The Cold Six Thousand - James Ellroy [97]
Wayne checked his drawers. Wayne tallied weapons—throwdown shit all. Six shivs/eight pistols/one sawed-off shotgun.
He worked the Deuce. He disarmed punks. He stole their shit. He saved it to plant on Durfee. Janice loved it. Janice called it his hope chest.
He checked his tip file. He’d tallied ninety-one tips. All bullshit/all jive.
Cars pulled up outside. Doors slammed. The carport boomed loud. Your host—Wayne Senior.
Another hate-tract “summit meet.” His “biggest and best”—self-described.
Ten meets in ten days. Fund meets and “summits.” Tract-distributor drives. Let’s fuck civil rights. Let’s laud states’ rights. Let’s push more tracts. Mr. Hoover wants speed. Mr. Hoover wants wide distribution.
Wayne Senior told Wayne that. Wayne Senior spieled EVERYTHING. Wayne Senior torqued his HATE.
He held back. He observed partial disclosure.
He saw Fed cars. He saw Fed surveillance. Feds perched down the road. Feds watched the meets. Feds checked license plates.
Local Feds—non-FBI—Dwight Holly’s boys.
Wayne Senior was distracted. Wayne Senior was tract-obsessed. Wayne Senior missed the heat. Wayne Senior talked. Wayne Senior torqued Wayne. Wayne Senior worked to impress.
Wayne Senior knew Ward Littell now. Wayne Senior bragged it up: “Littell needs some help. I might be planting some of my people in the Hughes organization.”
Wayne called Littell last week. Wayne warned him: Wayne Senior will fuck you—and Dwight Holly’s acting up.
Wayne cleaned his knives. Wayne cleaned his guns. Wayne stacked shotgun shells. Janice walked in. Janice was pool-wet. Janice smelled like Coppertone and chlorine.
Wayne tossed her a towel. “You used to knock.”
“When you were a boy, I did.”
“Who’s he got today?”
“The John Birch people. They want him to change the print style on the fluoridation tracts, to distinguish them from the racier stuff.”
Her tan was uneven. Her swimsuit rode low. Some black hair showed.
“You’re dripping all over my rug.”
Janice toweled off. “Your birthday’s coming up.”
“I know.”
“You’ll be thirty.”
Wayne smiled. “You want me to say, ‘And you’ll be forty-three in November.’ You want to know if I’m keeping track of those things.”
Janice dropped the towel. “Your answer satisfied me.”
Wayne said, “I don’t forget things. You know that.”
“The things that count?”
“Things in general.”
Janice scoped out the corkboard. Janice scoped M. L. King.
“He doesn’t look like a Communist to me.”
“I doubt if he is.”
Janice smiled. “He doesn’t look like Wendell Durfee, either.”
Wayne flinched. Janice said, “I have to go. I’ve got bridge with Clark Kinman.”
The Deuce was dead. Dead occupancy/dead slots/dead tables.
Wayne prowled.
He walked. He perched. He tailed Negroes. He announced his intent and deterred. They ran from him. They ignored him. They played it cooooool.
The shift dragged. He dragged. He sat by the teller’s cage. He cranked his stool up.
A Negro walks in. He’s got a brown bag. He’s got a jug. He hits the slots. He drops some dimes. He hits some baaaaad luck.
Forty pulls and no payoffs—righteous baaaad luck.
The guy whips his dick out. The guy urinates. The guy sprays the dime slots. The guy sprays a dykey-ass nun.
Wayne walked over.
The guy laughs. The guy breaks his jug. Glass flies. Wine shvitzes. The nun Hail Marys.
The guy laughs. I gots me a cutter. It gots a paper-bag grip.
He lunged.
Wayne stepped back. Wayne trapped his arm. Wayne snapped his wrist. The guy puked. The guy dropped the cutter.
Wayne kicked him prone. Wayne kicked his teeth in. Wayne knee-dropped him.
46
(Las Vegas, 7/6/64)
Eldon Peavy vibed butch. Eldon Peavy vibed mean queen.
3:10 a.m.
The hut was dead. Peavy worked solo. Pete walked right in. Peavy hinked. Peavy reached. Peavy was très slow.
Pete blocked the desk. Pete yanked the drawer out. Pete grabbed the gun.
Peavy regrouped. Peavy showed savoir faire. He dipped his chair. He raised his feet. He stroked Pete’s thighs.
“Tall, dark, and vicious. My type to a T.”
Pete popped