The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

  DIR: Was he being spot-tailed during the time preceding WHITE RABBIT’s binge?

  BR: No, Sir. We had already set WHITE RABBIT up to meet him, and I didn’t want complications. Nevada agents had been rotating on and off of him, though.

  DIR: CRUSADER RABBIT keeps popping up. He hops from catastrophe to catastrophe with rabbitlike aplomb.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: He appears in Bogalusa. Voila, WILD RABBIT’s friend Charles Rogers disappears. He appears in Las Vegas. Voila, he views the prelude to WHITE RABBIT’s suicide.

  BR: You know my distaste for CRUSADER RABBIT, Sir. That said, I should add that he did call and warn you.

  DIR: Yes, and I spoke to him yesterday. He told me that he helped WHITE RABBIT outside, and that WHITE RABBIT simply passed out in his car. His story sounded plausible, and the assigned agents have not been able to crack it. They tell me that he did terminate WHITE RABBIT’s casino credit, which further buttresses his credibility.

  BR: He may have somehow capitalized on the incident, Sir. I seriously doubt that he provoked it.

  DIR: I’m keeping an open mind for the moment. CRUSADER RABBIT is capable of outlandish provocations.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: To digress. Tell me how WILD RABBIT is behaving.

  BR: He’s doing well, Sir. He’s building up his Klan unit nicely, chiefly on the basis of FATHER RABBIT’s recruitments. He’s debriefed a number of recruits with mail-fraud information on rival klaverns and paramilitary groups. The Bogalusa incident appears to have chastened him, and he seems to be adhering to his operational parameters.

  DIR: WILD RABBIT is an obstreperous bunny who has endured very obvious reprimands.

  BR: That’s my assessment, Sir. But I don’t know who the reprimander is, and the Rogers angle eludes me.

  DIR: The chain of events is seductive. Rogers kills his parents and disappears. A Negro church explodes 800 miles east.

  BR: I only like riddles I can solve, Sir.

  DIR: I had the Houston SAC run a passport check. Pete Bondurant and Wayne Tedrow Junior arrived in Houston shortly after Rogers. I think they killed him, but their motive flummoxes me.

  BR: Again, Sir. CRUSADER RABBIT and his proximity.

  DIR: Yes, an additional vexation.

  BR: Sir, do you—

  DIR: RED RABBIT will seek to attend WHITE RABBIT’s funeral. Will you allow it?

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: May I ask why?

  BR: My reason may sound flip, Sir.

  DIR: Indulge yourself. Walk on the wild side.

  BR: My brother enjoyed RED RABBIT, Sir. He knew him for what he was and liked him anyway. He can come and give a big oration and repeat his “I Have a Dream” speech for all I care. Lyle only made 46, so I’m prone to humor his memory.

  DIR: The fraternal bond deconstructed. Bravo, Dwight.

  BR: Thank you, Sir.

  DIR: Has it occurred to you that CRUSADER and WHITE RABBIT share certain characteristics and a common moral void?

  BR: It has, Sir.

  DIR: Is your hatred for RED RABBIT escalating?

  BR: It is, Sir. It was my hope that we could escalate BLACK RABBIT and recoup our loss.

  DIR: In due time. For now I want to wait and assess an adjunct plan.

  BR: Covert ops?

  DIR: No, a formal shakedown.

  BR: Run by field agents?

  DIR: No, run by one Pierre Bondurant, known in unpolite circles as “Mr. Extortion” and “The Shakedown King.”

  BR: He’s a rough piece of work.

  DIR: He’s close to CRUSADER RABBIT. We might learn a few things.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: Good day, Dwight. And, again, my condolences.

  BR: Good day, Sir.

  82

  (New Hebron, 8/12/65)

  Nigger.

  He never thought it. He never said it. It was ugly. It was stupid. It made you THEM.

  Wayne took back roads. Wayne saw shit shacks and crop rows. Wayne saw THEM.

  They tilled dirt. They hauled brush. They dished slop. Wayne watched. Wayne made them Bongo. Wayne made them Wendell D.

  Wicked Wendell—last seen in Bakersfield—redneck California. Work first/Bakersfield soon/New Hebron now.

  New Hebron was redneck. New Hebron was small. New Hebron was très Mississippi. Bob Relyea gigged there. Bob ran Wild Rabbit’s hutch. Bob ran his Klan kompound.

  Bob had kadre guns. Wayne had kadre money. Kall it: Kadre meets Klan.

  Wayne drove slow. Wayne watched THEM. He felt bifurcated. He felt travel-fucked.

  He’d rotated west. He split Saigon. He had three weeks in. He cooked horse. He packaged horse. He followed horse west.

  Pete was in Laos. Ditto Mesplède. Mesplède just rotated in. They ran Tiger Kamp. They ran slaves. They cooked base.

