The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2

by James Ellroy

DIR: I am astounded.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: He’s embezzled the money or stolen it from some convenient source. His salaries would not sustain that degree of largesse.

  BR: Yes, Sir.

  DIR: He’s indulging the Catholic concept of penance. He’s atoning for the sins he’s committed under my flag.

  BR: It gets worse, Sir.

  DIR: Tell me how. Fulfill my worst fears and most justified suspicions.

  BR: An agent spot-tailed him in D.C. two days ago. He was heavily disguised and almost unrecognizable. He met a Kennedy staffer named Paul Horvitz at a restaurant and spent two hours with him.

  DIR: More atonement. A roundelay that will not go unpunished.

  BR: What do you want me—

  DIR: Let CRUSADER continue to atone for his sins. Send copies of the March 15th and March 16th El Encanto bug tapes to Carlos Marcello, Sam Giancana, Moe Dalitz, Santo Trafficante and every other Mob patriarch in the United States. They should know that Prince Bobby has long-range plans for them.

  BR: It’s a bold and inspired gambit, Sir.

  DIR: Good day, Dwight. Go with God and other felicitous sources.

  BR: Good day, Sir.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/18/68. New York Times headline:

  RFK ANNOUNCES BID FOR DEMOCRATIC PRESIDENTIAL NOMINATION

  March 19, 1968–June 9, 1968

  106

  (Saigon, 3/19/68)

  You’re back.

  It’s vivid. It’s vicious. It’s Vietnam.

  See the troop swarms. See the displaced slopes. See said gooks talking Tet. See the boarded temples. See the truck convoys. See the antiaircraft guns.

  You’re back. Dig it. Saigon ’68.

  The cab crawled. Trucks hemmed it in. Gun trucks/food trucks/troop trucks. Tailpipe fumes windshield-high. Fume grit in your eyes.

  Pete watched. Pete smoked. Pete chewed Tums.

  He breached the truce. He flew overnight—Frisco/Tan Son Nhut. He lured Barb to Frisco. He pitched it as romance. He cloaked his truce override.

  She nailed him. She said you’re going back—I know it. He copped out. He said let me go. He said let me brace Stanton.

  She said no. He said yes. It went waaaay bad. They yelled. They threw shit. They gouged walls. They scared the desk clerks. They scared the bellboys. They scared the hotel staff.

  Barb split to Sparta. He roamed San Francisco. The hills bonked his heart. He drove to the airport. He sat in the bar. He saw some Carlos cats: Chuck “the Vice” Aiuppa and Nardy Scavone.

  They hailed him. They bought him drinks. They got tanked and bragged. They said they clipped Danny Bruvick. It was a twosky. They clipped Danny’s ex Arden-Jane. They supplied details. They supplied sound effects.

  Pete walked out. Pete caught his plane. Pete ate Nembutal. He slept. The plane pitched. He saw vices snap heads.

  The cab crawled. The driver grazed monks. The driver monologued: Tet kill many. Tet fuck things up. Tet kill GIs. Victor Charles naughty! Victor Charles evil! Victor Charles baaad!

  The cab pitched. The cab lurched. Pete gagged on truck fumes. Pete’s knees bumped his head.

  There’s the Go-Go. It’s still gook graffitied. You’re back. It’s still ARVN-guarded. There’s two Marvs door-posted. You’re back.

  Pete grabbed his duffel. Pete grabbed Wayne’s satchel—beakers and test tubes prewrapped. Drop them off/check the lab/hit Hotel Catinat.

  The driver braked. Pete got out and stretched. The Marvs snapped to. Said Marvs knew Pete—le frog grand et fou.

  They saluted. Pete walked in the Go-Go. Pete smelled white horse residue. Piss and sweat/stale excrement/cooked dope residue.

  The niteclub was mort. The niteclub was a dope den. It was ground-floor Hades. It was the river Styx boocoo.

  Slopes on pallets. Tube tourniquets. Lighters. Cooking spoons. Dope balloons. Spikes. Fifty junkies/fifty dope beds/fifty launch pads.

  Slopes cooked horse. Slopes tied off. Slopes geezed. Slopes swooned. Slopes grinned wide. Slopes sighed.

  Pete walked through it. Marvs and Can Laos sold balloons. Marvs and Can Laos sold spikes. Pete walked upstairs—dig it—there’s the river Styx revived.

  More slopes on pallets. More tube ties. More needles. More toe-crack injections. More arm and leg pops.

  Pete walked upstairs. Pete hit the lab door. Pete saw a Can Lao cat. He saw Pete. He knew Pete—le frog fou.

  Pete dropped the satchel. Pete talked Anglo-gook:

  “Equipment. From Wayne Tedrow. I leave with you.”

