The Cold Six Thousand (43 page)

(Saigon, 11/28/64)

W
hite Horse—grad research.

Wayne mixed morph clay and ammonia. Wayne ran three hot plates. Wayne boiled three kilos. Shit filtered out.

Wayne dumped the ammonia. Wayne cleaned the beakers. Wayne dried the bricks.

Call it: Test batch #8.

He blew twenty bricks. He filtered wrong. He fucked the process. He learned. He added steps. He sluiced out organic waste.

Pete postponed the ship date. Pete let him learn.

Wayne boiled water. Wayne gauged it. Roger—182F.

He dumped it. He poured acetic anhydride. He filled three vats. He boiled it. He
got
it.

Roger—182F.

He measured base. He chopped it. He added it. He got the mix. He got the look. He got the smell—vinegar and prune.

He sniffed it. His nose burned. It looked good—good bonds—good reaction mix.

Call it batch #9—diacetyl morphine/impure.

Wayne sneezed. Wayne rubbed his eyes. Wayne scratched his nose.

He lived at the lab. He worked at the lab. He sniffed caustic agents. He built allergies. The kadre bunked away. He dodged them. He dodged Chuck and Bob.

They bugged him. They said go Klan. They said hate spooks. They said hate like we do.

His hate was his hate. They didn’t KNOW.

He lived at the lab. He slept all day. He worked all night. Day noise bugged him. He heard mopeds and chants outside. He heard slogan gobbledygook.

He slept through it. He set his clock—tracer rounds at six.

Night noise unbugged him. He heard jukebox clang downstairs. He heard music up his vents.

He did dope work. He built shelves. He filed newspapers. He crossfiled his clips. The Dallas rag and Vegas rag—a week old here.

The Dallas rag flaunted the birthday. The Dallas rag flaunted old stuff. Sidebars and
more
birthdays—“unrelated” stuff.

Where’s Maynard Moore? Where’s that Wendell Durfee?

Wayne checked batch #9. There—the right smell/the right burn/the right mass. Precipitants—visible—nondiacetyl mass.

Wayne worked alone. Wayne worked kadre-adjunct. The kadre was in Laos. The kadre was overworked.

Their bomb raid killed camp guards. They needed new guards. Stanton told Pete to hire some Marvs. On-duty Marvs ran expensive. Tran hired deserters—Marvs
and
VC.

Forty-two guards/eighteen Marvs/twenty-four Congs.

They worked hard. They worked cheap. They shrieked their views: Ho versus Khanh/North versus South/Mao versus LBJ.

Pete got pissed. Pete chartered laws. Pete segregated guard crews. Pete pouched notes down—Saravan to Saigon—on CIA flights boocoo.

Pete praised the kadre. Pete praised Tran. Pete passed a rumor on: The Premier P.R.-prone. The Premier order “review.”

Many dope dens exist now. Many GIs come here soon—troop buildup boocoo. Dope dens big. Dope dens
bad
. My den policy need review.

Stanton didn’t buy it. Stanton knew said Premier. Said Premier was a puppet. Money pulled his strings. Said Premier
taxed
his dope dens boocoo.

West Vegas stood ready. Milt Chargin told Pete. Pete pouched word to Wayne. Milt ratted pill crews. Milt snitched to Dwight Holly. Holly told the apropos Feds. West LV stood dry. The funnel stood ready. Wayne pledged the goods:

Heroin—grade 4—ready by 1/9/65.

Wayne checked the clock. Wayne checked the vats. He measured sodium carbonate. He measured chloroform. He filled three tubes.

He locked the lab. He walked downstairs. The den was dark. The den was full. A Chinaman sold cubes. A Chinaman cleaned pipes. A Chinaman hosed stray turds.

Wayne blocked his nose. Wayne walked flashlight-first.

He walked bed rows. He stubbed pallets. He kicked piss bowls. O-heads stirred. O-heads cringed. O-heads kicked out.

He strafed their eyes. He strafed their arms. He strafed their needle tracks. Arm tracks/leg tracks/dick tracks/old tracks/test tracks.

The air reeked of smoke and piss. The light scattered rats. Wayne walked. Wayne carried tape. Wayne marked eight pallet slats.

He flashed eyes. He flashed arms. He flashed a corpse. Rats had it. Rats gnawed on the crotch. Rats lapped shit water. Rats surfed the floor.

Wayne walked. Wayne checked Bongo’s bed.

Bongo snored. Bongo slept with two whores. Bongo had down pillows and silk pallet slats.

Wayne flashed Bongo’s eyes. Bongo slept on. Wayne made him Wendell Durfee.

It worked. It happened. It cohered. He did it—he made white horse.

He cooked all day. He filtered. He worked carbonates. He purified. He refined. He mixed charcoal and alcohol. He hit #3—6% pure.

