The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  Six snuffs. Butch haircuts. Scalped per kadre kode breach.

  The boat ran smooth. Automatic pilot. Glassy Gulf seas.

  Pete climbed the bridge. Pete read dials. Pete ran instrument checks. It’s OK. You know how. You’ll do it.

  He walked below. He got flutters—biiiiiig butterflies. The main cabin stood full: Stanton/Guéry/Elorde/Dick Wenzel.

  Pete jittered. Pete twitched. Pete bumped his head on a beam.

  Stanton said, “They don’t build these boats for giants.”

  Guéry said, “Which is my problem, too.”

  Flash said, “I do not have that problem.”

  Wenzel said, “You’re a shrimp, but you’re dangerous.”

  They laughed. Pete laughed. Pete went lightheaded.

  Four men/no sidearms/good. All relaxed/sipping scotch/good.

  Note this oversight. Note this fuck-up and glitch:

  You could have brought Seconal. You could have spiked the scotch. You could have killed them asleep.

  Stanton said, “We’ll refuel at Snipe Key.”

  Wenzel said, “They’re meeting us eighty knots out. It’s the only way to rendezvous before dawn.”

  Pete coughed. “It’s my fault. I was late.”

  Flash shook his head. “The last time. We no go without you.”

  Guéry shook his head. “You were always the one with the … qu’est-ce que … ‘greatest commitment.’ ”

  Wenzel slugged scotch. “I’ll miss the runs. I hate the Reds as much as the next white man.”

  Flash smiled. “I am not white.”

  Wenzel smiled. “In your heart you are.”

  Pete faked a yawn. His chest pinged. His pulse raced.

  “I’m tired. I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

  The guys smiled. The guys nodded. The guys grinned and stretched. Pete walked back. Pete shut the door. Pete ran a cabin check:

  Four units/low bulkheads/four sleeping sacks. Please get drunk. Please crap out. Please crap out in shifts.

  He opened the cargo hold. The boat rolled. The boat rolled très light. It rolled too drifty—sans-gun-ballast light.

  He popped the storage door. He looked in. He hit the light.

  Bam:

  Empty/no guns/no ordnance packed tight.

  He got butterflies. Huge now. Sized like King Kong.

  No guns. No gun run. Loose ends scheduled up. They kill you. They dump you. They kill Fuentes and Arredondo.

  The boat pitched. Pete dug his legs in. Pete popped the shotgun rack. He got moths—big fuckers—way up in his chest.

  He pulled shotguns. He worked slides. He popped the shells chambered in. Butterfingers: four shotguns/shells popping/no hands to catch said.

  Shells dropping. Shells spinning. Shells hitting the floor deck. Shells skitting and rolling free.

  He grabbed them. He stuffed his pants. He stuffed his teeth. He fumbled the shotguns. He refilled the rack. He heard the cargo door creak.

  He turned around. He saw Wenzel. He looked dumb. He looked caught. He had shells in his teeth.

  Wenzel shut the door. Wenzel stepped close. Wenzel made fists.

  “What the fuck are—”

  Pete looked around. Pete saw the flare gun. It’s close. It’s on a wall hook.

  He spit the shells out. He stepped back. He grabbed it and aimed. He pulled the trigger. The flare ignited. The flare hit Wenzel’s face. Wenzel screeched. His hair burned. He batted his face.

  The flare dropped. It burned Wenzel’s clothes. It shot flames chest to feet.

  Pete stepped in. Pete grabbed Wenzel’s neck. Pete snuffed hair flames. He snapped left. He burned his hands. He snapped right.

  Wenzel convulsed. Wenzel went limp. Wenzel’s eyebrows shot flames. Pete threw him down. Pete ripped his shirt off. Pete snuffed the flames.

  The flare fizzled out. The door stayed shut. Contained stink and flames.

  Pete flexed his hand. Burn blisters popped. Pete anchored his legs.

  Now.

  They’ll miss him. They’ll need him. They’ll yell. The boat’s rolling. It’s on auto pilot. Wenzel stays on call.

  Now.

  Pete clenched up. Pete listened—ear to the door.

  Nothing.

  He pulled his Walther. He cocked it. He opened the door. One walkway/four cabins/two per side wall.

  Ten yards up: the main cabin/set perpendicular/with the door shut.

  Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 1. He looked in. He braced the door.

  Nobody.

  Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 2. He looked in. He braced the door.

  Nobody.

  Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 3. He looked in. He braced the door.

  There’s Flash. He’s sacked out asleep.

  Pete walked up. Pete aimed close. Muzzle to hairline/silencer tight. He shot once. His piece went pffft. Brains doused the bed.