  The Can Lao smiled. The Can Lao bowed. The Can Lao reached and grabbed.

  Pete said, “Open up. I check lab now.”

  The Can Lao bristled. The Can Lao blocked the door. The Can Lao pulled a belt piece. The Can Lao snapped the slide.

  The door popped open. A gook stepped out. Pete caught a view: trays/sorting chutes/bindles prepacked.

  The gook bristled. The gook slammed the door. The gook blocked Pete’s view. The gook braced the Can Lao. They jabbered en gook. They eyed le frog fou.

  Pete got goose bumps. Pete hinked out. Pete hinked out boocoo.

  They sold balloons downstairs. They packaged two ways upstairs. They sold bindle pops too. That implied wiiiiide distribution. That implied upscale use.

  The gook walked downstairs. The gook walked fast. The gook slung a duffel bag. The Can Lao re-bristled. Pete bowed and smiled. Pete pidgin-gooked:

  “Is alright. You good man. I go now.”

  The Can Lao smiled. The Can Lao de-bristled. Pete waved bye-bye.

  He walked downstairs. He held his nose. He grazed pallets and squashed turds. He walked outside. He looked around. He saw the gook.

  He’s on the street. He’s walking south. He’s got that duffel bag.

  Pete tailed him.

  The gook walked the dock. The gook cut inland. The gook walked Dal To Street. It was hot. The street teemed. It’s a slopehead ant farm run amok.

  Pete stood out. Pete duck-walked low. Pete shaved half his height. The gook walked fast. The gook plowed monks. Pete huffed keeping up.

  The gook cut east. The gook bopped down Tam Long. The gook swung down a warehouse block. The sidewalk narrowed. Foot traffic thinned. Pete saw Can Laos straight up.

  Can Lao classics—goons in civvies—perched outside a warehouse. Cabs out front—good numbers—cabs perched down the block.

  The gook stopped. A Can Lao checked his duffel. A Can Lao got the door. The gook walked in the warehouse. A Can Lao slammed the door. A Can Lao double-locked.

  Six buildings down. Side alleys between each one. One connecting alley in back.

  Pete walked.

  He cut sideways. He hit the back alley. He cut down six buildings. He walked half a block.

  Six warehouses/all glazed cement/all three-story jobs.

  He cut back streetside. He saw first-floor windows. He heard the Can Laos out front. The windows were covered/mesh over glass/burglar-proof stuff.

  Pete checked a window. Pete saw light through glass.

  He took a breath. He grabbed the mesh. He pulled it back. He made a space. He made a fist. He punched the glass out.

  He saw pallets. He saw tourniquets. He saw white arms tied up. He saw GIs buy bindles. He saw GIs cook horse. He saw GIs shoot up.

  He slept bad. He slept weird. Jet lag plus Nembutal. He dreamed bad. He saw vices and crossbars. He saw white kids geezing up.

  He woke up. He got some focus. He de-raged. He called John Stanton. He said I’m fried. I can’t see straight. Let’s meet tomorrow night. Stanton laughed. Stanton said why not?

  Pete sedated. Pete reslept. Pete roused and jumped up. Dream shots reran wide awake—all broken-glass shots.

  That boy with the tattoos. That boy with the gone eyes. That boy with the spike in his shvantz.

  Pete hired a cab. Pete hunkered low. Pete ran tail ops. Cab stakeout by Hotel Montrachet—John Stanton’s billet-drop.

  He got more focus. The sleep helped. He totaled it all
up. One GI dope den/one at least—kadre kode breach.

  Don’t sell to GIs. It’s sacrilege. Sell and die hard. Stanton knew it. Stanton cosigned it. Stanton said Mr. Kao agreed. Ditto all the Can Lao.

  Stanton assured Pete. Stanton assuaged Pete. Stanton puffed and mollified.

  Mr. Kao ran dope Saigon-wide. Mr. Kao ran the Can Lao. Stanton knew Kao. Stanton quoted Kao: Me no push to GIs!

  He had that much. That to start. “That” could go wide.

  It was hot. The cab broiled. A dash fan swirled. It stirred hot air. It stirred gas fumes. It stirred tailpipe farts.

  The Montrachet boomed. The MACV brass loved it. Dig the bay windows with grenade nets.

  Pete watched the door. The driver ran the radio. The driver played Viet rock. The Bleatles and the Bleach Boys—all gook redubbed.

  9:46 a.m. 10:02, 10:08. Fuck, this could go on—

  There’s Stanton.

  He’s walking out. He’s got a briefcase. He shags a cab quick. Pete nudged his driver—tail that cab quick.

  Stanton’s cab pulled out. Pete’s cab pulled up. A cab pulled between them. Cabs boxed them in. Cab traffic stalled and sat.