He walked downstairs. He selected three O-heads. He packed their pipes full. They smoked #3. They puked. They launched. They hit orbit.

He walked back up. He mixed ether. He mixed hydrochloric acid. He dissolved #3. He laced it. He mixed hydro
and
ether.

He worked all night. He waited. He watched tracer rounds. He filtered. He dried. He got precipitant flakes and got
it:
Heroin—#4—96% pure.

He mixed sugar base. He diluted it. He cut it. He prepped eight syringes. He prepped eight swabs. He prepped eight good shots.

He yawned. He crapped out. He slept nine hours straight.

Two Marvs assisted. Two Marvs marched them in. They smelled. They outstunk his ammonia. They outfumed his carbonates.

Wayne cracked a window. Wayne measured their pupils. The Marvs jabbered in Anglo-gook:

Cleanup come—buildup come—cleanup do much good.

Wayne cooked up eight shots. Wayne fed eight spikes.

Two heads ran. Four heads grinned. Two heads pumped their veins. The Marvs grabbed the runners. The Marvs pumped their veins.

Wayne tied them off. Wayne geezed them. They seized up. They shook. Wayne flashed their eyes. Their pupils contracted. Their pupils pinned.

They nodded. They weaved. They upchucked and hurled. They doused the sink. They rubberized. They zombified.

They plopped down prone. They nodded out. The Marvs grabbed the last six. The Marvs prepped them good.

They swabbed their arms. They tied them off. They pumped out their veins. Wayne geezed them six across.

They seized up. They shook. They doused the sink. They heroinized.

The Marvs cheered. The Marvs jabbered in Anglo-gook.

Dignitaries come—that mean much money—cleanup much good.

The O-heads weaved. The O-heads bumped. The O-heads swacked and swerved. Blastoff and orbit—Big “H”
très
boocoo.

Wayne greased the Marvs. Wayne paid ten bucks U.S. The Marvs hauled the O-heads out. The lab smelled. Wayne Lysoled the sink. Wayne wiped his needles blood-free.

“If there’s more of that, I’ll fly.”

Wayne turned around—whazzat?—Wayne dropped a needle tray.

There’s Bongo. He’s in bikini briefs. He’s in fruit boots.

“What kind of reading can you get off little slopes like that? You need a big guy like me to gauge the fuckin’ quality of your shit.”

Wayne gulped a tad. Wayne checked vat dregs and spoons. Wayne saw one dose tops.

He strained it. He siphoned it. He cooked it.

Bongo said, “You always starin’ at me. Then you gets to meet me formally, and you gots nothin’ to say.”

Wayne grabbed a tourniquet. Wayne fed a spike.

“There’s this rumor goin’ around that you killed these three brothers, but I don’t believe it. You more the voyeur type to me.”

Wayne grabbed his arms. Wayne pumped his veins. Wayne primed a fat blue.

“Cat got your tongue? You a fuckin’ deaf-mute or somethin’?”

Wayne tied him off. Wayne geezed him.

Bongo seized. Bongo shook. Bongo upchucked and hurled. He doused the floor. He doused Wayne’s shoes. He grinned. He weaved. He danced.

He did the Swim. He did the Wah-Watusi. He lurched. He grabbed at shelves. He stumbled out.

Wayne heard tracers. Wayne cracked his windows. There’s the arc. There’s the rush. There’s the pink glow.

Wayne cracked the vents. Music flew up. There’s “Night Train”—Sonny Liston’s song.

Bongo walked back in. Bongo brought two whores. They held him. They propped him up.

He said, “Yours, baby. Around the world, free.”

Wayne shook his head. One whore said, “He crazy.” One whore said, “He queer.”

(Saravan,11/30/64)

M
ail run—Aéroport de Saravan.

Mail flew in. Mail hit Saigon. Mail hit Ops South. Marvs snatched kadre mail. Marvs called up the kampsite. Marvs pouched it up.

The airstrip reeked. Goats grazed adjacent. One runway/one hut.

Pete waited. Pete jeeped in. Pete brought two guards. Pete brought an ex-Cong kontingent.

The ex-Congs mingled. The ex-Congs disdained the ex-Marvs. The ex-Marvs mingled. The ex-Marvs disdained the ex-Congs.

Pete feared riots. Pete stole their guns. Pete issued rubber-bullet pumps. Pete neutered the guards. Pete pampered the slaves. They got fresh food and water. They got fresh chains.

Tran sacked a village. Tran killed VC. Tran stole their swag. Tran got canned goods and penicillin. Tran got methamphetamine.

The slaves were soft. The slaves were weak. Harvest time was near. Pete stole their “O.” Pete fed them soup. Pete fed them franks and beans.

The slaves were sick—fevers and flu—Pete fed them penicillin. The slaves lacked will. The slaves lacked oomph. Pete fed them methamphetamine.

