The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [83]
Pete glanced around. “Does your father own this place?”
“No, it’s Outfit. Santo Trafficante has points.”
Pete blew smoke rings. “I know Santo.”
“I’m sure you do. I know who you work for, so I’ve put that much of Dallas together.”
Pete smiled. “Nothing happened in Dallas.”
A whore walked by. Wayne drifted. Wayne watched the floor. Pete grabbed his chair. Pete jerked it and centered it. Pete killed the floor view.
“Look at me when I talk to you.”
Wayne made fists. His knuckles popped. His knuckles seeped.
Pete said, “Don’t use your hands. Use your sap if you have to.”
“Like Duane Hint—”
“Can it, all right? I’ve had dead women up to here.”
Wayne coughed. “Durfee’s good. That’s the part that gets me. He’s stayed ahead of everyone since Dallas.”
Pete chained cigarettes. “He’s not good, he’s lucky. He came to Vegas like a dumb bunny, and moves like that will get him dropped.”
Wayne shook his head. “He’s better than that.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He can give me up for Moore.”
“Bullshit. It’s his word versus yours and no body.”
“He’s good. That’s the part …”
A spook walked by. Wayne eyeballed him. He saw Wayne and blinked.
Pete coughed. “Who owns Sid the Surplus Sergeant?”
Wayne said, “A clown named Eldon Peavy. He named it after some queer buddy of his who died from the syph.”
Pete laughed. “He’s showing smut films there. Underaged kids, the whole shot. How big a bust is that on his end?”
Wayne shrugged. “The State Code’s soft on possession. He’d have to manufacture and sell the films, or coerce and suborn the kids.”
Pete smiled. “Ask me why I care.”
“I know why. You want to buy out Monarch and relive your fucking Miami adventures.”
Pete laughed. “You’ve been talking to Ward Littell.”
“Sure, client to lawyer. I asked him why you take so much shit from me, but he wouldn’t give me an answer.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Bet on Clay. Your boy Sonny needs more time in the gym.”
Wayne flexed his hands. “There’s a Sheriff’s Vice guy named Farlan Moss. He investigates businessmen for people who want to take over their action. He won’t fabricate, but if he gets incriminating evidence, he’ll turn it over to you and let you use it any way you like. It’s an old Vegas strategy.”
Pete grabbed a napkin. Pete wrote it down: “Farlan Moss/CCSD.”
Wayne twirled his sap. “You’ve got this weird thing for me.”
“I had a kid brother once. Someday I’ll tell you the story.”
The Bondsmen vamped. Barb grabbed the mike. She curtsied. Her gown hiked. Her nylons stretched.
Pete sat ringside. A geek had Wayne’s seat. Wayne worked late now. Wayne caught Barb haphazard.
Ward said he talked to Wayne Senior. Senior ragged on Junior. Ward passed it on.
Junior was a hider. Junior was a watcher. Junior lit flames. Junior torched. Junior lived in his head.
Barb blew a kiss. Pete caught it. Pete covered his heart. He made two T’s—their private signal—do “Twilight Time.”
Barb caught it. Barb cued the Bondsmen. Barb kicked the tune off.
He missed her for days on. They kept diverse hours and slept diverse shifts. They stashed a cot backstage. They made love between shows.
It worked. They worked. It wrecked him. It scared him.
Barb watched the news. Barb tracked the Warren thing. Barb nursed Dallas. Barb nursed her link to Jack.
She never said it. He just knew. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t love. “Awe” said it all. You killed him. The fix held. You killed him and walked.
He played his version. “Fear” said it all. You’ve got her. You could lose her—per Dallas.
You sweat Fear. You ooze Fear. You test the Fear logic. You know you walked because:
It was that big. It was that audacious. It was that wrong.
You test the logic. You fret it. You show fear. You scare people. You pass your fear on. The wrong people find you and knock.
Barb worked “Twilight Time.” Barb caressed the low notes.
Wendell Durfee knocked. Lynette paid. Dead women scared him. Lynette as Barb. Lynette as “Jane.”
He saw Lynette’s body. He had to. The picture stuck. He conjured it. He banished it. He dreamed it and tore the sheets up.
Barb kissed off “Twilight Time.