The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  Wayne looked over. Wayne caught the glint. There’s Bob. There’s chopper 1 perched. That glint’s off a hog machine gun.

  The Pilot Marv touched down. The Pilot Marv cut the props. Tojo saluted. Tojo’s goons snapped to.

  Tran jumped out. Pete jumped out. Chuck jumped out and tripped. The Pilot Marv jumped out. Marv Three steadied him.

  Mesplède jumped out. Mesplède tripped. Wayne jumped and caught him. The ground dipped. There’s seven kadre men—up against Tojo plus six.

  Tran hugged Tojo. Tran played MC. Tran dropped kadre bios—all last names di di.

  Tojo was “Dong.” The Tojoettes blurred—Dinh/Minh/whoever. They all laughed. They all hugged. They all bumped sidearms and hips.

  Wayne looked around. Jail slaves loitered close. They wore loincloths. They sucked pipes. It was O-head servitude.

  Wayne saw Tojoette volleyball—four goons per team/a thirty-goon barracks hard right.

  Wayne coughed. His vest fit tight. His breath butterflied. Tran reached in the Huey. Tran grabbed their pumps. The Tojoettes bristled uptight.

  Tran passed the pumps out—all kadre/one per. Dong smiled. Dong said, “You carry guns. That all right. Guns number-one A-OK.”

  Tran smiled. Tran talked Viet. Dong talked Viet back. Marv Three translated—all pidgin-gook:

  We get nice tour. We have lunch then. All A-OK.

  Dong whistled. Dong gestured. Dong dispatched a Tojoette. He ran off. He hit the barracks. He ran back. He schlepped six M-1s.

  Dong bowed. Dong issued guns—all Tojoettes/one per. Dong smiled. Dong talked Viet. Marv Three translated—all pidgin-gook:

  Trust A-OK. Parity better. Lunch and peace accord.

  Dong bowed. Tran bowed. Dong went you first. The kadre hiked out. The Tojoettes hiked close behind. Dong and Tran hiked back.

  They cut through the dope fields—poppy stalks 4-ever—grids/rows/grid paths. Slaves raked soil. Slaves dropped seeds. Slaves trimmed stalks back.

  They wore coolie hats. They wore shackles. They wore floral BVDs. They walked weird. They shuffled. Their shackles gouged bone.

  It was good soil. It looked limestone sweet. It vibed low pH.

  They hiked. The sun arced. The Tojoettes lagged behind. The Tojoettes breathed curry fumes. Wayne smelled it. Wayne gauged it—just ten feet back.

  The Tojoettes had M-1s. The Tojoettes had bolt-throw rifles—one shot per throw. The Tojoettes had .38s. They were flap-holstered—slow-draw style.

  Not here—not now—they won’t try.

  Wayne looked sideways. Pete caught it. Pete winked. Wayne read, “Your call, kid.”

  They had bullet-proof vests. They had better weapons. The Tojoettes had Nazi lids.

  Wayne gulped air. Wayne stretched his vest tight. Wayne smelled fish stew.

  There’s the lunch hut. It’s all bamboo. Four frond-and-stalk walls. Wide doorway opened up.

  Wayne looked sideways. Wayne winked. Pete winked back. Wayne walked ahead. Wayne hit the hut. Wayne doorway-lounged.

  The kadre caught up. Wayne bowed. Wayne went you first. The guys shook their heads. The guys aped gook manners. The guys went you first.

  Wayne shook his head. Wayne bowed. Wayne went you first. The guys laughed. The guys shucked. The guys jived.

  The Tojoettes caught up. The guys bowed. The guys went you first. The Tojoettes shrugged. The Tojoettes went fuck it. The Tojoettes walked straight in.

  The guys blocked the door. The guys aimed. The guys jammed their backs point-blank.

  Wayne shot his .45. Pete shot his pump. Bullets and bird pellets flew. The noise got four-walled—back shots/powder burns/muzzle roar.

  Chuck shot. Marv Three shot—full magazines. Mesplède tripped. Mesplède shot. Rounds ricocheted.

  Pete got dinged. Pete went down. Pete’s vest bullet-flared. Wayne got dinged. Wayne went down. Wayne’s vest popped and flamed.

  Pete rolled. Wayne rolled. Dirt ate the vest flames. Recoil and reverb. Ricochets ricky-tick.

  Wayne saw blood spatter. Wayne saw big stew pots. Wayne saw blood in fish stew.

  He heard hog-fire—way off—Bob R. at three-o’clock high. He rolled. He pulled his vest off. He ditched his shirt.

