Polaroid camera. Six rolls of film. Fourteen snapshots:
Negro whores gagged and stomped—eight certified victims plus six.
Plus:
Unused film. One roll. Twelve exposures. Twelve potential shots.
Wayne emptied the