  Pete walked out. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 4. He looked in. He braced the door.

  Nobody.

  Pete inched up. Pete ate jumbo moths and butterflies. Pete popped the main cabin door.

  Nobody—all hands on deck. Slow now—with a deeeeeep breath.

  He did it. He walked topside. He took baby steps. He got fifty-foot butterflies. His breath tugged. His hands shook. His sphincter blew. He smelled his shit. He smelled his sweat. He smelled cooked silencer threads.

  Baby steps—three more now. Make the deck/watch your feet.

  He pulled one Beretta. He cocked it. He climbed two guns out. His breath tugged. Baby steps slow and—

  He hit the deck. His breath stopped. His left arm ripped. Pain shot heart to arm—fucked arteries.

  He gulped air. He sucked spray. He fell to his knees. He dropped his left-hand gun. It clattered on teak.

  He made noise. Somebody yelled. Noise boomed behind him.

  Stanton.

  Stanton yelled, “Dick!” Stanton yelled, “Pete!”

  Down the deck. Forty feet. The aft rotor-seats.

  Pete pitched forward. His left arm blew. The deck cracked his teeth. He rolled over. He gulped breath. He spit out cracked teeth.

  He heard Guéry—aft and left—“I don’t see him.”

  He heard Stanton—back-stairs aft—“I think he got Dick.”

  He heard slides click. He heard hammers cock. He heard rounds snap in. His left arm exploded. His left arm died. His left arm flopped free.

  He sucked air. He sucked hard. It hurt bad. It burned bad. He lodged some breath free.

  He crawled.

  One-handed. One-armed. At one-arm speed. He brushed a rope stack. It was cover. Thick ropes stacked deep.

  He heard foot scuffs. They scuffed mid-deck left. He saw pantlegs and feet.

  Guéry—fast-walking—his way.

  His breath crimped. He saw starbursts. He saw twelve legs and feet. He aimed off the ropes. He aimed low. He fired.

  He popped six shots fast. He got six muzzle bursts. Double vision/tracer zips/spider legs and feet.

  Guéry screamed. Guéry dropped. Guéry grabbed his feet. Guéry fired way high. Shots ripped a mast sheet.

  Pete sucked air. Pete got air. Pete got a bead. He aimed head high. He pulled slooow.

  The slide jammed. Muzzle light dispersed. He saw Guéry with stump feet.

  He heard foot scuffs. They scuffed way aft. They scuffed the back stairs clear. He pulled gun 3. His pump lurched. He dropped it.

  Guéry fired. Shots hit the ropes. Shots ricocheted.

  Pete rolled free. Pete crawled. Pete crawled with one arm and two feet. Guéry saw him. Guéry stretched prone. Guéry fired.

  Tracers—loud and close in. Over his head. Scraping the gunwales. Ripping through teak. Six shots/seven/full clip.

  Guéry dropped the gun. Pete got close. Pete one-arm leaped.

  He bared his teeth. He bit down. He got Guéry’s cheek. He raked his fingers up and out. He gouged an eye fr
ee.

  Guéry screamed. Guéry swung a fist. Guéry hit bared teeth. Pete bit down. Pete snapped bone. Pete made his good hand a V.

  Guéry screeched. It was high-decibel. It was half whine/half screech.

  Pete drove his hand up. Pete ripped throat tissue. Pete smashed neck bones. Pete drove up to bridgework and teeth.

  Guéry spasmed. Pete yanked his arm out. Pete made a hole elbow-deep. Guéry spasmed. Pete rolled back. Pete dug in and shoved with his feet.

  He kicked Guéry. He kicked hard right. He kicked him off the deck. He kicked him into the sea.

  He heard a splash. He heard a scream. He sucked breath. He got breath. He crawled free.

  He crawled. He crawled one-armed. Noise cut through deck teak.

  It’s Stanton. He’s below deck. That’s steel gnashing steel. He’s in the cargo hold. He’s loading shotguns. Steel’s jamming on steel.

  Pete sucked air. Pete rolled up. Pete made his knees. His bladder blew. His breath stopped. He sucked air in deep.

  He walked. He staggered. He threw lopsided weight. He made the back steps. He smashed at the door. He threw lopsided weight.

  Zero—weak weight—no give.

  He kicked the door. He shoved the door. He threw lopsided weight.

  Zero—weak weight—no give.

  Barricade/smashproof/blocked stairs below.

  Pete kneeled down. Pete laid down lopsided. Pete got echoes off the deckwood. Pete heard steel gnash steel.