  Pete got antsy there. Pete got bored. Pete bought a bomb raid. Pete bought some Marv pilots. Said pilots napalmed Ba Na Key.

  They deforested. They depilatoried. They defoliated. They torched a dope camp. They torched a dope field. They spared the camp lab. They cued in Tran Lao Dinh. Tran sacked the lab. Tran stole M-base and equipment. Tran fed it to Tiger Kamp.

  Laurent was in Bon Secour, Alabama. Ditto Flash E. Pete nailed a boat there. Flash knew boats. Laurent knew carpentry.

  One charter boat—one overhaul—one war boat boocoo.

  Pete’s plan: You view the guns. You pay Bob. You route said guns—New Hebron to Tiger South. You drive to Bon Secour then. You play backup. You jam this clown Danny Bruvick.

  Loops. Rotations. Travel fucks.

  Flash was travel-fucked. Flash looped through Cuba. Flash dipped in via speedboat. Flash dropped Fuentes and Arredondo. They stayed there. Flash looped on back. Flash looped to Bon Secour.

  Soon:

  Arms run #1. The Ebbtide revamped—the new Tiger Klaw boocoo.

  Wayne cut east. Wayne hit dirt roads. Wayne saw paper mills and compost burning. Wayne saw Bob’s “farm.”

  One shack—Bob’s “Führer Barn.” One gun range adjacent. Klan klowns kluster. Klan klowns klique. Klan klowns klip targets.

  Wayne pulled in. Wayne parked. Wayne smelled cordite and horse shit. Wayne walked in the barn. Cold air hit him—the “Führer Igloo.”

  He shut the door. He laughed. He sneezed.

  Rebel-flag drapes. Rebel-flag rugs. Rebel-flag furniture. Tracts on a table—Wayne Senior’s script—“Red Racemixers”/“Spook Coonfidential.”

  Ammo on a couch/sheets on a table/hoods on a stool. Dry-cleaned and folded. All cellophaned.

  Wayne laughed. Wayne sneezed. The door popped open. Bob Rabbit walked in. Bob wore fatigues. Bob wore jump boots. Bob detached his Klan hood.

  Wayne laughed. Bob shut the door. Bob refroze the igloo.

  “It ain’t GQ, but it works.”

  Wayne tapped his pockets. “I brought the money.”

  “Your daddy says hi. He always asks about you.”

  “Let’s see the guns.”

  “Let’s jaw first. ‘Hey, Bob, how’s the hammer hangin’?’ ‘Long and strong, Wayne, how about you?’ ”

  Wayne smiled. Pete whomped on Bob. Pete boxed his rabbit ears. Pete avenged Ward Littell.

  “Let’s see the guns.”

  Bob packed his nose. Bob jammed in Red Man snuff.

  “The niggers are rioting in L.A. I told my boys, ‘It’d take some napalm and two hundred Wayne Juniors to stop that thing.’ ”

  Wayne sneezed—cold air and snuff.

  “Cut the shit and show me the guns.”

  “Let’s jaw first. We discuss the nigger problem, and I show you my correspondence file from the Missouri State Pen.”

  Wayne said, “You’re wearing me thin.”

  Bob rubbed his nose. “I got letters from Jimmy Ray and Loyal G. Binns. They’re both good haters and pliable as shit. I think they’ll join up when they get—”

  Wayne walked. Wayne bumped Bob deliberate. Wayne walked to the kitchen.

&
nbsp; A TV was on. Negroes cavorted. Negroes threw rocks. Negroes stole liquor. The sound was off. Said Negroes yelled. Their teeth glowed bright.

  Bob walked in. Bob bumped Wayne deliberate. Bob popped an unplugged meat freezer.

  Guns: M-14s/pumps/bazookas.

  Bob pinched a nostril. Bob blew excess snuff.

  “I got all the requisite ammo and eight M-132 Zippos out at the range. Some guys heisted a National Guard post in Arkansas. My contact knows them, so we got first dibs. I figure you got plenty of shit for Tiger South and your Cuban run.”

  “How much?”

  “Thirty-five, which is a yard-sale fucking price, if you want my opinion.”

  Wayne grabbed a pump. Wayne checked the slide. Burn marks/no maker code.

  “It’s been dipped. There’s no serial numbers.”

  “They’re all that way. The guys didn’t want the shit to be traced back to the heist.”

  Wayne grabbed an M-14. Wayne grabbed a bazooka.

  “It’s good ordnance. It looks too good to be Guard issue.”

  “Don’t complain. We got a fucking bargain.”

  Wayne grabbed an M-14. Wayne checked the barrel lug.

