The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  WJL: It’s a deft analogy, Sir.

  JEH: Lyndon Johnson will deplete his prestige on the home-front and recoup it in Vietnam. History will judge him as a tall man with big ears who needed wretched people to love him.

  WJL: Said with verve, Sir.

  JEH: Lyndon Johnson appreciates the verve of one Martin Lucifer King. I’ve been sending him motel-room tapes. Lucifer performs with equal verve in bed and at barricades.

  WJL: Dr. King wears many hats, Sir.

  JEH: Yes, and he also wears garishly patterned Fruit-of-the-Loom briefs.

  WJL: You’re maintaining a close surveillance, Sir.

  JEH: Yes, and I have Lyle Holly to direct me to Lucifer’s favored tryst-spots. I talk to Lyle on a near-daily basis, and he tells me that Bayard Rustin is very much taken with you and your allegedly pilfered organized-crime donations.

  WJL: Mr. Rustin finds me sincere, Sir.

  JEH: Because you are.

  WJL: I work at verve, Sir.

  JEH: You succeed.

  WJL: Thank you, Sir.

  JEH: I detect a shift in tone. Do you wish to ask a question?

  WJL: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Ask, Mr. Littell. You know I find preambles taxing.

  WJL: Do you know when you’ll leak word of my donations?

  JEH: When I sense that my missives on Lucifer’s Communist ties and sex life have reached their cumulative peak.

  WJL: That’s a sound strategy, Sir.

  JEH: It’s an inspired strategy. It’s inimical to your recent gambit with Wayne Senior.

  WJL: Is he peeved at me, Sir?

  JEH: Yes, but he won’t tell me why.

  WJL: I set up a deal for him. He facilitated some charter flights out of Nellis and wanted a higher percentage. His Mormons have cut him out of his existing one.

  JEH: Percentage of what?

  WJL: The casino skim his Mormons were moving.

  JEH: I am as delighted by that bit of data as Wayne Senior is vexed.

  WJL: I’m always pleased to amuse you, Sir.

  JEH: Wayne Senior has been in a thoroughly vexed state lately. He’s rebuffed all my inquiries about his son.

  WJL: I’m going to raise his percentage, Sir. That should improve his mood.

  JEH: Why? What do you need from him?

  WJL: I need to expand my Nellis clearance.

  JEH: To include?

  WJL: Flights from Vietnam.

  JEH: Data coheres in odd fashions. You’re my second postcard from Vietnam this morning.

  WJL: Sir?

  JEH: Dwight Holly called. He told me that Wayne Tedrow Junior and Pete Bondurant were recently granted Vietnamese travel visas.

  WJL: That is odd, Sir.

  JEH: Yes, and you are being oddly and blithely disingenuous, so I’ll change the subject. How are Count Dracula’s colonization plans proceeding?

  WJL: Very well, Sir. Pete Bondurant has purchased a taxi stand and is using it to accrue intelligence for Mr. Hughes. The drivers have picked up dirt on several Nevada state legislators.

  JEH: It’s ingenious. Cab drivers are night-riding denizens of the first order. They view wretched foibles from a gutter perspective.

  WJL: I thought you’d appreciate it, Sir. And while we’re on the topic of—

  JEH: Don’t lead me. Ask your favor while I’m still pixilated and bemused.

  WJL: I’d like to initiate a standing-bug operation in Vegas. I want to bug the hotel rooms the legislators stay in most frequently. I’ll bring in Fred Turentine to help me with the installation, and I’d like local agents to do the retrievals and forward copies to me.

  JEH: Do it. I’ll assign two agents from the Las Vegas Office.

  WJL: Thank you, Sir.

  JEH: Thank yourself. You charmed me out of a bad mood.

  WJL: I’m glad, Sir.

  JEH: What would Tedrow Junior and Le Grand Pierre be doing in Vietnam?

  WJL: I couldn’t begin to guess.

  JEH: Good day, Mr. Littell.

  WJL: Good day, Sir.

  60

  (Saigon, 11/3/64)

  Dig it:

  Rickshaw bikes and sandbags. Gun nests and frangipani trees. Grenade nets and gooks.

  Saigon at high noon—Brave New Fucking World.

  It’s big. It’s tricultural. It’s hot. It’s noisy. It stinks.

  The limo crawled. The limo bucked rickshaws. They bumped. They slid. They locked à la Ben-Hur.

  White buildings. Pagodas. Propaganda signs: VIGILANCE IS FREEDOM/TREASON HAILS NORTH!

  The limo crawled. The shocks creaked. The wheels slid. The cooler fan died.

