The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  Mesplède lit a Gauloise. Pete cued him. Mesplède hit the buttons. Juice flooowed.

  Testicle ticklers—black box to balls—nonlethal volts. Gooks tingle. Gooks absorb. Gooks yell boocoo.

  Mesplède cut the juice. Mesplède pidgin-gooked: Congs run! Steal M-base! Tell what you know!

  The gooks buzzed. The gooks squirmed. The gooks afterglowed. Talk now! You tell me! Tell what you know! Six gooks jabbered—this gook ensemble—we no know who!

  One gook squeals. One gook yips. One gook salivates. Loincloths to ankles/grounded gonads/feed plugs to feet. One gook squirms. One gook prays. One gook urinates.

  Pete cued Mesplède. Mesplède hit the buttons. Juice flooowed.

  The gooks buckle. The gooks absorb. The gooks gyrate. The gooks scream. The gooks thrash and pop veins.

  Pete cogitated. Pete chewed gum. Pete brainstormed eyes shut.

  Tran tells Wayne—slaves escape—steal M-base boocoo. They cook it. They dump it. Fuck up our GIs boocoo.

  But:

  You don’t dump Big “H.” You sell it.

  And:

  Wayne rotates home. Wayne’s lab is empty. Rival dope cooks could sneak in. Said cooks could utilize. Said cooks could appropriate.

  Surveille the lab—do it soon—before you rotate.

  Mesplède coughed. “Has that chewing gum put you in a trance, Pierre?”

  Pete opened his eyes. “One of them has to know something. Ask them why the guys ran, and turn up the juice if they shit you.”

  Mesplède smiled. Mesplède coughed. Mesplède pidgin-gooked. He talked fast. He blurred inflections. He fastballed his words.

  Gooks listen. Good absorb. Gooks say: No No No No—

  Mesplède hit the buttons. Juice flowed. Near-lethal volts. The gooks screamed. Their nuts flushed. Their nuts swelled.

  Mesplède cuts the juice. Gooks absorb pain. Gook 5 talks ricky-tick. Mesplède smiles. Mesplède absorbs. Mesplède translates.

  “He said he woke up and saw Tran pull them out of the hut. Tran … qu’est-ce … forced them to run, and he heard shots a few minutes later.”

  Pete spit his gum out. “Cut them loose. Give them some extra beans for dinner.”

  Mesplède said, “I appreciate compassion.”

  The hills hurt.

  He breathed hard. He walked slow. He trailed back. Mesplède walked fast. Two guards flanked him.

  They cut through camp. They pushed through brush. They dodged biter snakes. The rain held. Brush slapped them. Pete gobbled breath.

  He took pills. They thinned his blood. They scrubbed his veins. They sapped him. They fucked him up. They held him back.

  He ran. He caught up. He gobbled breath.

  They kicked through mud. The mud had weight. The weight hurt his chest. They walked two miles. They hit downslopes. His chest weight slacked off.

  Pete heard grunts and oinks. Pete saw a mud pit. Pete smelled human decomp. Pete saw wild pigs root.

  There:

  Said mud pit. A buffet. Said pigs and boned flesh.

  Pete jumped in. The pigs scattered. The mud was deep. The mud had weight. Pete bobbed for flesh.

  He rooted. He flailed. He found an arm. He found a leg. He found a head. He shook off mud. He pulled off skin. He peeled off scalp flaps.

  He saw a hole. It was bullet-sized. He gripped the jaws. He cracked the skull back.

  Good breath. Good strength. Good outpatient stats.

  A bullet dropped. Pete caught it. It was butterflied and smashed. It was a soft-point magnum. It was Tran Lao Dinh’s brand.

  Tran tried charm. Tran tried shit. Tran tried shuck-and-jive. Mesplède hooked him up. Mesplède hooked dual clamps—gonads and head.

  The rain held. Monsoon stats—mud 4-ever.

  Pete chewed gum. Pete cracked the door. Pete stirred outside air.

  “Your shit’s not working. Give up the details and tell us who you’re in with, and I’ll see what John Stanton says.”

  Tran said, “You know me, boss. I no work with Victor Charles.”

  Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.

  The clamps sparked. His hair sparked. His nuts spasmed. He bit his lips. He bit his tongue. He cracked his false teeth.

  Pete said, “That demoralize-the-GIs story you told Wayne was bullshit. Admit it and go from there.”

  Tran licked his lips. “Victor Charles, boss. You don’t underestimate.”

  Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.

  His bladder blew. The clamps sparked. His head twitched. His dentures flew.