  There’s Dong.

  He’s running. Tran’s chasing him. Tran’s got his hair. Tran’s got him down. Tran’s got a knife. Tran’s waving his head.

  Wayne shut his eyes. Somebody jerked him. Somebody pulled him up hard.

  He opened his eyes. Pete said, “You passed.”

  63

  (Saigon, 11/11/64)

  Stanton said, “You fucked up.”

  The Go-Go was dead. That bar-b-que’d monk deterred trade.

  Pete lit a cigarette. “I didn’t feel like negotiating. Tran was up for it, so we ad-libbed.”

  “ ‘Ad-lib’ doesn’t cut it. I went to Yale with Preston Chaffee’s father, and now he won’t be able to bury his son.”

  Pete blew smoke rings. “Toast a monk and ship him in a body bag. He won’t know the difference.”

  Stanton slapped the table. Stanton kicked a chair. It roused Bongo. It roused two whores.

  They twirled their stools. They looked over. They looked back.

  “A fuck-up is a fuck-up and money is money, and now I’m going to have to pay some Can Lao guys to go up to Laos to guard the fields you stole and replace the guards you kill—”

  Pete slapped the table. Pete kicked a chair.

  “Tran had some napalm. Chuck and Bob Relyea flew over and dropped it last night. They waxed the barracks and the ops huts at both of the camps next to Dong’s. They spared the refineries and the jails, so you tell me what the fucking upshot of all that is.”

  Stanton crossed his legs. “You’re saying …”

  “I’m saying we now own the only three poppy farms south of Ba Na Key. I’m saying we’ve got viable slaves at all three locations. I’m saying Tran knows some Chinese chemists we can bring in to work the morphine base and get it ready for Wayne. I’m saying all three camps are fucking physically connected, with forest, mountain, and river cover, and all I need from you is some warm bodies to run the slaves and work under the Laotian end of the kadre.”

  Stanton sighed. “Warm bodies cost money.”

  “The Marvins work cheap. Bob said they fucking desert a hundred a day.”

  “You’re missing the point. Money is money, and we’re stage-1 covert. I’m accountable to other Agency sources, and now I’m going to have to tell them that the cost of your escapade is coming out of the 45% profit nut that we’ve earmarked for the Cause.”

  Pete shook his head. “The Cause gets 65. You told me that.”

  Stanton shook his head. “There’s too many hands out. The ARVN boss heard about your little adventure and upped the rent on every transport vehicle and live body he lets us have.”

  Pete kicked a chair. It hit the bar. It reroused the whores. They twirled their fingers. They touched their heads. They mimed he claaaazy.

  Stanton smiled. “Let’s hear some good news.”

  Pete smiled. “We took ten kilos of morphine base out of Laos. Wayne’s doing tests now.”

  “You shouldn’t have risked him on that raid. He’s the only heroin chemist we’ve got.”

  “I needed to see what he had. It won’t happen ag—”

  “What else? Did you talk to Litt—”

  “Heads up on that. Dracula gave him a hundred grand for the ordnance. It’s coming in on the pouch flight at noon.”

  Stanton smiled. “That means …”

  “Right, he swung Nellis. Five G’s a month, cheap for what it gets us.”

  Stanton coughed. “Have you got a source?”

  “Bob does. Some breed in Bao Loc. He’s got some U.S. shit captured back from the Cong.”

  “Don’t skimp. Let’s make Hughes and the Air Force look good.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.”

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “Be sure. We’re in this for the same re
ason.”

  Stanton leaned in. “We’re here now. We’re not in Cuba. When the buildup starts next year, we’ll have a lot more cover to work in.”

  Pete looked around. The whores went you claaaazy.

  “You’re right. And I’ve been in worse places.”

  Bao Loc was north. 94 clicks. They limo’ed up.

  Mesplède booked a stretch. Chuck and Flash reclined. The pouch flight landed early. Drac delivered. Ward delivered Drac.

  Old bills—C-notes—one hundred K in all.

  Pete reclined. Pete dug on the countryside.

  He’d called Ward. They’d talked—Saigon to Vegas. Ward ragged him. Ward ragged on narcotics.

  Flash back—ten months—Ward loves dope then. Ward lauds dope at the Summit.

  Dope made money. Dope pleased Drac. Dope sedated jigs.

  Flash up—Ward is pissed—Ward has ideals.

  Dope is bad. Dope is crass. Dope means risk. Don’t disrupt my fund-book plan. Don’t disrupt Drac’s incursion.

