Read The Cold Six Thousand: Underworld USA 2 Page 34
Littell checked her eyes. Littell saw pinholes—nerves off amphetamines.
Barb lit a cigarette. Littell checked the TV. Jack laughed. Jack worked That Old Jack Magic.
Barb said, “Jane knows.”
Littell flinched. “You’ve never met her. And Pete wouldn’t have—”
“He didn’t. I heard you two being oblique and put it together.”
Littell shook his head. “She’s back at the hotel. She’s teething on it right now.”
“Do you talk about it?”
“We talk around it.”
“Is she scared?”
“Yes, because she knows who did it, and there’s no way she can be useful.”
Barb smiled. Barb wrote “useful” in the air.
“I got a letter from Pete. He said it’s going well.”
“Do you know what he’s doing there?”
“Yes.”
“Do you approve?”
Barb shook her head. “I like the useful part, and I don’t think about the other.”
“Like the notion of plundering one nation in order to liberate another?”
Barb squeezed his hands. “Stop it. Remember what you do and who you’re talking to.”
Littell laughed. “Don’t say you just want him to be happy.”
Barb laughed. “To a free Cuba, then.”
Janice Tedrow walked in. Littell saw her. Littell watched her. Barb watched him watch.
Janice saw him. Janice waved. Janice grabbed a side booth. She ordered a drink. She faced the TV. She watched Jack and Bobby.
Barb said, “You’re blushing.”
“No, I’m not. I’m fifty-one years old.”
“You’re blushing. I’m a redhead, and I know a blush when I see one.”
Littell laughed. Barb pulled his sleeve up. Barb checked his watch.
“I have to go.”
“I’ll tell Pete you’re okay.”
“Tell him ‘I’m useful.’ ”
“He knows that already.”
Barb smiled. Barb walked. Barb went knock-kneed. Men stirred. Men watched her. Littell watched the TV.
There’s Bobby with Jackie. There’s Jack in the Senate. There’s old Honey Fitz.
Littell got hungry. Littell ordered dinner—the prime rib he’d missed. The waitress was Jack-struck. The waitress perched by the TV.
Littell ate. Littell watched Janice. Janice watched the TV.
She sipped toddies. She chained cigarettes. She twirled her cane. She didn’t know. Wayne Senior wouldn’t tell her. He knew him well enough to say.
She looked over. She saw him watching. She got up. She maneuvered with her cane.
She cocked one hip. She stabbed her cane. She limped con brio. Littell pulled a chair out. Janice grabbed Barb’s cigarettes.
“That redhead played my Christmas party last year.”
“She’s an entertainer, yes.”
Janice lit a cigarette. “You’re not sleeping with her. I could tell that.”
Littell smiled. Littell twirled her cane.
Janice laughed. “Stop it. You’re reminding me of someone.”
Littell squeezed his napkin. “He used his stick on you.”
Janice twirled her cane. “It was part of the divorce settlement. One million with no beating, two million with.”
Littell sipped coffee. “You’re volunteering more than I asked for.”
“You hate him like I do. I thought you might like to know.”
“Did he find out about General Kinman?”
Janice laughed. “Clark didn’t bother him. The young man in question did.”
“Was he worth it?”
“It was worth it. If I didn’t do something drastic, I would have stayed with him forever.”
Littell smiled. “I thought you had a life sentence there.”
“Seventeen years was plenty. I loved his money and some of his style, but it wasn’t enough anymore.”
Littell spun the cane. “The young man?”
“The young man is a former client of yours, and he’s currently abetting the war effort in Vietnam.”
Littell dropped the cane. Janice snatched it up.
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
“Are you shocked?”
“I’m hard to shock and easy to amuse sometimes.”
Janice squeezed his hands. “And you’ve got old scars on your face that remind me of this temporary harelip of mine.”
“Wayne’s mentor put them there. He’s my best friend now.”
“He’s the redhead’s husband. Wayne told me.”
Littell leaned back. “You’re not playing golf. I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’m retrieving my swing. I’m not going to walk eighteen holes with a cane.”
“I enjoyed watching you play. I scheduled my breaks around it.”
Janice smiled. “I’ve leased a cottage on the Sands course. Your view inspired me.”
“I’m flattered. And you’re right, the view makes all the difference.”
Janice stood up. “It’s off the first hole. The one with the blue shutters.”
Littell stood up. Janice winked and walked away. She waved. She dropped her cane and left it there. She limped molto con brio.
He caught Barb’s tenner. He stood ringside. He killed time. He ducked Jane’s bedtime. He schemed up a trip.
I’ll fly to L.A. You drive back. I’ll meet you.
He drove home. The lights were on. Jane was still up. The TV was on. A newsman mourned Jack at great length.
Littell turned it off. “I have to fly to L.A. tomorrow. I’ll be leaving early.”
Jane spun her ashtray. “It’s abrupt, and we’re coming up on Thanksgiving.”
“You should have come next week. It would have been better all around.”
“You wanted me here, so I came. Now you’re leaving.”
Littell nodded. “I know, and I’m sorry.”
“You wanted to see if I’d come. You were testing me. You broke a rule that we set for ourselves, and now I’m stuck in this suite.”
Littell shook his head. “You could take a walk. You could get a golf lesson. You could read instead of watch TV for sixteen goddamn hours.”
Jane threw her ashtray. It hit the TV.
“Given the date, how could you expect me to do anything else?”
“Given the date, we could have talked about it. Given the date, we could have stretched the rules. Given the date, you could have given up some of your goddamn secrets.”
Jane threw a cup. It hit the TV.
“You carry a gun. You carry briefcases full of money. You fly around the country to see gangsters, you listen to tapes of Robert Kennedy when you think I’m sleeping, and I’ve got secrets?”
They slept solo.
He scooped up her butts. He packed a bag. He packed his briefcase. He packed three suits. He packed appeal briefs and money—ten grand in cash.
He made up the couch. He stretched out. He tried to sleep. He thought about Janice. He thought about Barb. He thought about Jane.
He tried to sleep. He thought about Barb. He thought about Janice.
He got up. He cleaned his gun. He read magazines. Harper’s ran a piece—Mr. Hoover misbehaves.
He gave a speech. He fomented. He attacked Dr. King. He disrupted. He appalled. He stirred hate.
Littell turned the light off. Littell tried to sleep.
He counted sheep. He counted money. Skim cuts and embezzlements—civil-rights tithes.
He tried to sleep. He thought about Jane. He counted her lies. He lost count. He ricocheted.
Barb goes knock-kneed. Janice waves her cane. Janice smiles. Janice limps. Janice drops her cane.
He got up. He got dressed. He drove to McCarran. He saw a sign for Kool Menthol—all swimsuits and sun.
He turned around. He drove back. He drove to the Sands. He parked. He primped in his rearview mirror.
He walked by the golf course
. He found the cottage and knocked. Janice opened up.
She saw him. She smiled. She plucked her curlers out.
65
(Saigon, 11/28/64)
White 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.
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.”
66
(Saravan,11/30/64)
Mail 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.