The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [67]
He pinned Leroy down. He taped him full-body. He grabbed his cuff chain. He popped the door. He pulled him out. He dragged him to a Buick. He pulled his piece and shot six holes in the trunk.
He dumped Leroy in. He piled on spare tires. He slammed the trunk lid.
He was soaked. His shoes squished. His feet were somewhere else. He saw wisps. He knew they weren’t real.
The rain let up. Wayne drove back. Wayne parked in the same alley spot. He got out. He circled the shack. He unpeeled a foil strip.
There’s Cur-ti. He’s with another guy. The guy’s got Cur-ti’s face. The guy’s Cur-ti’s brother.
Cur-ti sat on the floor. Cur-ti jived. Cur-ti crimped bindles. Cur-ti cut dope.
His brother tied off. His brother geezed. His brother untied on Cloud 9. His brother lit a Kool filter-tip.
He burned his fingers. He smiled. Cur-ti giggled. Cur-ti cut dope.
He twirled his knife. He mimed a gutting stroke. He said, “Sheeit. Like a dressed hog, man.”
He twirled his knife. He mimed a shaving stroke. He said, “Wendell likes it trimmed. Cuttin’ on bitches always been his MO.”
He said, “His and hers, man. He lost his gun, so he gets to get in close.”
Wayne HEARD it. It clicked in synaptic. Wayne SAW it—instant picture loops.
He ran. He slid. He stumbled. He fell in the mud. He got up and stumble-ran. He got in the car. He stabbed with his key. He missed the keyhole.
He got it in. He turned it. He stripped gears. The wheels spun and kicked the car free.
Lightning hit. Thunder hit. He outran the rain.
He slid through intersections. He ran yellows and reds. He banged railroad tracks. He grazed curbs. He scraped parked cars.
He got home. He brodied on the front lawn. He stumbled out and ran up. The house was dark. The door lock was cracked. His key jammed in the hole.
He kicked the door in. He looked down the hall. He saw the bedroom light. He walked up and looked in.
She was naked.
The sheets were red. She drained red. She soaked through the white.
He spread her. He cinched her. He used Wayne’s neckties. He gutted her and shaved her. He trimmed off her patch.
Wayne pulled his gun. Wayne cocked it. Wayne put it in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked empty. He shot his full six at the dump.
The storm passed through. It dumped power lines. Stoplights were down. People drove crazy.
Wayne drove deliberate. Wayne drove very slow.
He parked by the shack. He grabbed his shotgun. He walked up and kicked the door in.
Cur-ti was packing dope. Cur-ti’s brother was watching TV. They saw Wayne. They nodded. They grinned smack-back.
Wayne tried to talk. Wayne’s tongue misfired. Cur-ti talked. Cur-ti talked hair-o-wine slow.
“Hey, man. Wendell’s gone. You won’t see us harboring—”
Wayne raised his shotgun. Wayne swung the butt.
He clipped Cur-ti. He knocked him down. He stepped on his chest. He grabbed six bindles. He stuffed them in his mouth.
Cur-ti gagged. Cur-ti bit plastic. Cur-ti bit at Wayne’s hand. Cur-ti ate plastic and dope.
Wayne stepped on his face. The bindles snapped. His teeth snapped. His jaw snapped loose.
Cur-ti thrashed. Cur-ti’s legs stiffed. Blood blew out his nose. Cur-ti spasmed and bit at Wayne’s shoe.
Wayne goosed the TV. Morey Amsterdam hollered. Dick Van Dyke screamed.
The brother cried. The brother begged. The brother talked in tongues. The brother tongue-talked smacked-out on the floor.
His lips moved. His mouth moved. His lids fluttered. His eyes rolled back.
Wayne hit him.
He broke his teeth. He broke his nose. He broke the gun butt. His lips moved. His mouth moved. His eyeballs clicked up. His eyes showed pure white.
Wayne picked the TV up. Wayne dropped it on his head. The tubes burst and exploded. They burned his face up.
The power lines were rerigged. The streetlights worked fine. Wayne drove to the dump.
He pulled in. He aimed his brights. He strafed the Buick. He got out and opened the trunk.
He untaped Leroy. He said, “Where’s Durfee?” Leroy said, “I don’t know.”
Wayne shot him—five rounds in the face