  Mesplède smoked. Chuck smoked. Flash smoked. The driver sold them black-market Kools. Guéry smoked a Cohiba. Chaffee smoked a Mecundo. They smoked pro-Fidel.

  Wayne moaned. Wayne got green-gilled. Pete got queasy. Pete read native tongue:

  A BAS LES VIET-CONG! HO CHI MINH, LE DIABLE COMMUNISTE!

  Qu’est-ce que c’est, toute cette merde?

  The limo crawled. They hit Tu Do Street—the Gook Sunset Strip.

  Big trees and big shops. Big hotels and big traffic. Big noise en gook.

  Pete yawned. Pete stretched. They flew nineteen hours in. Stanton set their rooms up. Hotel Catinat upcoming—sleep most ricky-tick.

  The driver rode his horn. The driver clipped a rickshaw. Mesplède sniffed the air and nailed scents.

  Nuoc mam—fish sauce—goat bar-b-que. Machine-gun oil/frangipani blossoms/goat shit.

  Stanton said, “You’ll lay up for two days, then fly to Dak Sut. You’ll cross into Laos and meet Tran Lao Dinh. An ARVN rifle squad will walk point for you. Two Hueys will meet you and fly you to a dope camp near Saravan. You’ll negotiate right there.”

  Buddhist monks jaywalked. Traffic stalled up. Pete yawned. Pete stretched. Pete elbowed more room.

  Milt C. ran Tiger now. Milt ran liaison gigs. Milt ran adjunct ops: Ward Littell to bug hotel suites. Milt to bribe hotel clerks. Milt to schmooze them. Milt to tell them: place state legislators within.

  Pete’s bigggg decree:

  Restrict the Tiger crew. Restrict all pill ops. Rat rival pill crews. Rat said crews to Agent Dwight Holly.

  Trash the Vegas pill trade. Dry up West Vegas. Deprive hopheads. Tempt taste buds. Prepare hopheads for Big “H.”

  Chaffee waved his ditty bag. Chaffee offered gifts. Shrunken heads—certified—all VC très bien.

  Wayne tossed his out. Flash kissed his. Guéry named his “Fidel.”

  Pete yawned. Pete popped Dramamine. The Arden bit bugged him. It bugged him incessant. It bugged him nonstop.

  He factored Carlos in. 3/56: Carlos bails Arden/Arden splits K.C.

  New Orleans—’59—Mesplède sees Arden. Arden has a date. He’s a Carlos man/he’s a wop. 11/63: Arden visits the safe house. Carlos thus orders her clipped.

  He factored Carlos in. He held back. He never told Ward. He called Fred Otash. He said call around.

  Run Arden. Call your contacts. Glom me some leads. Check Arden out. Check out her ex—one Danny Bruvick.

  Flash kissed his shrunken head. Flash applied some tongue. Chaffee laughed. Mesplède named his head “de Gaulle.”

  Chuck waved his head. Wayne grabbed it. Wayne threw it out.

  Chuck said, “There’s times I think we hired the wrong Tedrow.”

  No sleep—his head wouldn’t stop.

  The room was okay—comme ci/comme ça—likewise the Tu Do Street view.

  The bed sagged. The grenade-screen creaked. The AC sputtered. Fumes cut through—nuoc mam sauce—ce n’est pas bon.

  Street noise carried up. Choppers buzzed the roof. Pete gave up.

  Pete oiled his piece. Pete put out his bedside pix. Barb/the cat snarling/Barb with the cat.

  Stanton set up an outing—1900 hours—Saigon by night. We’ll check out the natives. We’ll dig the night view.

  Pete sat on the terrace. Pete dug the now view. Pete saw ARVN cliques. Pete saw gook cops.

  Chaff
ee called them “White Mice.” Mesplède called GIs “Con Van My.”

  The skyline clashed—tin roofs and spires—M-60 machine guns.

  He loved war zones. He saw Pearl Harbor. He saw Okinawa. He saw Saipan. He saw Pigs. He avenged Pigs. He scalped Reds beaucoup.

  Dusk hit. The roof crews rejoiced. They arced their guns. They shot tracer rounds. They made fireworks.

  The new cadre was goooood. The new cadre was #1. Cadre with a “K” now.

  Stanton liked the guys. Stanton said Bob Relyea was a “Head Man.” He killed VC. He chopped their heads off. He sold them to clinics.

  Flash named his head “Khrushchev.” Stanton named his head “Ho.” Chuck named his head “JFK.”

  They rendezvoused. They grabbed a stretch limo.

  Bob Relyea showed up. Chuck hugged him. They laughed. They shared spit. They talked Klan.

  The limo sagged—nine riders plus weight.

  The kadre packed sidearms. The driver packed grenades. Relyea packed a 30.06.