  Ward was Ward. Ward got pissed easy. Ward lugged a Jesus cross in his sewer.

  He told Ward to visit Barb. He told Ward to watch Tiger. Check the hut/tail the cabs/vet my no-pill policy.

  Pete yawned. The stretch hauled. The wheels kicked mud. Mesplède ran the radio. Chuck and Flash gawked. Dig the rivers. Dig the inlets. Dig the sampans. Dig the kute and komely gook quail.

  Chuck loved Laos. Mesplède said napalm glowed. Tran said he saw a white tiger. We own it now—the Bolaven Plateau.

  Three poppy farms. The Set River. Big tiger tracks.

  Guéry was there now. Tran was there now. Tran ran a shorthanded crew. Six goons for three camps—slaves thus on hiatus.

  The slaves survived the bombing. The old goons fried. The refineries stood untorched. Tran knew potential chemists. Tran knew potential Marv guards. Tran knew geography.

  Tran say you smart. You raid Bolaven. You no raid Ba Na Key. Ba Na Key north—closed to VC—tribe farms boocoo. Hmong tribes. Tough. No slaves there—Hmong work en famille. They fight. They no hide. They no run ricky-tick.

  The radio blared—discordant shit—Mesplède loved nigger jazz. The highway veered. They hit Tran Phu Street. Bao Loc—2 km.

  They cut right. They passed silk looms. They passed rubber farms. They crossed the Seoi Tua Ha River. They passed beggar squads.

  Mesplède tossed some chump change. The beggars descended. The beggars scratched and clawed. They passed a province hut. They passed tea farms. They passed gook priests on mopeds.

  There’s Bob. There’s the ARVN’s dump.

  Dig it:

  ARVN guards. K-9 Korps. Gun stacks under dropcloths—open for biz.

  They pulled in. They got out. Bob saw them. Bob walked a breed up.

  “This is François. He’s half French, and I think he likes boys, which don’t discredit all the fine shit he’s got for sale.”

  François wore pink pj’s. François wore hair curlers. François wore Chanel No. 5.

  Chuck vamped him. “Hey, sweetcakes, have we met before? Did you take my ticket at Grauman’s Chinese?”

  François said, “Fuck you. You cheap Charlie. American Punk No. 10.”

  Chuck howled. Flash yukked. Mesplède roared. Pete took Bob aside.

  “What have we got?”

  “We got .50-caliber HMGs, MMGs up the wazoo, M-132 flamethrowers with replacement parts, .45-caliber SMGs with 30-round magazines, a fucking shitload of M-14s and 34 M-79 grenade launchers.”

  Pete looked over. Pete saw six pallets—fat under dropcloths.

  “You figure six planeloads?”

  “I figure six big planeloads, ’cause each stack has two stacks behind it, and we got to string out the flights to keep Wayne’s shit going in.”

  Pete lit a cigarette. “Run down the quality.”

  “It’s just below Army standard, which is what we want, ’cause then it qualifies as surplus, which means it won’t draw no suspicion when it goes through Nellis.”

  Pete walked over. Pete pulled dropcloths. Pete smelled cosmoline. Wood crates/nailed planks/stencil-mark designations.

  Bob walked over. “It goes to Nellis, right? Some EM unload it and drive to an Agency drop.”

  “Right. They won’t know that they’re transporting covert, so we’ve got to hide the shit in with some stuff they won’t want to pilfer.”

  Bob scratched his balls. “Flamethrower parts. I got to say there ain’t much demand for them in Lost Wages.”

  Pete nodded. Pete whistled. Pete cued Mesplède. Mesplède grabbed François and bartered in.

  Pete signaled—six loads/six payments.

  Mesplède bartered. François bartered. Mesplède bartered back. They talked polyglot—French-Viet—diphthongs and shouts.

  Pete walked up. Pete listened. He got the bonnes affaires. He got the tham thams. He got the Lyonnaise slang.

  François rolled his eyes. François stamped his feet. François steamed up his pajamas. Mesplède rolled his eyes. Mesplède balled his fists. Mesplède smoked three Gauloises.

  François went hoarse. Mesplède went hoarse. They coughed. They slapped backs. They bowed.

  François said, “Okay, big daddy-o.”

  They drove back. They talked shit. They cut through Bien Hoa. The Cong hit ten days back—mortars predawn.

  The stretch got close. They saw the mess. They saw flags at half-mast.

  They cut back. They laughed. They slugged Bacardi. They told tales—Paraguay to Pigs—they goofed on CIA gaffes.

