The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [84]
The spell died. Her fast tunes deep-sixed it. A waiter schlepped a phone up.
Pete cradled it. “Yeah?”
A man said, “Carlos wants to see you.”
“Where?”
“De Ridder, Louisiana.”
He flew to Lake Charles. He cabbed to De Ridder. It was wet. It was hot. The heat spawned bugs.
De Ridder was Shit City. Fort Polk stood close. The town lived off Army handouts.
Chicken-fried-steak joints and rib cribs. Beer bars/tattoo parlors/nudie-mag stalls.
Carlos limo’d up. Pete met him. The local crackers watched. Dumb crackers—gap-mouthed bug-magnets all.
They drove east. They caught red clay and pine bluffs. They looped the Kisatchee Forest.
Pete raised a screen. Pete cut the driver off. Vents pumped cold air in. Dark tint killed the sun.
Carlos bankrolled a camp—forty Cubans total—would-be killer ops. Carlos said, “Let’s see my boys.” Carlos said, “Let’s talk.”
They drove. They talked. They passed Klan klonklaves. Carlos ragged the Klan—they hate Catholics—that means they hate us.
Pete nixed him—I’m Huguenot—you fucks fucked my kin.
They talked. They rehashed la Causa. Tiger Kab and Pigs. LBJ’s big walkoff. Carlos brought a bottle. Pete brought paper cups.
Carlos said, “The Outfit’s got zero affection for the Cause. Everyone thinks, ‘We shot our wad, we lost the casinos, it’s spilled milk under the bridge.’ ”
They hit a rut. Pete spilled X.O.
“Havana was beautiful. Vegas can’t hold a candle.”
“Littell’s got a foreign-casino plan. Everyone’s gaga, as well they fucking should be.”
They passed Army trucks. They passed signs. Signs ragged the ACL-Jew.
Pete said, “The old crew was good. Laurent Guéry, Flash Elorde.”
Carlos nodded. “Good narcotics men and good killers. You never doubted their sincerity.”
Pete dabbed his shirt. “John Stanton was a good ops man. You had the Outfit and the Agency together.”
“Yeah, like that song. ‘For one brief shining moment.’ ”
Pete crushed his cup. “Stanton’s in Indochina?”
“Don’t be such a Frenchman. They call it Vietnam now.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “There’s a cab biz in Vegas. I could turn it into a moneymaker for us. Littell wants me to hold off, because the owner’s on the license boards.”
Carlos sipped X.O. “Don’t work so hard to impress me. You’re not Littell, but you’re good.”
The troops snapped to. Pete paced the line. Pete came to critique and review.
Forty Cubanos—porkers and stringbeans—jail recruits all.
Guy Banister recruited them. Guy knew a cop in John Birch. The cop fudged his jail sheets. The cop freed prospects. Said prospects were pervs. Said prospects were “musicians”—Cugie Cugat manqués.
Pete walked the line. Pete checked guns. M-1s and M-14s—dead bugs chambered in.
Barrel dust. Mildew. Moss rot.
Pete got pissed. Pete got a headache. The head geek paced the line behind him.
An Army stupe—Fort Polk trash—some kiddie kommando. He ran a Klan klique. He ran a still. He sold oat mash. He supplied alcoholic Choctaws.
The troops sucked poodle dick. The camp ditto.
Quonset huts and pup tents—fucking Boy Scout stock. A “Target Range”—scarecrows and tree stumps. An “Ammo Dump”—made from Lego logs.
The troops snapped to. The troops shot a salute. They fumbled their rifles. They fired off-sync. Eight bolts jammed up.
They made some noise. They roused some birds. Birdshit disinterred and fell.
Carlos bowed. Carlos tossed the donation bag. The head geek caught it and bowed.
“Mr. Banister and Mr. Hudspeth will be coming in soon. They’re transporting some ordnance.”
Carlos lit a cigar. “That my ten grand’s paying for?”
“That’s correct, sir. They’re my chief weapons procurers.”
“They’re making money off my donations?”
“Not in the sense you imply, sir. I’m sure they’re not making a personal profit.”
Prime “ordnance”: One picnic table/one bar-b-que pit.
The geek blew a whistle. The troops hit the range. They fired. They shot low. They missed.
Carlos shrugged. Carlos nursed a grievance. Carlos walked off. The geek shrugged. The geek nursed hurt feelings. The geek walked off.
Pete walked. Pete checked the range. Pete