  Mesplède said, “Il est plus que dinky dau, il est carrément fou.”

  Pete kicked the dentures. They hit the doorway and popped out. They hit the mud monsoon. Tran flashed his gums. Pete saw old scars—Cong torture tattoos.

  “I’ll double up next time. You don’t want that. You won’t—”

  “Okay okay okay. I kill slaves and sell base to ARVN.”

  Pete spit his gum out. “That’s a start.”

  Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off—le bird boocoo.

  “You French fuck number ten. You carrément fou.”

  Pete popped more gum. “You’re in with somebody. Tell me who.”

  Tran flipped Pete off. The wop stiff-arm—il bah-fungoo.

  “Fuck the frogs. You number ten. You run at Dien Bien Phu.”

  Pete worked his gum. “Tell me who’s running you. We’ll have a drink and discuss it.”

  Tran wiggled. Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off—up and rotated—you twirl boocoo.

  “You French cochon. You fuck fat men.”

  Pete worked his gum. Pete blew a bubble. It popped ka-poo.

  “Who’s running you? You’re not in this all by yourself.”

  Tran worked his chair back. Tran spread his legs. Tran humped his hips boocoo.

  “I run your wife. I eat red pussy ’cause you homo—”

  Pete hit the switch. Pete locked the switch. Tran buckled. Tran humped his hips. Tran worked his chair back boocoo.

  He slid it. He squared it. He made the doorway. Mesplède jumped. Pete tripped.

  Tran flipped them off. Tran dumped his chair. Tran went BONZAI! He hit the rain. He hit the mud. He electrified.

  87

  (Los Angeles, 9/28/65)

  Mormons:

  Mormon lawyers. Mormon aides. Mormon worker drones. Drac’s Mormons—Latter-day Saints.

  It was their summit. It was their turf. It was their hotel call. They stormed the Statler. They booked a suite. They brought their own refreshments. Their names blurred. Littell called them all “sir.”

  He was distracted. Fred O. just called him. Fred O. found the scandal-rag files. They’re yours for ten G’s. I want them/I’ll meet you/they’re mine.

  The summit kicked off. Six Mormons hogged one table. A Mormon prepped a tape rig. A Mormon looped a tape in. A Mormon pressed Play.

  Drac speaks:

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I trust that you have clean air in your conference room, along with appropriate snacks such as Fritos corn chips and Slim Jim beef jerky. As you know, the purpose of this meeting is to establish ballpark price estimates for the hotel-casinos I wish to purchase, and to devise strategies to circumvent recent so-called civil-rights laws, which are in fact civil-wrongs laws, which will prove detrimental to the American free-enterprise system. It is my intention to cunningly and willfully abrogate these laws, retain segregated work crews and discourage Negroes from habituating my casinos, with exceptions to be made for stellar Negroes such as Wilma Rudolph, the so-called fastest woman alive, and the multi-talented Sammy Davis Jr. Before I turn the meeting over to my Las Vegas point man, Ward J. Littell, I should inform you that I have been studying the tax code for the state of California and have determined that it is in fact unconstitutional. It is my intention to avoid paying California state income tax for the upcoming fiscal year of 1966. I may decide to remain mobile until the time t
hat I establish permanent residence in Las Vegas. I may travel by train, avoid undue stays in all fifty states and thus avoid paying state income tax in toto.”

  The off switch clicked. The tape died. The Mormons stirred. The Mormons checked the credenza.

  Salty Fritos. Congealed cheez dip. Tasty Slim Jims.

  Littell coughed. Littell dispensed graph sheets. Price projections/per twelve hotels. Gaming projections/per twelve casinos.

  Doctored paper. Revised and cooked. Your chef—Moe Dalitz.

  The Mormons read. The Mormons skimmed columns. The Mormons cleared their throats. The Mormons took notes.

  A Mormon coughed. “The purchase prices are high by 20%.”

  Moe set the prices. Carlos consulted. Santo T. helped.

  Littell coughed. “I think the prices are reasonable.”

  A Mormon said, “We’ll need tax returns. We’ll need to calibrate off reported profits, not estimates.”

  A Mormon said, “That part doesn’t bother me. We’re dealing with organized-crime proprietors, to one degree or another. You have to believe that they report low.”

  A Mormon said, “We can subpoena their tax returns from the IRS. That way they can’t submit fakes.”

  Wrong. Mr. Hoover will act. Mr. Hoover will quash selectively. Mr. Hoover will pick what you see.

  No oldies. No pre-64s. Good ’64s/the Boys report high/the Boys bait-and-switch.