  Traffic moved. They got free. They drove south. They drove slow. They snail-trailed.

  The driver was good. The driver stayed close. The driver laid back discreet. They drove south. They hit Tam Long Street. They hit that warehouse block.

  Stanton’s cab braked. Stanton’s cab stopped at the warehouse. Two Can Laos walked straight up.

  They saw Stanton. They heel-clicked. They passed an envelope. Pete watched. Pete’s cab hovered back.

  Stanton’s cab gunned it. Stanton’s cab hauled south. Pete’s cab pulled out and tailed back. A truck cut between them. Stanton’s cab cut west. Pete’s cab blew a red light.

  Stanton’s cab stopped. It’s halfway down a side street. It’s an all-warehouse block.

  A short street/six warehouses/good warehouse block.

  All Can Lao–guarded. Cabs perched curbside. Cabs perched down the block.

  Pete watched. His cab idled. His cab hovered back.

  The Can Laos ran up. The Can Laos swarmed Stanton’s cab. The Can Laos dropped envelopes. A warehouse door popped. Four GIs walked out. Four GIs weaved on white horse.

  Stanton’s cab U-turned. Stanton’s cab passed Pete’s cab. Pete hunkered waaay low. Stanton’s cab turned east. Pete’s cab tailed it. Pete’s cab tailed discreet.

  Traffic slogged. Snail trail. Fucking turtle speed. Pete prickled. Pete chain-smoked. Pete chewed Tums.

  They hit Tu Do Street. Stanton’s cab stopped.

  Pete knew the spot. One TV supply store/one CIA front. One door guard/one jarhead PFC/carbine at high port.

  Stanton got out. Stanton grabbed his briefcase. Stanton walked in. Pete grabbed his binoculars. Pete framed the door.

  The cab idled. His view bounced. His view settled flat. He checked the window. He saw drapes. They blocked his view.

  He caught the jarhead. He got him in close. He got his carbine. He got the barrel. He got a stamped code.

  He resighted. He got in close-close. Weird—a three-zero code—per Bob Relyea’s stock.

  The driver cut his engine. Pete timed Stanton’s trip. Ten minutes/twelve/fourt—

  There:

  Stanton walks out. Stanton shags his cab. Stanton takes off.

  Pete nudged the driver—you stay here now. Pete walked to the shop. The jarhead saw him. The jarhead snapped to.

  Pete smiled. “It’s all right, son. I’m Agency, and all I need are directions.”

  The kid unsnapped. “Uh … yessir.”

  “I’m new here. Can you point me to the Hotel Catinat?”

  “Uh … yessir. It’s straight left down Tu Do.”

  Pete smiled. “Thanks. And by the way, that code stamp on your rifle intrigues me. I’m ex-Corps myself, and I’ve never seen that designation.”

  The kid smiled. “It’s an exclusive CIA allotment designation, sir. You’ll never see it on regular military ordnance.”

  Pete got pinpricks. Pete got goose bumps. Pete got this cold flush.

  He held it close. He held it calm. He didn’t blow up. He hit the Catinat. He chained coffee and cigarettes. He racked logic up.

  Call it:

  The three-zero code/strict CIA/non-military.

  Bob Relyea lied. Bob Relyea konned the kadre. John Stanton helped him. Bob’s gun heists and “pilferings”: bullshit.

  Call it:

  Stanton got the guns. Per some kickback scheme. His CIA pals helped. They took dope profits. They fake-purchased guns. They laundered dope cash. They paid a CIA source. Said source supplied guns. Stanton and who else made money?

  Stanton and Bob. Carlos logically. Trace it back. Track the time line. Trust the time line logically.

  Stanton knows Mr. Kao. Mr. Kao pushes white horse. Mr. Kao shares kadre lab space. Kao runs dope camps. Kao ships to Europe. Kao exports there exclusively. Kao runs Saigon dope pads. Kao excludes GIs. Kao pushes to gooks exclusively.

  Bullshit.

  Kao and Stanton were jungled up. They ran Saigon dope properties. Said properties serviced gooks. Said properties serviced GIs.

  Warehouse dope pads/seven minimum/kadre kode breach. Death sentence/no recourse/kadre kode breach.

  Backtrack:

  It’s 9/65. Kao starts selling dope. Kao tells Stanton this: Me bossman. I run Can Lao. We share lab space. I no hook GIs.

  Stanton kowtowed. Kao bought lab space. Stanton told Pete. Stanton showed Pete a ledger for proof.

  Stanton lubed Pete. Stanton supplied facts and figures. Stanton supplied phony proof.