  “Pete wanted the serial numbers to show. It’s a terror tactic. If the stuff gets captured, the Castro guys will know it’s U.S. donation stock.”

  Bob shrugged. “It’s not like you got it at Sears, with the fucking price tag attached and the lifetime warranty.”

  Wayne peeled K-notes—all krisp and klean/all logged and laundered.

  Bob laughed. “You don’t try to break one of those at your local Tastee Freez.”

  Wayne tapped the TV. Wayne got some sound. Guns popped. Sirens hummed. Negroes frolicked.

  Boat work:

  Laurent rigged the gun nests. Flash scraped the hull. They lugged tools. They dropped tools. They dripped sweat.

  They devolved the Ebbtide. They refaced the Ebbtide. They re-Cubafied.

  They draped nets. They smeared sails. They scraped teakwood. They camouflaged. They built a mock-Cuban boat.

  Flash gripped a sander. Flash scuffed the bridge. Flash scraped mahogany. Danny Bruvick watched. Danny Bruvick moaned. Danny Bruvick sipped Cutty Sark.

  Wayne watched. Wayne prickled. Wayne yawned. He drove sixteen hours. He loop-the-looped. He scoured ol’ Dixie.

  He split New Hebron. He popped bennies. He drove to Port Sulphur. He hit Tiger South. He dropped the guns. He drove to Bon Secour.

  Flash had orders—direct from Pete.

  Pete don’t trust Danny. Danny’s got this ex. She’s shacked with Ward Littell. We brace Danny—me and Laurent—Jefe Carlos too. We read Danny Tiger Law. You kowtow to Tiger Kode. You kart us to Kuba.

  Danny’s a punk. Danny’s a souse. Danny might call his ex and boo-hoo. Your job—don’t let him.

  Dusk hit. Flash rigged work lights. Laurent Cubafied. Wayne sipped beer. Wayne studied maps.

  Sexy Cuba and Bakersfield—bumfuck California.

  Boat work:

  Laurent climbed masts. Laurent stitched sails. Flash tuned the engines. Danny Bruvick watched. Danny Bruvick watched blotto.

  Wayne walked to slip 18. Wayne watched long-distance. Flash had new orders—direct from Pete.

  The ex is named Arden. Danny’s pussy-whipped. Danny might call her and sing the blues. Your job—don’t let him. It pertains to Carlos—some weird gig—thus mum’s the word.

  Flash hauled fuel cans. Laurent soldered drums. Wayne watched. Bennies parched him dry. Wayne sipped apple juice.

  A stretch pulled up and idled. A chauffeur popped the back door. Carlos got out. He’s the stock padrone. He’s got the stock sharkskin suit.

  He walked slip 19. Laurent snapped to attention. Bruvick rosaried. Flash snapped to. Carlos bowed. Carlos hugged Laurent.

  Bruvick snapped to. Carlos ignored him. Carlos walked below deck. Flash walked down. Laurent walked down. Bruvick limped down slow.

  The boat pitched and settled. Wayne heard screams.

  He found a slip light. He read his maps. The boat pitched. He heard thumps. He heard whimper-screams.

  Flash walked up. Laurent walked up. Carlos swaggered à la Il Duce. They walked down slip 19. They wiped their hands on paper towels. They bagged the stretch limo.

  The limo pulled out. Wayne watched the boat. Wayne checked his watch and ticked seconds.

  There—

  Bruvick comes topside. Bruvick limps. Bruvick deboats. He counts change. He hits the dock. He hits the pay phones.

  Wayne ran over. Bruvick saw him. Bruvick said, “Fuck.”

  Wayne saw the hurt:

  Loose teeth and fat ears. Puffed lips and abrasions.

  Bon voyage.

  They fueled up. They stocked transfer guns. They stocked their personal shit: Browning pumps and Berettas. Scalp knives and suppressors. One Zippo choked for big flames.

  Tiger Klaw—kool kamouflaged. Guns port. Guns starboard. Six gunwale slits. Tommys below-deck—hooked to swivel tricks.

  They shoved off—6:00 a.m.—south by southeast. Bruvick navigated. Laurent read maps. Flash read comic books. Wayne read street maps. Wayne studied Bakersfield. Truck farms and wetbacks. Stoop crops and Wendell Durfee.

  They bucked waves. They made time. It was hot. They got spray wet. They caught glare off the sea.

  They wore Coppertone. The boat pitched. They ate Dramamine. Bruvick got the sweats and shakes—forced sobriety.

  Flash hid his booze. Flash said Pete loathed Bruvick. Flash said it was private shit—per Ward Littell.

  Flash read compass stats. Flash read maps. Flash ran the script:

  We rendezvous offshore—near Varcadero Beach. We meet our men. We grapple boats. They get the guns. We get carte blanche. We’re upside the beach. We’re close to a Militia post—one barracks with Beards.