  A Mormon said, “Mr. Hughes is adamant on the Negro issue.”

  A Mormon said, “Wayne Senior can help us out there. He segregates his work crews, and he knows his way around those new laws.”

  Littell stabbed his pencil. Littell hit his notepad. Littell broke the tip.

  “Your suggestion offends me. It’s unsavory and altogether repugnant.”

  The Mormons stared at him. Littell stared straight back.

  Fred Otash was big. Fred Otash was gruff. Fred Otash was Lebanese. He lived in restaurants. He loved Dino’s Lodge and the Luau. Clients found him there.

  He doped race horses. He fixed fights. He brokered abortions. He traced fugitives. He pulled shakedowns. He sold smut pix. He knew things. He found things out. He charged high fees.

  Littell hit the Luau. Otash was splitsville. Littell hit Dino’s. Littell hit paydirt—there’s Freddy O. in his booth.

  He’s in nubby silk shorts. He’s in a hula shirt. He’s got a tan. He’s spearing calamari. He’s skimming racing forms. He’s sipping cold chablis.

  Littell walked over. Littell sat down. Littell dropped the cash on the table.

  Otash kicked a lettuce box. “It’s all there. I photocopied the choice stuff, in case you were wondering.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “I found a snapshot of Rock Hudson browning a Filipino jockey. I sent a dupe to Mr. Hoover.”

  “That was thoughtful.”

  Otash laughed. “You’re droll, Ward, but you’re not my cup of tea. I’ve never understood your allure to Pete B.”

  Littell smiled. “Try shared history.”

  Otash poked a squid. “Like Dallas ’63?”

  “Does the whole world know?”

  “Just some guys who don’t care.”

  Littell kicked the box. “I should go.”

  “Go, then. And beware the ides of fucking September.”

  “Would you care to explain?”

  “You’ll see soon enough.”

  Jane was out. Littell lugged the box in. Littell checked the papers first. Three subscribed dailies: L.A. Times/New York Times/Washington Post.

  He skimmed the front sections. He skimmed the B-sheets. No word—nineteen days in.

  The letters went out—mea culpa/Lyle Holly—postmarked SCLC. One to the House Committee/one to Bobby.

  Littell skimmed the C-sheets. Littell skimmed the D. Nothing—no word yet.

  He dumped the papers. He cleared some desk space. He dumped the lettuce box.

  Files and carbon sheets. Photos and tip sheets. Unpublished smears—full pieces. The gamut—Confidential to Whisper/Lowdown to Hush-Hush.

  He stacked piles. He skimmed sheets. He read fast. He rolled in dirt.

  Dipsomania. Nymphomania. Kleptomania. Pedophilia. Coprophilia. Scopophilia. Flagellation. Masturbation. Miscegenation.

  Lenny Bruce rats Sammy Davis. Sammy swings bilateral/Sammy sniffs cocaine. Danny Thomas hits sepia sinspots. Bob Mitchum dips his dick in Dilaudid and fucks all nite.

  Sonny Liston killed a white man. Bing Crosby knocked up Dinah Shore. Dinah got twin Binglets scraped at a clap clinic in Cleveland. Lassie has K-9 psychosis. Lassie bites kids at Lick Pier.

  Paydirt: Two casino front men/one date-a-boy.

  They rendezvous at the Rugburn Room. They trick at the Dunes. They party with peyote and poppers. The front men work the date-a-boy. He sustains damage and hemorrhages. The front men check the register. The front men look for doctors. The front men hit suite 302.

  The doc’s a drunk. The doc’s a hophead. The doc’s got King Kong on his back. The doc soaks his tools in vodka. The doc operates. The date-a-boy dies. The doc dips back to Des Moines. A desk clerk calls Confidential.

  One hit. One bite for Drac. One blackmail wedge.

  Littell clipped pages. Littell scanned carbons. Littell skimmed tip sheets. Payoffs/bribes/slush funds/dope cures/nut bins/car wrecks.

  Johnnie Ray. Sal Mineo. Adlay Stevenson. Toilet stalls/glory holes/gonorr—

  No. Wait. Ides of Sept—

  Hush-Hush-10/57/unpublished. The title: RED LINK TO RACKETS.

  Arden Breen Bruvick. Her Commie dad—killed in ’52. “Who Iced Daddy Breen? Temperamental Teamsters? Arden or Hubby Dan?”

  Arden’s a party girl. Arden’s a call girl. Arden fled grief in K.C. Dan B.’s a lamster. He’s on the run. He split K.C.

  Arden’s a femme fatale. Arden has Mob ties. Arden knows “Shifty” Jules Schiffrin.

