The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [90]
HATE:
He watched THEM. He found THEM. He nailed THEM in crowds. HATE moved him. HATE rejoined him with Wayne Senior.
They talked. Shit densified. Shit cohered and dispersed. Janice talked to him. Janice studied him. Janice touched him more. She dressed for him. She cut her hair. She wore a Lynette do.
Lynette lost him. She knew it. She knew Dallas cut her loose. He ran from her. He hid out. He carried sex in his head.
Janice and Barb. Snapshots from the ranch. Postcards from the lounge.
His house fucked with him. Wendell Durfee kicked the door in. Lynette died there.
He dumped the bed. He stripped the paint. He peeled the bloodstains. It wasn’t enough.
He sold the house. He took a loss. He indulged a spree. He hit the Dunes and shot dice.
He won sixty grand. He rolled all night. He blew the whole stake. Moe Dalitz watched him. Moe bought him morning pancakes.
He moved to Wayne Senior’s guest house. He installed a phone. He logged bullshit tips and built a tip file.
He dug his two rooms. He dug on his view. Janice strolled. Janice changed clothes. Janice chipped balls out her window.
He lived in the guest house. He played at the Sultan’s Lounge. He met Pete there. They watched Barb and socialized.
Pete introduced him. He blushed. They hit the Sands. They sipped frosty mai tais. They talked. Barb got tipsy and riffed on sex extortion. Barb said, “I worked JFK.”
She stopped—looks traveled—looks dispersed wiiiiiide. Barb knew about Dallas. The looks said, “We all do.”
That was March. Pete and Barb were back from Mexico. Pete and Barb were tan.
They flew to Acapulco. They flew back weird. Pete was thin. Barb was thin. Pete had lip scars. They had a cat—a stripedy tom—they loved his scraggly ass.
Wayne called Ward Littell. Wayne said, “What’s up with Pete?” Wayne dropped Pete’s “kid brother” line. Ward explained it all:
Pete killed his brother. Pete botched a hit. Pete killed François B. accidental. That was ’49. Wayne was fifteen then. Wayne lived in Peru, Indiana.
Pete got phone calls. Pete left Vegas. Wayne met Barb for lunch. They talked. They hashed neutral topics. They eschewed Pete’s work. They talked up Barb’s sister in Wisconsin. They talked up her Bob’s Big Boy franchise. They talked up Barb’s lowlife ex.
Barb teased him. Barb saw him with Janice. He copped to his sixteen-year crush.
Pete trusted him. Pete gauged his Barb crush. Pete tagged it kid stuff. Barb was great. Barb made him laugh. Barb pulled his eyes off of THEM.
He pressed Pete—find me real work—Pete dodged his requests. He pressed Pete on Dallas—give me more details—Pete dodged his full press.
He said, “Why are you so fucked up and stoked on a cat?”
Pete said, “Shut up.” Pete said, “Smile more and hate less.”
43
(Dallas/Las Vegas/Acapulco/New Orleans/
Houston/Pensacola/Los Angeles,
2/14/64–6/29/64)
He found the cat. He relocated him. The cat dug Vegas. The cat dug the Stardust Hotel.
The cat dug their suite. The cat dug room-service chow. Barb fucking shit. Who fucking body-snatched you?
You flew off. You flew back. You came home undone. You don’t eat right. You don’t sleep right. You shudder.
He did all that. He chain-smoked too. He gnashed his teeth. He drank himself to sleep. He reran one nightmare:
Saipan, ’43. Japs. Roads rigged with slice cords. Jeeps pass by. The cords hit. Heads topple clean.
He got headaches. He popped scotch. He popped aspirin. Bedtime scared him. He read books. He watched TV. He messed with the cat. His arms pinged. He pissed more. His feet got numbed up.
He fought it. He flew to New Orleans. He rigged a slice cord. He staked Carlos out. He thought it through. He ran Yes and No lists. The Nos won in a walk.
Don’t do it. The Boys would kill Barb—just for a start.
They’d kill Barb’s mother. They’d kill Barb’s sister. They’d kill the clan Lindscott worldwide.
He flew back to Vegas. He found a cat-sitter. Barb took a week off. They flew to Acapulco. They got a cliffside suite. They watched spics dive for tourist chump change.
He carved some nerve. He