  Backtrack:

  Tran Lao Dinh kills dope slaves. Tran Lao Dinh steals M-base. Tran Lao Dinh resists torture. Pete fries his gonads. J. P. Mesplède assists.

  Tran said I steal dope. I sell to Marvs then. That all I do. Pete persisted—give me more details—Mesplède shot Tran some juice.

  Tran ad-libbed then. Tran dumped his hot seat. Tran electrified.

  Pete talked to Stanton. Pete told Tran’s story. Pete logicked it through:

  Tran stole the base. Tran sold it to Kao. Tran did not snitch Kao. Stanton bought Pete’s logic. Stanton praised Pete’s logic. Stanton signed Pete’s logic through.

  Make the jump:

  Tran worked for Stanton. Tran roamed Tiger Kamp. Tran was Stanton’s pet gook. Tran steals base on Stanton’s orders. Tran supplies Kao. Tran fears Stanton. Tran won’t snitch him. Tran fries with glee.

  Kall it kold—Stanton and Kao are kolleagues. It goes back to ’65. Kadre kode breach/death decree/retroactive.

  Jump two:

  Pete rotates. Wayne rotates. Pete moves stateside. Laurent’s there. Ditto Flash. They funnel stateside. Stanton stays in-country. Ditto Mesplède. Tiger Kamp runs low-supervised. The war escalates. More troops pass through. The kadre hits Saigon half-assed.

  Shit percolates. It’s outside their view. It’s covert supervised. Thus Stanton-vetted dope pads sell dope to GIs.

  Two years in? Maybe one. Maybe Tet-time stuff.

  Bogus gun sales. GI dope sales—kadre kode breach. Stanton’s nailed. Bob’s nailed—kadre kode breach. Who else made money? Who else gets breached?

  Pete chained cigarettes. Pete sweated gobs. Pete mainlined caffeine. He brainstormed in bed. He sopped up his clothes. He soaked up the sheets.

  His logic felt strong. His logic felt big. His logic felt incomplete. His pulse raced. His chest pinged. He got bips to his feet.

  Stanton said, “You look tired.”

  Drinks at the Montrachet. Code 3 Tet Alert. More door guards. More bomb nets. More fear.

  “Travel fucks with me. You know that.”

  “Unnecessary travel, too.”

  Pete seized up. Pete juked his performance. Get mad/stay mad/reveal shit.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying I’ve got eyes. You flew over to convince me to expand the business, but I’m going to say no and go yo
u one better. I’m glad you’re here, because I owe it to you to tell you to your face.”

  Pete flushed. Pete felt it—blood to the face.

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m disbanding the operation. The whole funnel. Tiger Kamp through to Bay St. Louis.”

  Pete flushed. Pete felt it—cardiac hues.

  “Why? Give me one good fucking reason.”

  Stanton stabbed his swizzle stick. A piece broke off and flew.

  “One, the Hughes thing has brought too much attention on Vegas, and Carlos and the Boys want to reinstate the no-dope rule. Two, the war’s out of control, and it’s become too unpopular at home. There’s too many journalists and TV people in-country who’d love to nail some rogue CIA men for doing what we do. Three, our on-island dissidents are getting nowhere, Castro’s in to stay, and my Agency colleagues all agree that it’s time to pull the plug.”

  Pete flushed. Pete felt it—deep purple hues. Be shocked/be pissed/be irate.

  “Four years, John. Four years and all that work for this? ”

  Stanton sipped his martini. “It’s over, Pete. Sometimes the ones who care the most are the ones least able to admit it.”

  Pete gripped his glass. Pete snapped the rim. Ice chips spritzed and spewed. He grabbed a napkin. He blotted blood. He stanched cut residue.

  Stanton leaned in. “I cut Mesplède loose. I’m selling Tiger Kamp to Mr. Kao, and I’m leaving for the States tomorrow. I’m going to disband the Mississippi end of the team and make one last Cuban run to pacify Fuentes and Arredondo.”

  Pete squeezed his napkin. Scotch burned the cuts. Glass shards worked through.

  Stanton said, “We did what we could for the Cause. There’s some consolation there.”

  Cab stakeout 2. 6:00 a.m./the Montrachet cab line/heat and cab fumes.

  Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete ran logic through: Stanton’s disbanding/Stanton’s regrouping/Stanton’s kutting kadre kosts and konnektions.

  Pete yawned. Pete got zero sleep. Pete prowled bars past 2:00. Pete found Mesplède. He was pissed and drunk. He was fried on his frog ass boocoo.

  Stanton sacked him. Mesplède raged—le cochon/le putain du monde.

  Pete gauged Mesplède. Mesplède gauged sincere. Mesplède gauged non-Stantonite. Pete rigged a test. Pete rigged a tour.