They worked triple shifts. They soared. The fields sparkled. The bulb yield soared. Tran hired six chink chemists. Said chinks cooked M-base. The refineries soared.

Wayne worked the base. Wayne pledged white horse. Wayne’s production skills soared.

The mail plane touched down. Goats scattered. The pilot tossed mail sacks. Marvs deplaned fast. Pete’s Congs shagged the pouch.

They ran it over. Pete pulled the letters. Pete read them through.

Ward wrote. Ward said he checked Tiger. Ward said Tiger looked good. Nellis looked good. Kinman looked good. Kinman pledged help. Airmen to unload crates/airmen to lug crates/airmen to drive crates to the Agency drop.

Ward said he saw Barb. Barb was lonely. Barb was good. Wayne wrote.

Wayne said we’re on go: 1/9/65.

Fred Otash wrote. Fred had no Arden dope. Fred had no dope on D. Bruvick. Queries out/will continue/will update as told.

Barb wrote. Barb wrote vignettes. Her thoughts jumped. Her handwriting jerked.

I’m up. I’m down. I sleep odd hours.

“Not
our
odd hours. Not where we met & made love going & coming to bed.”

She saw Ward. “He’s hot for Wayne’s stepmom.” The cat missed him. “He sleeps on your pillow now.”

She hung out at Tiger. “Milt kills me. He auditions all his shticks.

“Donkey Dom drives me to work. He wonders why he can’t keep boyfriends, esp. considering his ‘equipment.’ I said, ‘Maybe it’s because you’re a male prostitute.’ ”

The cat bit a maid. The cat clawed a couch. The cat bit her drummer.

“I miss you … I miss you … I get crazy when you’re gone because you’re the only one who knows what I do & so I go up & down & get a little crazy pretending I’m talking to you & wondering where I’ll be in 5 yrs., when my regulars trade me in for a newer model & I’m not so useful. Have you ever thought about that?”

Pete read the letter. Pete smeared the ink. He smelled Barb. He felt Barb. “Up & down” fucked him up.

The camp soared. Pete jeeped through. Pete toured.

Kall it one kamp now. Straight acres—marked by fence posts and huts.

Forested borders. Clay underbrush. Bulb rows/furrows/walkways. Refinery huts and guard huts. Slave jails and ops huts.

Magic beasts roamed the forest. White tigers prowled boocoo.

Pete dug cats. Pete dug tigers. Pete dug nifty names. Pete konkokted “Tiger Kamp.”

Flash sketched for kicks. Flash dug on tigers. Flash tigerized the huts. Flash painted tiger fangs and tiger stripes.

Pete cruised the walkways. Pete cruised the bulb rows. Pete watched.

Slaves raked. Slaves tilled. Slaves pulled rickshaws. Shackle lines—twelve slaves per—slaves fueled by meth.

Slaves worked. Slaves paused too long. Guards popped rubber rounds.

Laurent waved. Flash waved. Mesplède waved. Laurent urged speed—
di thi di
—Mesplède flexed his tattoos.

Pete counted stalks. Pete multiplied: bulbs per stalk/yield per bulb/sap-to-M-base. Stalks blew by. Pete blew the count. Pete mismultiplied.

He hit Ops North. The Congs took his jeep. He walked in. He saw Chuck and Bob. He saw their canned smorgasbord:

Chili and kraut. Franks and beans. Tokay/T-Bird/white port.

Chuck said, “We’re losing Bob.”

Pete grabbed a chair. “Why?”

“It’s not like we’re losing him altogether, it’s more like he’s relocating to help out a kindred soul.”

Bob sipped T-Bird. “Chuck set me up with Wayne’s daddy, unbe-fucking-knownst to Wayne, of course. His people offered me a chance to take over a snitch-Klan in Mississippi when the Army cuts me loose.”

Chuck sipped Tokay. “The Feds are bankrolling his klavern. That means official sanction and discretionary leeway as to how much rowdy shit he can pull.”

Pete cracked his knuckles. “It’s bullshit. You’d give up our thing for the chance to torch a few churches?”

Chuck noshed beans. “Pete’s got these gaps in his political education. He don’t think much past Cuba.”

Bob belched. “I like the discretionary part and the leadership part. I get to recruit my own Kluxers, pull my own shit and get me some mail-fraud indictments that can’t be traced back to me.”

Chuck snarfed franks. “How far can you go?”

“That’s the $64,000 Question, so I gotta assume that ‘discretionary’ means according to the guidelines my handler sets up, along with shit he don’t know about. Wayne Senior said I’m supposed to start with a show of force, you know, to establish my rep, which suits me just fine.”

Pete lit a cigarette. “Don’t let Wayne know that you’re in touch with his father, and don’t talk that Klan shit in front of him. He’s off the deep end on niggers, and that kind of talk scares him.”