The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [91]
François and Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer. Each and every paid hit. Betty Mac. The noose on the crossbars. Her nails at her neck.
He spilled facts. He spilled names. He spilled numbers. He spilled details. He spilled new Dallas shit. He spilled on Wendell D. and Lynette.
Barb ran.
She packed her bag. She ran from him. She moved out. He tried to stop her. She grabbed his gun. She aimed at him flush.
He backed off. She ran. He got drunk and studied the cliff. The drop ran six hundred feet.
He ran up. He swayed. He ran up ten times. He ran up sober and drunk. He punked out ten times. He dipped and caught himself. He stopped on pure lack of guts.
He scored some red devils. He slept through whole days. He dungeoned the bedroom up. He ate pills. He slept. He ate pills. He slept. He woke up and thought he was dead.
Barb was there. She said, “I’ll stay.” He cried and tore the bed up.
Barb shaved him. Barb fed him soup. Barb talked him off pills and cliff drops.
They flew to L.A. He saw Ward Littell. Ward knew about Betty. Carlos had bragged the job up.
They made plans. They schemed precautions. Ward was smart. Ward was good. Ward made an Arden a Jane.
Shit looked all new now. Ward said he understood. Vegas looked new—hard hues and hot weather.
He scored on the Clay fight. He cat-proofed the suite. He banked a six-digit roll. The cat dug the suite. The cat perched. The cat pounced. The cat killed wall mice.
Pete called Farlan Moss. Moss worked Sheriff’s Vice. Moss entrapped fruits and whores with panache. Pete hired him. The job: Sift dirt on Monarch Cab and Eldon Peavy.
Moss said he’d do it. Moss promised full disclosure. Moss promised results.
Carlos called Pete. Carlos eschewed Betty talk. Carlos made nice.
“Pete, I hope you swing Monarch. I’d love to buy in for some points.”
Pete said, “No.” Betty Mac hovered. Carlos said, “Let’s wait on Hank K.”
Pete said, “Okay.” Pete sat and waited. He shitcanned the scotch. His sleep improved. His nightmares lulled off.
He palled with Wayne. He palled with the cat. He spot-checked Monarch. He drooled. He called Fred Otash. He called his cop pals. They ran bulletin checks.
Wendell Durfee—where you be? Wendell be nowhere.
He got restless. He drove to Big D. Betty Mac hovered and laid down ghost tracks. He checked around. He checked the DPD file. He got no Durfee leads and no sightings.
Carlos called him. Carlos said, “Go. Clip Hank Killiam.”
Pete drove to Houston. Pete picked up Chuck Rogers. Chuck lived with his folks. They were dings. They wore Klan sheets to bed.
Pete and Chuck split eastward—Pensacola-bound.
They drove back roads. They dawdled. Chuck talked up Vietnam. John Stanton was there now. The CIA was in deep. Chuck knew a Saigon MP—a cat named Bob Relyea—ex-prison guard/ex-Klan.
Chuck talked to Bob. They enjoyed shortwave chats. Bob extolled Vietnam nonstop. It was hot. It was groovy. It was Cuba on Meth.
Chuck talked Cuba—Viva la Causa!—Pete ragged the De Ridder “troops.” They agreed—fuck Hank Hudspeth and Guy B. in the neck. They drank too much. They talked too much. They sold bad guns.
The South was wild—spring rains and big voodoo.
They drove through Louisiana. They bunked at exile camps. Chuck drilled the troops. Pete cleaned dirty guns.
The troops were substandard. The troops were spic trash. They split Cuba. They migrated. They scrounged right-wing welfare. They lacked balls. They lacked skills. They lacked savoir faire.
Chuck knew all the back roads. Chuck knew rib joints Dixiewide. They cut through Mississippi. They cut through Alabama. They dodged Fed cars. They hit cross burns. Chuck knew sheet boys statewide.
Nice kids—a bit dumb—a bit inbred.
They bunked at Klan kamps. They split at dawn. They passed torched churches. De-churched coons stood by.
Chuck laughed. Chuck waved. Chuck yelled, “Howdy, you-all!”
They hit Pensacola. They staked out Hank K. Hank K. stayed inside. They invaded his pad. They slit his throat. They drove his body around. They dawdled. They cruised to 3:00 a.m. They found a TV-store