  They swung off Tu Do. They hit side streets. The limo flew flags: The MACV/the ARVN/the skull & bones.

  Rickshaws clogged traffic. The driver rode his horn. The gooks ignored it. The driver yelled, “Di, di!”

  Mesplède popped the sunroof. Mesplède popped a clip up. The noise was bad. The shells blew down. Flash caught them hot. The gooks heard the noise. The gooks pulled over. The gooks ducked low and booked.

  The driver punched it. Mesplède flexed his tattoos. Two pit bulls grew boners. Two parachutes flew.

  “You must announce your intent to these people. They understand only force.”

  Reylea fanned playing cards—all ace-of-spades.

  “They understand force and superstition. These cards, for instance. You drop one on a dead VC and scare off potential converts.”

  Chaffee said, “Affirmative on that. I like the Viets, but they’re primitive as hell. They talk to shadows and dead chickens.”

  Flash chewed a shell. “Where the GIs? I only count four men so far.”

  Stanton said, “They tend to wear civvies. They stand out because they’re white or colored, and they don’t like to compound things by wearing uniforms.”

  Flash shrugged. Qué pasa “compound”?

  Pete lit a cigarette. “A six-figure troop commitment by summer. That means breathing room.”

  Flash shrugged. Qué pasa “commitment”? Guéry shrugged. Qu’est-ce que c’est?

  Pete laughed. Stanton laughed. Relyea cut cards. He fanned cards. He flipped cards. He pulled cards off Wayne’s shirt.

  “Chuck and me got distribution plans. I been sending tracts to inmates throughout the Missouri prison system, which was my pre-U.S. Army employer. I been sending them stuck inside these Voice of America pamphlets, which means the inmates get a soft version of the truth and the real thing.”

  Chuck lit a cigarette. “Aerial drops are the best. You fly low and bombard the troops.”

  Relyea shook his head. “Negative on that. You waste good tracts on the nigger EM.”

  Chuck winked. “Wayne’s daddy’s a tract man. He throws a good party, too.”

  Wayne stared at Chuck. Wayne cracked his thumbs.

  Chuck said, “Wayne’s a Martin Luther Coon fan. He’s seen all his films.”

  Wayne stared. Chuck stared back. The stretch swerved. Chuck blinked first. Wayne blinked last.

  The stretch swayed. The driver dodged a pig. Pete looked out. Pete looked up.

  He saw tracer rounds. Tracers as firefly flares.

  They cruised Khanh Hoi. They scoped the clubs. They hit the Duc Quynh.

  It was small. It was dark. It was French. Banquettes/mood lights/jukebox. They got a booth. They ordered wine. They ate bouillabaisse.

  Wayne sulked. Pete watched him.

  Ward snipped his daddy cord. Hey, Wayne, dig this: Daddy bought you Dallas. Wayne took it hard. Wayne held his mud. Wayne waxed sullen resultant.

  The food rocked—garlic and squid—chow indigène. Bar girls performed.

  They peeled to pasties. They lip-synced tunes. They sang some Barb cover songs.

  Chuck got drunk. Bob got drunk. They talked Klan shit resultant. Flash got drunk. Guéry got drunk. They talked patois.

  Chaffee got drunk. Chaffee waved shrunken heads. Chaffee spooked the girls off resultant.

  Stanton sipped martinis. Wayne sipped vichy. Mesplède smoked a Gauloise a minute. Pete heard bombs. Pete gauged directions.

  Small bombs—two clicks over—reverb off water.

  Chaffee called it—White Mice and VC. Gadfly stuff—pipe bombs pas beaucoup.

  The club filled up. Stag GIs cruised stag nurses.

  They hobnobbed. They danced. They hogged the jukebox. They played Vietrock—Ricky Nelson in gook—“Herro, Maly Roo.”

  Two niggers showed up. They vibed jungle stud. They vibed plantation buck.

  They hit on white nurses. They sparked rapport. They sat with them. They danced with them. They danced sloooow.

  Wayne seized up. Wayne watched them. Wayne gripped the table.

  They danced. They did the Stroll. They did the Watusi. Wayne watched them. Chuck caught it. Chuck signaled Bob.

  They watched Wayne. Pete watched Wayne. Wayne watched the niggers dance. They worked their hips. They lit cigarettes. They fed the nurses puffs.

  Wayne gripped the table. Wayne tore a plank loose. The stew pot fell. Fishheads flew.

  Pete said, “Let’s walk.”

  They hit the docks. They met Stanton’s ARVNs. Two trung uys—junior grade—first-lieutenant gooks.

  The lab was close. They walked over. The ARVNs walked point. Tracers popped. Red light tinged the water.

