The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [63]
He loaded the camera. He shot twelve exposures. They developed and popped out.
Instant prints—Polaroid color.
He grouped Hinton’s pix—four separate shots—he got in tight. He got the handball gags. He got the contusions. He got the smashed teeth and the blood.
27
(Las Vegas,1/14/64)
Nigger Heaven: Four spooks/four capsules/one spike.
They usurped the carport. They flanked an old Merc. They laid out red devils. They dumped out the goo.
They spritzed it. They cooked it. They fed the spike. They tied up. They geezed. They dipped. They nodded. They swayed.
All riiiiiiiiiiiight.
Pete watched. Pete yawned. Pete scratched his ass. Stakeout night #6—the dawn shift—hijinx at five fucking a.m.
He parked at Truman and “J.” He lounged low. He dug on the view.
That coon called and tipped him. He said Wendell be back. He said Wendell gots a gun. He said Curtis and Leroy—they baaad. They be pushin’ white horse.
Check the carport. Check the Evergreen Project. Dope fiends meet there. Dice fiends too. Wendell the dice fiend soo-preem. Look for Curtis and Leroy—two fat boys—they gots big conk hairdos.
Pete popped aspirin. His headache dipped south. Six nights. Shit surveillance. Headaches and coon food. Grime on his car.
The plan:
Clip Curtis and Leroy. Appease the Boys and play civic booster. Clip Wendell Durfee. Indebt Wayne Junior thus.
You owe me, Wayne. Let’s see your files.
Six nights. No luck. Six nights slumming. Six nights lounging low.
Pete watched the carport. Pete yawned. Pete stretched. Pete grew Matterhorn-size hemorrhoids.
The dope fiends swaaayed.
They fumbled Kools. They lit matches. They burned their hands. They lit filter tips.
Pete yawned. Pete dozed. Pete chained cigarettes. Whoa, what’s—
Two shines cut over “J.” Fat boys with big conks—big spray-can hair.
Wait—two more shines—full-scale shine alert.
They cut over Truman and “K.” They met the conk guys. They launched some jive.
One guy schlepped a blanket. One guy schlepped dice. The dice guy schmoozed the conk guys. He called them “Leroy” and “Cur-ti.”
The duos teamed up. The duos cruised the carport. The dope guys went oh shit. The conk guys evicted them. The dope guys weaved south. The conk guys threw down the blanket.
Leroy brought breakfast—T-Bird and Tokay. Cur-ti rolled. Green dice twirled. Cur-ti crapped out. Leroy rolled snake eyes.
Pete watched. The jigs whooped. The jigs shucked. The jigs stepped high.
A prowl car drove by. The cops scoped the game. The jigs paid them never-no-mind. Said prowl car split. Said cops yawned—fuck these dumb shines.
Leroy crapped out. Cur-ti exulted. The dice guys drank wine.
A new jig crossed “J.” Pete made him quicksville—Wendell (NMI) Durfee.
Check his pimp threads. Check his hair net. Check that gun bulge by his balls.
Durfee joined the game. The jive multiplied. Durfee rolled. Durfee did the Wah-Watusi. Durfee slurped wine.
That prowl car reprised. That prowl car dipped by. The cops looked revitalized. Said car hovered. Said car idled. The radio squawked.
The spooks froze. The spooks went nonchalant. The cops re-revitalized. The spooks went telepathic—we sees de ofay oppressor—the spooks up and ran.
They split up. They hauled. They dispersed cluster-style. They jammed down “J” and “K.”
The cops froze. The blanket guys hauled. They dumped their jugs. They moved east. They hauled.
The cops unfroze. The cops punched the gas. The cops laid tread and pursued. Durfee ran west. Long legs and low weight. Fat Cur-ti and Leroy pursued.
Pete punched the gas. Pete punched too hard. The pedal slipped. The engine kicked and died.
Pete got out. Pete ran. Durfee ran. Durfee outran his fat pals. The conksters waddled and huffed.
They cut down an alley—trash heaps on gravel—shacks on both sides. Durfee slid. Durfee stumbled. Durfee ripped his pants. Durfee’s gun fell out.
Pete slid. Pete stumbled. Pete’s belt snapped. Pete’s gun fell out.
He gained ground. He stopped. He grabbed