The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [85]
Two machine guns—old 50s—slack triggers/loose belts. Six flamethrowers—cracked feeders/cracked pipes. Two speedboats—pull motors—lawn-mower drive. Sixty-two revolvers—corroded and fucked.
Pete found some oil. Pete found some rags. Pete cleaned some .38s up. The sun felt good. The oil deterred mosquitoes. The “troopers” worked out.
They did push-ups. They wrecked their manicures. They huffed and puffed.
He ran ace troops. He hit Cuba. He scalped mucho Reds. He killed Fidelistos. He went to Pigs. He tried to kill Fidel. They should have won. Jack the K. fucked them. Jack paid. He paid. It got all shot to hell.
Pete cleaned guns. He swabbed barrels. He dipped butts. He brushed cylinders. He scoured moss rot.
An old Ford pulled in. The paint job screamed RIGHT-WING NUT!
Dig it:
Crosses. The stars & bars. Inverted swastikas.
A trailer bounced behind the Ford. Gun barrels extruded. The Ford brodied. The Ford slid. The Ford grazed the bar-b-que pit.
The Ford stalled and died. Guy B. got out. Hank Hudspeth helped him up. Guy was cardiac red. Guy survived #3. Carlos said his pump was shot.
Guy looked drunk. Guy looked frail. Guy looked diseased. Hank looked drunk. Hank looked strong. Hank looked dead mean.
Guy lugged out hot dogs. Hank dumped steaks and buns. They looked around. They saw Pete. They puckered up.
Hank whistled. Guy hit his horn. The troops shagged ass up.
Hank dumped briquettes. The head geek filled the pit. Guy gas-spritzed it. They built a fire. They torched hot dogs. The troops swamped the trailer.
They whooped. They yanked guns. They dollied them over—full-drum Thompsons/one hundred plus.
Pete grabbed one. The butt was chipped. The drum was jammed. The balance was off.
Shit knockoffs—Jap stock.
The troops stacked the Tommys. Pete ignored them. The pit whooshed. Bugs bombed the chow.
Guy walked to the limo. Carlos got out. Guy hugged him and chatted him up.
The troops lined up. Hank dispensed plates. Pete grabbed a .38. Pete dry-fired it.
Carlos walked up. Carlos said, “I hate drunks.” Pete aimed at Guy. Pete dry-shot him—pop!
“I’ll clip him. He knows too much.”
“Maybe later. I want to see if we can whip these clowns into shape.”
Pete wiped his hands. Carlos palmed the gun.
“I got a lead on Hank Killiam. He’s in Pensacola.”
Pete said, “I’ll go tonight.”
Carlos smiled. Carlos aimed at Pete. Carlos dry-shot him—pop!
“Betty McDonald’s in the Dallas County Jail. She told a cop that she got warned out of town last November. I’m not saying it was you, but …”
39
(Las Vegas, 2/13/64)
They blew skeet. They shot custom guns.
They shot off the back deck. They shot custom clays. Janice slung them up. She sat below. She caught some rays. She wore a bikini swimsuit.
Wayne Senior scored persistent. Wayne missed fairly wide. He’d fucked up his hand. He beat up on coloreds. It fucked up his grip.
Janice popped a clay. Wayne fired. Wayne missed.
Wayne Senior reloaded. “You’re not holding the stock tight enough.”
Wayne flexed his hand. He’d fucked it and re-fucked it. It stayed fucked all the time.
“My hand’s bothering me. I hurt it at work.”
Wayne Senior smiled. “On Negroes or assorted riffraff?”
“You know the answer to that.”
“Your employers are exploiting your reputation. That means they’re exploiting you.”
“Exploitation works both ways. If that sounds familiar, I got it from you.”
“I’ll repeat myself, then. You’re overqualified for random vengeance and work as a casino bouncer.”
Wayne flexed his hand. “I’m developing some new tastes. You don’t know if you disapprove, or if you should take partial credit.”
Wayne Senior winked. “I could help you achieve what you want, in an intelligent fashion. You’d have a good deal of latitude for individual action.”
Janice moved her chair. Wayne watched her. Her top chafed. Her nipples swelled.
Wayne said, “No sale.”
Wayne Senior lit a cigarette. “I’ve diversified. You figured that out at Christmas, and you’ve started coming back for visits again. You should know that I’ll be doing some very interesting