  Flash was happy. Flash was homicidal. Flash waxed cautionary. Flash said:

  Watch for boat robbers—they kill fishermen—they got little skiffs. They steal fish. They steal boats. They sport Fidel beards.

  Laurent was happy. Laurent was homicidal. Laurent pumiced his scalp knife.

  Dusk hit. They made Snipe Key. They refueled. They ran their sails. They recamouflaged.

  Bruvick begged for booze. Flash shackled him up. They walked off-boat. They found a crab shack. They ate crab claws and Dexedrine.

  Wayne got buzzed. Flash went pop-eyed. Laurent ratched his teeth. They brought Bruvick dinner. They deshackled him. They brought him one cerveza. Bruvick siphoned it.

  They shoved off. They ran south-southeast. They plowed currents. The boat pitched. Clouds hid the moon.

  Bruvick steered. Bruvick sweated. Bruvick rosaried. Flash fucked with him. Flash issued threats. Flash mocked his rosaries.

  They applied lampblack. Their hands jumped—wiiild Dexedrine. They went blackface. Laurent was tall. Laurent looked like Wendell Durfee.

  Flash ran compass stats. They hit Cuban waters.

  Wayne walked the bow. Wayne caught spray. Wayne ran his Bausch & Lombs. Waves jumped. Fish jumped. A flare popped and streaked. Wayne saw the boat. Wayne saw a boat in retreat.

  Due right—four hundred yards—speck in retreat.

  Flash popped a flare. The sky whooshed. Bruvick cut the boat near. There: Their boat/the meet.

  The boats bumped. Flash tossed a grappling hook. Flash hooked a deck ledge clean. Wayne saw Fuentes and Arredondo.

  They tossed their hooks. They jumped bows. They flew. Laurent grabbed them. They dogpiled. They rolled.

  Wayne said, “The other boat? La boata? Qué es esto?”

  Fuentes stood up. “Militia. They … qué es … checked us out?”

  Arredondo stood up. “Los putos de Fidel. They smell our fish.”

  Wayne smelled fish. Wayne scoped the boat. Wayne saw their camouflage: Fish poles/fish guts/fish heads.

  Flash ran up. Flash hugged the guys. Flash went effusive. Spanish flowed—“chinga” for “fuck.” “Puta roja” for “whore red.”


  Wayne lugged weapons—plastic-wrapped/tape-sealed/heavy.

  He double-timed. He hit the cargo holds. He ran the galley steps. He funneled. He made eight trips. He ran the swamp line.

  He tossed. Flash tossed. Fuentes caught. Arredondo caught and stacked. Little guys—strong—good catchers.

  Bruvick watched. Bruvick scratched a neck rash. Bruvick rosaried. Fuentes degrappled. Fuentes waved. Arredondo shoved their boat off.

  Laurent grabbed Bruvick. Flash mummyized. He cuffed him. He taped him. He made him King Tut. He taped his mouth. He taped his legs. He mast-pole mummified.

  Laurent rigged a raft. Wayne dropped anchor. Flash said, “Let’s kill Communists.”

  They took Berettas. They took knives. They took Browning pumps. They took a plastic-wrapped Zippo. They took a raft. They oared in. They surfed swells and ate grit.

  Two miles of black sea. Three miles to beach lights. There now: One barracks and one sentry hut.

  Off the beach. Off loose sand. Off dirt access ruts.

  They flanked. They oared left. Breakers slammed them. Wayne and Flash puked.

  They cut through it. A current hit. They pulled left. They scraped sand. They capsized. They rolled.

  They dragged the raft up to high sand. They scoped out the hut. Twelve-by-twelve/four men in it/forty yards up.

  Beside it: The barracks/one doorway/one floor.

  They shared binoculars. They honed the lens. They nailed snapshots. One open door. Two bed-rows. 2:00 a.m./thirty men/bunks and bug nets.

  Flash hand-talked. Flash said hut first. We go with silencer pops.

  They checked their Berettas. They unwrapped the Zip. They bug-crawled three abreast. Laurent lugged the Zip.

  Wayne wheezed. Wayne ate sand. Wayne jittered. They got close—six yards out—Wayne saw whole faces.

  The Militia guys sat. The Militia guys smoked. Wayne saw four carbines stacked.

  Flash lip-synced numbers—shoot prone on three.

  One—they aimed prone. Two—they triggered up. They fired on three—synced silencer plops.

  They hit strong. They hit main mass. They hit heads and chests. They double-tapped. They aimed up. They shot fast. They hit groins. They hit backs. They hit necks.

  Two fucks fell. Two chairs toppled. Two fucks scree-screeched. Two mouths gapped. Two mouths flapped soundless—wave-noise suppressed.