The Cold Six Thousand (39 page)

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.

Chaffee 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 Kinman 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.

(Las Vegas, 11/4/64)

B
ugwork.

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.

The Riviera—bug job #9. A big suite—three rooms in. Bugwork—Vegas-wide. Bribed access—four hotels in.

Moe Dalitz bribed managers. Milt Chargin bribed clerks. Mr. Hoover bribed the Vegas SAC. Said SAC pledged agents. Said SAC pledged speed. Said SAC pledged copied tapes.

Tapes to Mr. Hoover. Tapes to Ward Littell.

Turentine looped wires. Littell ran the TV. The news ran on. They caught LBJ’s landslide. They caught Bobby’s Senate sweep.

Turentine picked his nose. “I hate spackle mounts. The fucking paste stings.”

LBJ praised the voters. Ken Keating conceded. Bobby hugged his kids.

“I guess I’m lucky to get the work. It’s not like the scandal-rag days. Freddy Otash had me wire every fucking toilet in L.A.”

Goldwater conceded. Hubert Humphrey smiled. LBJ hugged his kids.

Turentine flicked snot. “Freddy’s scuffling. Pete’s got him running leads on some woman. Her husband screwed Jimmy H. on a deal.”

Littell killed the sound. Humphrey went mute. LBJ moved his lips.

“Who has the old scandal-rag morgue files? Would Freddy know?”

Turentine hooked wires. “You mean the
hot
dirt? The unprintable shit that never got published?”

“That’s right.”

“Why do you—”

“The information could help us. The rags always kept stringers in Vegas.”

Turentine popped a neck zit. “If you’re willing to pay, Freddy’d be willing to look.”

“Call him, will you? Tell him I’ll pay double his day rate and expenses.”

Turentine nodded. Turentine popped a chin zit. Littell goosed the TV. LBJ praised Bobby. Bobby praised LBJ. Bobby praised the Great Society.

Littell miked a nightstand. Littell miked a couch leg. Littell miked a lamp.

Morgue dirt was old. Morgue dirt was still ripe. Morgue dirt might help Mr. Hughes. They needed dirt. Dirt incurred debt. Let’s call Moe D. Let’s call Milt C. Let’s bug more rooms yet.

Grind joints next—bedroom mounts—Milt to retrieve. Let’s bug Vegas. Let’s cull dirt. Let’s extort.

Littell miked a chair. Turentine flipped channels. There’s Mr. Hoover in the flesh.

He said, “King.” He said, “Communist sympathizer.” He looked old. He looked weak.

The news ran late. Bobby’s segments ran long.

Littell went “home.” Littell called room service. Littell ate dinner and watched TV.

Home
-suite-
home. Room service and valets.

He missed Jane. He pressed her to come for Thanksgiving. She agreed. It scared her. The Boys owned the town.

She told lies. It disturbed him in L.A. He missed her and wanted her here.