  A clipped photo/a caption/a date:

  8/12/54—RED PARTY GIRL PARTIES WITH RANDY RACKETEER.

  There’s Arden. She’s young. She’s dancing with Carlos Marcello.

  Littell trembled. Littell got the shakes. Littell got instant DTs.

  He palsied. His hands jerked. He ripped the photo. He dropped the tip sheets.

  He saw things:

  Cords stuck to walls. Cords stuck to lamps. Cords off the TV.

  He heard things:

  Tap sounds. Phone buzz. Line clicks.

  His chair slid. He fell. He saw wall cords. He saw bug mounts. He saw wisps. He got up. He stumbled. He braced the walls. He saw shapes. He saw flecks. He saw wisps.

  88

  (Las Vegas, 9/28/65)

  The cat abused him. He loved it. He lived for his shit.

  The cat clawed his pants. The cat snagged his socks. The cat dropped turds on his shirts. He loved it. Shit on me more now. I live for your shit.

  The AC dipped. Pete slapped the wall unit. The cat clawed his shirt.

  Biz was slow. The p.m. lull dragged. Pete shagged calls. His drivers smoked outside.

  New rules: The Tiger Kab Manifesto.

  Don’t smoke near me. Don’t eat near me. Don’t snarf fat-rich food. Don’t tempt me with taste treats—let me get back.

  I’ve got more wind now. I’ve got more spunk. I’ve got more pizzazz. I dumped the pills. They fucked with me. I let the cat do that.

  Don’t smoke. Don’t eat bad food—the docs said that.

  Okay—I’ll play.

  Don’t worry. Don’t work hard. Don’t pull rotations—fuck you on that.

  Tran iced himself. He worried it. He worked it. He hired some Marvs. They surveilled the lab. They reported:

  Some Can Lao snuck in. They let chemists in. Said chemists brought M-base boocoo. Said chemists cooked white horse. Said chemists used Wayne’s shit.

  Pete braced Stanton. Stanton was sheepish. Stanton said: “I was going to tell you—after you got well.”

  Pete said TELL ME NOW. Stanton said the new regime’s tough. You know that.
No fuck with Can Lao cat Mr. Kao. He’s tough. He’s greedy. He’s savvy. He’s cooking “H” in our lab—on Wayne’s rotations. He’s shipping “H” to China. He’s routing “H” west. He’s got a French clientele.

  Pete blew up. Pete kicked walls. Pete strained arteries. Stanton smiled. Stanton jollied him. Stanton popped a ledger book.

  Said book held figures. Said figures said: Mr. Kao bought his lab time. Mr. Kao paid big coin. The kadre made money.

  Stanton reasoned. Stanton explicated. Stanton mollified. He said Kao’s pro-U.S. and pro-kadre. He said Kao won’t sell dope to GIs.

  Pete reasoned. Stanton reasoned. They rehashed Tran’s suicide.

  Tran killed the slaves. Tran stole the M-base. Mr. Kao bought Tran’s base ricky-tick. Tran fears Kao. Tran won’t snitch Kao. Tran electrifies.

  Stanton said he’d brace Kao. Stanton said he’d say this: We’re your friends. Don’t use us. Don’t fuck us. Don’t sell dope to GIs.

  Pete was relieved. Pete rotated west. Pete relieved his arteries. Wayne was stateside now. Wayne was in Bon Secour. Wayne dipped south per gun-run rotations.

  Pete called him. Pete spilled on Tran. Pete spilled on Can Lao Kao.

  Wayne went nuts. Wayne loved his lab/Wayne loved his dope/Wayne loved his chemistry. Pete calmed him down. Pete yelled and cursed. Pete strained his arteries.

  Donkey Dom swished in. The cat hissed. The cat hated fags. The cat hated wops.

  Dom hissed back. Pete laughed. The phone rang.

  Pete picked up. “Tiger.”

  “It’s Otash. I’m in L.A., and I don’t need a cab.”

  Pete stroked the cat. “What is it? Did you find anything?”

  “Yeah, I did. The trouble is, I won’t fuck one client in favor of another, which means I found those files for Littell, which contained some racy shit on his girlfriend and Carlos M., so I’m telling you, because you’re paying me for some version of the same—”

  Pete hung up. Pete plugged the switchboard. Pete dialed Bon Secour direct. He got dial tones. He got rings. Ward knows now. Ward will—

  “Charthouse Motel.”

  “Wayne Tedrow. He’s in room—”

  Dial tones/clicks/rings—

  Wayne picked up. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me. I want—”