  There—

  The building’s white brick. It’s smeared with gook graffiti. One nightclub/one dope den/one floor per each. Three floors—with lab space on top.

  They walked in. They scoped out the Go-Go. There’s a bar. There’s a bandstand. There’s a shrunken-head motif.

  Shrunken-head wall mounts. Shrunken-head ashtrays. Shrunken-head candlesticks.

  More B-girls. More ARVNs. More GIs. More musk and more Ricky Nelson. More “Herro, Maly Roo.”

  They walked upstairs. The ARVNs chaperoned them. There’s the dope den.

  Floor pallets/wood planks recumbent/dope beds boocoo. Piss troughs and shit buckets. Four walls as fart envelopes.

  O-heads boocoo. O-heads in orbit. Slants and some round-eyes. One jigaboo.

  They walked through. They pallet-hopped. They dodged fumes. Pete held his nose. Scents sizzled and mixed.

  Sweat/smoke/fart residue.

  The ARVNs wiggled flashlights—you rook rook rook:

  See the dope skin. See the dope eyes. See the Jockey shorts de rigueur.

  Chaffee said, “The Americans are ex-Army. They got discharged and stuck around. The colored guy pimps slant girls out of the Go-Go.”

  The ARVNs flashed the spook’s pallet. Said spook flew dee-luxe. Dig his silk pillow. Dig his down bed and silk sheets.

  Pete sneezed. Flash coughed. Stanton squashed a turd. Chuck laughed. Guéry kicked a pallet. Guéry dislodged a gook.

  Mesplède laughed. Bob laughed. Wayne watched the spook.

  They walked. They hit the back door. They took side stairs up. There’s the lab—dig it!

  Stoves. Vats. Oil drums. Beakers/kettles/pans. Shelves. Mustard jars with taped labels.

  Stanton said, “I got everything Wayne asked for.”

  Chaffee sneezed. “It’s quality stuff. I got most of it in Hong Kong.”

  Coffee filters. Lime sacks. Suction pumps and extraction tubes.

  Pete said, “We cook it bulk and ship it that way. Wayne and I work the in-country and Vegas ends. We follow the courier flights to Nellis and go from there.”

  Chuck lit a cigarette. “Ward Littell’s got to get clearance, which as I understand it means he’s got to brown-nose Wayne Senior.”

  Wayne shook his head. “He doesn’t need to. There’s a one-star named Ki
nman who can do it.”

  The room smelled. Caustic agents settling in. Lime dust boocoo.

  Pete sneezed. “I’ll call Ward and tell him.”

  Wayne checked the shelves. Wayne read labels:

  Chloroform. Ammonia. Sulfate salts. Muriatic Acid. Hydrochloric Acid. Acetic anhydride.

  He cracked jars. He smelled compounds. He touched the powder stock.

  “I want to refine to the maximum viable dosage strength here. We finalize the quality here and tell the distribution guys in Vegas not to cut it any further.”

  Stanton smiled. “You’ve got your test pilots one floor down.”

  Chaffee smiled. “They’ve got opiate tolerances you can work off.”

  Mesplède smiled. “Inject them with a caffeine compound first. It will serve to open their capillaries and secure you a more accurate reading.”

  Pete cracked a window. Tracers rounds flew. Dig the streetside procession:

  Slants in robes—baldies all—loud chants in sync.

  Yawns went around. Looks went around. Fuck this—we’re jet-fucked and fucked from no sleep.

  Stanton locked the lab. Chaffee greased the ARVNs. You guard the lab/you stay all night—ten dollars U.S.

  Everyone yawned. Everyone was fried. Everyone dog-yawned and stretched.

  They walked downstairs. They cut through the den. They cut through the Go-Go. The Go-Go rocked anew.

  More round-eyes. More GIs. Some U.S. embassy types.

  The spook pimp was up. The spook pimp was de-O’d and revived.

  He bossed his whores around. He made his whores strip. He made his whores hop on three tables.

  They linked up. They performed table tricks. They French-kissed and went 69.

  Wayne weaved. Pete steadied him. A Buddhist monk walked in.

  His robe dripped. He looked stupefied. His robe reeked of gas. He bowed. He squatted. He lit a match. He gook-cooked with gas.

  He whooshed. He flared. Flames hit the ceiling. The lez shows dispersed. The monk burned. The fire spread. Some clubhoppers screeched.

  The barman stretched a fizz cord. The barman spritzed club soda. The barman sprayed the monk.

  61

  (Las Vegas, 11/4/64)

  Bugwork.

  Littell twisted wires. Littell hung microphones. Fred Turentine hung feeder cords.

  They laid cords. They taped wires. They perforated wall mounts. They spackled wall plates.