The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [82]
Sonny got out.
He weaved. He waved the chip sack. He faced the kids and swayed blotto. The kids cheered. The kids chanted “Sonny!” Some geek teachers watched.
The kids yelled. The kids banged their seats. The teachers guuulped. Sonny smiled. Sonny swayed. Sonny said, “Pipe down.”
The kids cheered. Sonny swayed. Sonny yelled: “Shut up, you punk motherfuckers!”
The kids shut up. The teachers cringed. Sonny dished inspiration.
Study hard. Learn good. Don’t rob no liquor stores. Play to win and go to church. Use Sheik-brand rubbers. Watch me whup Cassius Clay. Watch me kick his punk Muslim ass back to Mecca.
Sonny stopped. Sonny bowed. Sonny pulled a flask. The kids cheered. The teachers clapped demure.
Sonny waved his sack. Sonny grabbed play chips. Sonny tossed them wide.
The kids snatched them. The kids snared them. Kids bumped kids. Kids reached short. Kids fell on kids below.
Sonny tossed chips—big wads—dollar chips all. Kids reached high. Kids toppled. Kids engaged in fistfights.
Sonny raised his flask. Sonny waved bye-bye. Sonny jumped in the stretch.
The stretch pulled out. Pete U-turned and tailed it. Kids shrieked Champ bye-bye!
The stretch hauled. Pete hauled up close. They tore speed limits. They cut east and south. They hit downtown Vegas.
Traffic snarled. The stretch looped Fremont. The stretch braked and stopped.
There—
A parking lot. An army-navy store—Sid the Surplus Sergeant.
The crew piled out. The crew yukked and huddled. The crew piled in the backdoor. The driver waved—adios, Mau-Maus—the stretch vamoosed.
Pete parked. Pete locked his car. Pete dawdled and ambled up. Pete braced the backdoor.
He ambled in. He cut through a storeroom. He pushed through pea-coats on racks. He saw crates/cartons/trench tools. He caught a cosmoline stench.
He hit a hallway. He heard sounds. He followed titters and love grunts—aaooooo!
He ambled. He tracked the noise. He crouched and crept. He saw a cracked door and peeked in.
Stag-flick time. A bedsheet screen and a projector. Lez antics—young girls entwined.
The Mau-Maus tittered. Peavy yawned. The girls ran fourteen tops. Sonny cracked a red devil. Sonny powdered a palm. Sonny sniffed the shit up.
The girls strapped on dildoes. A donkey appeared. El Burro wore diablo horns.
Pete walked outside. Pete found a pay phone. Pete called the Stardust book. He placed a bet—forty grand—Clay over Liston.
The Deuce rolled low—nickel slots/bingo/shots-and-beer.
The dealers wore sidearms. The bar served jar brew. The cocktail chicks whored. The Deuce pandered low. You had oldsters and wetbacks. You had more spooks than Ramar of the Jungle.
The lounge supplied a floor view. Pete lounged and sipped club soda. Pete watched the floor show.
A geez pulls his air tube. He’s ninety-plus. He smokes a Camel. He hacks blood. He sucks oxygen. Two fruits lock eyes. Said fruits strut green shirts. Green shirts are fruit semaphore.
Two jigs lurk. They’re snatch-and-run guys. Dig their gym shorts and sneakers. Wayne walks up. Wayne wears a belt sap. Wayne wears handcuffs.
He taps the jigs. They share a look—woe-is-fuckin’-me.
Wayne slaps them. Wayne kicks them. Wayne grabs their conk napes and shoves them. They get the picture. They evict themselves—We Shall Not Overcome.
Pete clapped. Pete whistled. Wayne turned and saw him. He walked up. He swiveled a chair. He nailed a floor view.
Pete said, “I didn’t find him. I think he’s down in Mexico.”
“How hard did you look?”
“Not that hard. I was looking for a guy in Florida, mostly.”
Wayne flexed his hands. Knuckle cuts oozed.
“We could teletype the federales. They could put out their own APB. We could pay them to hold him for me.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “They’d kill him themselves. They’d lure you down there, steal your money, and kill you.”
Wayne watched the floor. Pete tracked his eyes. There—one coon/one whore/unruly shit pending—
Wayne stood up. Pete grabbed his belt. Pete yanked him back down.
“Let it go. We’re having a conversation.”
Wayne shrugged. Wayne looked aggrieved. Wayne looked fucking