  It’s about three feet over. It’s about ten feet up. The deck’s scuffed there. It’s threadbare. It’s breakable teak.

  Pete hauled his weight up. Pete heaved for breath. Pete made his knees.

  He crawled. He knee-walked. He hit the anchor hub. He stood up. He invoked Barb. He did a dead squat. He threw his right arm out. He wrapped the anchor stem. He jerked and stood up.

  His breath exploded. His breath held. His left arm burned up.

  He stumbled. He weaved four feet starboard. He reared up to six-five plus. He let the anchor drop.

  It cracked the deck. It shattered loud. It snapped threadbare teak. It fell below. It dropped straight down. It smashed John Stanton flush.

  112

  (Memphis, 4/4/68)

  Countdown:

  It’s 5:59. We’re heading for checkmate—pawn to RED KING. We’re close. King’s outside. King’s on the balcony.

  He’s by the railing. He’s with a Negro man. Negro men mill below. King’s talking to them. It’s jovial. Cars sit below.

  Jimmy’s in the wino pad. Fred O. said so. Jimmy will shoot. Fred O. said so. Jimmy will split. I’ll drop gun 3. Fred O. said so.

  Wayne watched the balcony. Brush covered him. Bob Relyea ditto. Bugs crawled. Ants swarmed. Pollen spritzed.

  Bob held gun 2. It was aimed up and out. It was eye-sighted in. Wayne held binoculars. Wayne zeroed in tight.

  He held on King. He got King’s eyes. He got King’s skin.

  Bob said, “He ain’t walking downstairs. If Jimmy don’t shoot inside a minute, I do.”

  Code Red/all systems clear/all systems GO. No security extant/no cops visible/Feds and Fed cars ditto. Their car was parked on Main Street. Fred O.’s car ditto.

  Bob shoots or Jimmy shoots. Jimmy runs then. They run faster. They run zippo. They run through the same passageway. They’re younger and swift. They cut through the wino-pad wings.

  They bag their car. They split. Jimmy bags his car. Jimmy splits. Fred O. drops gun 3 in a doorway—upside Canipe Novelty.

  Wayne hits the safe house. Jimmy shows up. Jimmy suicides.

  Countdown—6:00 p.m. sharp—pawn to RED KING.

  Wayne honed his binoculars. Wayne got King’s eyes. Wayne got King’s skin.

  “I’m on him. If Jimmy misses or wounds, I’ll tap you.”

  “I want him to punk out. You know that.”

  “Otash says he’s solid.”

  “He’s a fruitcake. Always has been.”

  Wayne watched King. Wayne ran outtakes. Wayne saw that fuck film. The mattress jiggles. King’s flab rolls. That ashtray drops.

  Wayne tingled. Bob tingled. Wayne saw his veins pop. They heard a shot slam. They saw red blood on black skin. They heard concurrent pop.

  Wayne saw the impact. Wayne saw the neck spray. Wayne saw King drop.

  The safe house:

  A two-room apartment. Bargain-basement furnished. Three miles off South Main.

  Wayne dropped Bob off. Wayne went there. Wayne sat. Fucking Jimmy schizzed out. Fucking Jimmy no-showed.

  Fred O. said go there. Fred O. said meet my friend. He’s got the bounty. He’s got your visa. He’s got your Rhodesian passport.

  Wayne sat. Wayne waited. Wayne shagged walkie-talkie reports. Fred O. buzzed. Fred O. talked. Fred O. culled juicy cop talk.

  He dropped the gun. He did it unseen. Jimmy bagged his sled and took off. The cops showed. The cops found the gun. The cops checked it out.

  They talked to folks. They got descriptions. They put broadcasts out. Look for a white man. He’s got a white Mustang. Wrong. Jimmy’s ‘Stang was yellow.

  Fred O. buzzed. Fred O. fretted. He’s gone. He smelled shit. He shut “Raul” off. The cops have the plant gun. The Feds will take over. The Feds will obfuscate.

  Soft-point bullets. Hard to ID. Ballistic holocaust. It’s a 30.06. It’s the murder weapon. We know that’s a fact.

  Trust Mr. Hoover. He’ll extrapolate. Big Dwight says so. Wayne agreed. Wayne said we’re covered. We both say so.

  Bob was crushed. Bob didn’t shoot. Bob the Klansman bereft. Bob laughed and hailed a cab. Bob booked for West Memphis, Arkansas. Wayne sat. Wayne waited. Wayne gave Jimmy up. He burned the suicide note. He flushed the crystal meth. He smashed the hypodermic. He put gloves on. He wiped the pad. He played the radio.