  It’s ’62. Let’s pluck the Beard. Let’s shave him impotent. Let’s dope the water. Let’s spook the spics. Let’s stage a visit from Christ.

  They laughed. They drank. They vowed to free Cuba. They stopped and hit the Go-Go.

  There’s Wayne.

  He’s alone—per usual. He’s pissed—per always. He’s watching Bongo and his whores.

  64

  (Las Vegas, 11/22/64)

  One year.

  He knew it. Jane knew it. They never said it.

  Littell drove to Tiger Kab. Littell played the radio. Radio pundits assessed. One fool stressed Jackie. One fool stressed the kids. One fool stressed innocence lost.

  Jane drove to Vegas. Jane holed up. Jane stayed in his suite. They called it “Thanksgiving.” The date hit. They never factored it in.

  The papers rehashed it. The TV rehashed it. It rehashed all day. He left early. Jane kissed him. Jane turned on the TV. He returned late. Jane kissed him. Jane turned off the TV.

  They talked. They skirted it. They discussed prosaics. Jane was mad. He’d coaxed her to Vegas. He’d coaxed her for IT.

  He said he had business. He kissed Jane and walked out. He heard Jane turn on the TV.

  Littell killed the radio. Littell cruised by Tiger Kab. Littell perched across the street.

  He parked. He watched the hut. He saw Barb B. There’s Barb in lounge garb—heels put her over six feet.

  Milt Chargin ran shtick. Barb laughed. Barb palmed a package. Barb grabbed an outgoing cab. Tiger stripes—Miami West—all roads to Cuba.

  Littell watched the hut. Drivers walked through—fey minions of tolerant Pete. Pete collected strays. Pete ignored their faults. Pete courted diversion. Pete said he clocked Betty’s visits. Pete said he clocked Betty gone.

  Two hours tops—don’t kill what you can’t suppress.

  Littell watched the hut. A cab pulled out. Littell tailed it. The cab drove west. Littell stuck close. They hit West LV.

  The cab stopped—Monroe and “J”—two men got in. The cab pulled out. Littell stuck close. They hit Tonopah Highway.

  The cab stopped. The men got out. The men hit the Moulin Rouge. The cab pulled out. Littell stuck close. They drove straight back to Tiger.

  Memo to Pete: No pill sales/no inferred betrayal.

  Littell yawned. Littell went queasy. He skipped his dinner. Jane cooked prime rib. She’d cooked all day. She’d watched TV concurrent.

  He lied his dinner off. He wal
ked out. He invented “business.”

  Littell skimmed the radio. Littell caught Jack’s Greatest Hits: “Ask not” and “Ich bin.” The passed torch and more.

  He killed the sound. He drove to the Sahara. The lounge was packed. He stood ringside. He caught Barb’s closer.

  Barb sang “Sugar Shack.” Barb blew the crescendo. She saw him. She waved. She said, “Oops.”

  She was bad. She knew it. She goofed on it. She played off it. She ragged her shelf life as a chick.

  Men loved her. She goofed on her height. She played off it and went knock-kneed. She was a con. She played to the men who knew it.

  The Bondsmen bowed. Barb jumped off stage. A heel jammed. She teetered. Littell caught her. He felt her pulse. He smelled her soap. He felt her perspiration.

  They walked to the bar. They got a booth. Littell faced the TV.

  Barb lit a cigarette. “Pete’s idea, right? Look in on me.”

  “Partially.”

  “Partially, how?”

  “I’m killing time. I thought I’d kill it with you.”

  Barb smiled. “I’m not complaining. I’ve got forty minutes.”

  The TV blipped. Jack’s Greatest Hits revived. Paris with Jackie. Touch football games. Romps with his kids.

  Barb looked over. Barb saw the TV. Barb looked straight back at Littell.

  “You can’t run from it.”

  Littell smiled. “Some of us try.”

  “Do you think about it?”

  “It comes and goes.”

  “I’m all right until something reminds me. Then it gets scary.”

  Littell checked the screen. Jack and Bobby laughed. A waitress showed. Barb shooed her off.

  “Pete never talks about it.”

  “We’re useful. He knows it comes down to that.”

  Barb chained cigarettes. “Wayne knows. I figured it out.”

  “Did you brace him?”

  “No, I just put it together.”

  Littell smiled. “He’s in love with you.”

  Barb smiled. “In a tolerable way.”

  “We’re useful. Tell yourself that the next time something reminds you.”

  Barb stubbed her cigarette. Barb burned her hand. She flinched and cradled it. She said, “Shit.”