The Cold Six Thousand (75 page)

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 you 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.

They drove by the dope cribs. They saw cabs pull up. They saw GIs walk out. They saw GIs bop zombified.

Mesplède was shocked. Mesplède vibed
très
sincere and
très
horrified.
On va tuer le cochon. Le cochon va mourir
.

Pete said yes. Pete amended. Pete said Die Tough.

It was hot. It was a.m.-sticky. The dash fan puffed. Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete chewed Tums.

6:18. 6:22. 6:29. Fuck, this could go on—

There’s Stanton.

With a suitcase. Errands first?
Then
the airport?

Stanton got a cab. The cab pulled out. The cab pulled out slow. Pete nudged his driver—tail that cab fast.

The driver gunned it. A cab cut him off. The driver swung around fast. Tu Do was busy. Gun trucks goosed traffic chop-chop.

Stanton’s cab cut south. Pete’s cab bird-dogged it. Pete’s cab stuck two car lengths back. A rickshaw cut in. A coolie lugged cargo—tail cover boocoo.

Traffic slowed. They drove south. They bopped toward the docks.

Pete’s cab goosed the rickshaw. The driver rode his horn. The coolie flipped him off. Pete sighted in. Pete watched Stanton’s cab antenna. It wiggles/it weaves/it tracks good.

They hit the docks. Pete saw warehouse blocks. Pete saw loooong buildings laid out. Stanton’s cab braked. Stanton’s cab stopped. Stanton got out.

The rickshaw passed him. Pete’s cab passed him. Pete ducked and looked back. Stanton grabbed his suitcase. Stanton walked. Stanton unlocked a warehouse.

He did it mock-cool. He looked around. He stepped in. He pulled the door shut.

Stanton’s cab waited. Pete’s cab U-turned. Pete’s cab parked down the block. Pete swiveled the fan. Pete ate hot air and watched.

Time the visit. Do it now. Run your time clock.

Pete checked his watch dial. The second hand swept. Six minutes/nine/eleven.

Stanton walked out. Stanton still had his suitcase. Stanton locked the door up.

He shagged his cab. He stretched and yawned. The cab took off north-bound—toward Tan Son Nhut.

Pete paid his driver. Pete got out and walked. The cab peeled off.

The warehouse stretched. It ran two football fields plus. One story/one steel door. Side walkways adjacent. Mesh-covered windows inset.

Pete pushed the buzzer. Chimes ricocheted. No footsteps/no voices/no peephole slid back. Two walkways. Side windows. No witnesses out.

Pete cut south. Pete hit the near walkway. Pete took his coat off.

He found a window. He flexed his hands. He peeled the mesh back. His bad hand tore. Glass specks got reimbedded.

He made a fist. He wrapped it up. He made a coat-fabric glove. He punched out the window. Glass blew inward.

He hauled himself up. He squeezed through the frame space. He rolled to the floor. His hand throbbed. He squeezed blood out. He patted the wall. He caught a switch. Lights went on—two football fields plus.

He saw a space. He saw a floor. He saw
merchandise
. He saw swag. He saw rows and rows. He saw piles and piles.

He walked. He touched. He looked. He counted. He inventoried. He saw:

Sixty boxes stuffed with watches—pure gold waist-high. Mink coats dumped like trash—forty-three piles hip-high. Six hundred Jap motorcycles—laid side to side. Antique furniture—twenty-three rows stretched wide.

New cars—parked side by side. Thirty-eight rows/twenty-two cars per/stretched out lengthwise.

Bentleys. Porsches. Aston-Martin DB-5s. Volvos/Jaguars/Mercedes.

Pete walked the rows. Pete ID’d booty. Pete saw export tags attached. Point of shipment: Saigon. Point of entry: U.S.

Kall it easy. Kall it kold. Kall it dead:

Swag. Black-market-purchased. Non-U.S.-derived. Swag from Europe/Great Britain/the East.

Stanton ran the gig. His CIA pals helped. They bootjacked kadre money. They laundered it. They glommed luxury shit.