  He heard eulogies. He caught breaking news. He heard Negroes-in-the-street bereft. Riots in progress/nationwide chaos/arson and sack.

  Wayne popped a window. Wayne heard sirens. Wayne saw flames sweep and crack.

  Wayne thought I Did That.

  113

  (Washington, D.C., 4/6/68)

  Updates—live on TV.

  Littell watched NBC. Littell caught riots and mourning. Littell watched all-day TV.

  Riot dead: four in Baltimore/nine in D.C.

  Riots: L.A./Detroit/St. Louis. Chicago/New York. Outrage/chain reaction/big damage stats.

  Littell cracked a window. Littell smelled smoke. Littell heard bullets smack.

  A newsman pitched a D.C. update. This just teletyped: Negroes see a white man. Negroes swamp his car. Negroes kill said white man. Other Negroes watch.

  Littell watched TV. Littell kept a vigil. It ran forty-eight hours plus. He flew to D.C. He did Teamster work. He got the news. He holed up in his apartment. He lived by his TV.

  He mourned. He watched TV. He ran scenarios: Mr. Hoover/Dwight Holly/BLACK RABBIT.

  The Rustin shakedown. Attendant frustration. The Poor People’s March provokes. Time lines/event chains/conclusions pro and con. The FBI investigates/cover-up pro and con/empirical lessons from Dallas.

  He holed up. He wept some. He wondered:

  The El Encanto bug. The Boys’ “goody box.” Bobby’s bugged suite. Access to Bobby’s campaign.

  He ran scenarios. He connected them—King to Bobby. He watched TV. He debunked scenarios—King to Bobby. He stayed inside. He stayed safe. He called Janice.

  She got the word. She learned eight days ago. The doctors said it’s cancer.

  It’s in your stomach. It’s spreading slow. It’s in your spleen. Your cramps masked the symptoms. Your cramps cost you time. Your cramps skewed early detection.

  You might live. You might die. Let us operate. Janice said maybe. Janice said let me think.

  He told her:

  You love the DI. Move in with me. Relax and play the golf course.

  Janice did it. Janice moved in. They talked. Janice blasted Wayne Senior.

  Janice wept some. Janice s
aid he talked in his sleep. He asked what he said. She said you reach out for “Bobby” and “Jane.”

  She said no more. She zipped her lips and played coy. He consoled her. He convinced her—let them operate.

  Janice showed courage. Janice said yes. Janice faced the knife next week.

  Sick list:

  Janice was gravely ill. Pete almost died. Heart attack/on his boat run/well out at sea.

  Pete killed four men. Pete dumped the bodies. Pete turned the boat back. Pete radioed Bay St. Louis. Pete said call my friend in D.C.

  Littell got the message. Littell called Carlos. Carlos pledged a cleanup crew. Pete got the boat in. Pete got lucky. No one saw five men embark.

  The cleanup men got on. The cleanup men cleaned up. The doctors got Pete. The doctors operated. The doctors patched his heart.

  Coronary thrombosis. Mid-range this time. You were lucky.

  Pete rested. Littell called him. Pete said he got four. Pete said he missed the last two.

  Littell called Carlos. Littell relayed the message. Carlos said fuck it. Carlos reprieved the last two.

  Pete called Littell back. Pete asked favors. Don’t tell Barb. Don’t scare her. Let me get my shit back. Call Milt Chargin. Say I’m okay. Have him mind the cat.

  Littell agreed. Littell called Pete. Littell called one hour back. A nurse came on. She said Pete checked out—“Against doctor’s advice.”

  Pete had a visitor. Said visitor spooked him. It was “Carlos Somebody.” It was four hours back.

  Littell flipped channels. Littell saw Bobby. Bobby was solemn. Bobby condemned racial hate. Bobby mourned Dr. King.

  The scenarios kicked in: bug jobs pro and con/collusion widespread. It got bad. It got wild. It got real.

  Littell grabbed his Rolodex. Littell found Paul Horvitz.

  He made the meet. Paul said he’d risk it. See you at 6:00 p.m.—Eddie Chang’s Kowloon.

  Littell weighed his risk.

  The hotel bug. Potential upshots exponential. Risk it. Tell Paul. Have him warn Bobby.

  Littell dressed up. Littell wore his beard and tweeds. Littell walked out.

  He walked. He broke curfew laws. He heard sirens. He saw D.C. locked down tight. He saw flames two miles over. He heard klaxons overlap.

  He walked fast. He broiled in tweed. A breeze blew soot flakes. A car eased by. A Negro yelled. He heard race obscenities.