The Cold Six Thousand (49 page)

Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Chuck Rogers perpetrated such thefts?”

Guéry said, “No.”

The needle dipped eight inches. The needle laid swerve lines.

Guéry squirmed. Stanton cued the gooks. They grabbed ropes. They looped them. They tied Guéry to the chair.

Stanton pulled his piece. Stanton cocked it. Pete grabbed the field phone. Pete patched the lab.

Chuck was gone. Chuck split to Saigon. Chuck split four days back.
Chuck bunked with Guéry now. Chuck hassled Guéry. Chuck drove Guéry nuts.

Pete got a dial tone. Pete got line fuzz. Pete got a click.

Wayne picked up. “Yeah?”

“It’s me. Have you seen Chuck?”

“No. Was he supposed—”

“He was supposed to go through Bao Loc and Saigon and pick up some guns.”

“I haven’t seen him at all. He always comes by the Go-Go when he’s—”

Pete hung up. Stanton cued him—go check the hooch.

Pete ran over. Pete popped the door. Pete tripped on the mat. He caught himself. He eyeball-walked. He quadrant-scanned.

Four walls/two fart sacks/two nightstands/two lockers/one shitter/one sink.

Pete dumped the nightstands. Pete combed debris. Toothpaste/rubbers/stroke books/hate tracts/
Ring
magazines.

Two passports—both Guéry’s—CIA/French.

Pete dumped the lockers. Pete combed debris. Hate tracts/bug spray/beaver pix/gun oil/
Swank
magazines.

No Chuck passports. No Chuck ID.

Pete grabbed the field phone. Pete patched Saigon direct. He got Ops South. They repatched him. He got Tan Son Nhut. They repatched him. He got static. He got Customs.

He got a gook. He spoke French. The gook spoke strict Viet. The gook repatched him. He got static. He got a white man.

“Customs, Agent Lierz.”

“This is Sergeant Peters, CID. I’m checking on a civilian who might’ve cleared Customs within the past four days.”

Lierz coughed. The line coughed. Static brizzed.

“You got a name?”

“Rogers. First name Charles.”

Lierz coughed. “I’ve got my log here. Hold on … Rice, Ridgeway, Rippert … yeah, Rogers. He flew out four days ago. He showed manifest docs, loaded explosive material and caught a transport to the National Guard strip in Houston, Tex—”

Pete hung up. Pete
got
it: Thefts/fake docs/explosives.

Guéry screamed. Pete heard it loud. It carried from forty yards up.

He ran back. He smelled smoke and piss. He cracked the door and
saw
it.

There’s Guéry.

He’s tied up. He’s pantless. He’s scared. Stanton’s got the hot box. Stanton’s got the switch. Stanton’s got the clamps on his balls.

The gooks watched. The gooks smoked bootjack Kools. The gooks slurped gook wine.

Stanton said, “What did Chuck Rogers steal?”

Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.

Stanton said, “If the theft is kadre-adjunct and you didn’t participate or report it, I’d be inclined to go easy.”

Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.

Stanton said, “Where’s Rogers now? What did he steal and who did he steal it from?”

Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.

Pete
got
it—for real now.

Chuck and Guéry worked Dallas. Stanton’s got no clue. Guéry won’t talk. Guéry won’t rat Chuck for
anything
.

Stanton said, “Is Rogers in-country? Did he fly back to the States?”

Guéry shook his head. Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled and screamed.

The gooks laughed—he claaazy—he
dinky dau
.

Stanton hit the switch. Stanton tossed volts. Guéry buckled. Guéry screamed. Guéry yelled, “
Assez!
”

Stanton cued the gooks. The gooks pulled the clamps. The gooks untied Guéry. The gooks sprayed his balls with baby oil. The gooks fed him gook wine.

He slurped it. He stood up. He teetered. He fell back in his chair.

Stanton leaned in. “If I said it hurt me more than it hurt you, I’d be a fucking liar.”

Pete sneezed—the hut smelled—fried ball hair and sweat.

Guéry said, “The ammo dump … Bao Loc … Chuck,
qu’est-ce que c’est
, burglarized bomb material … from François.”

Stanton shook his head. “Did he tell you what he had in mind?”

Pete leaned in. “Chuck flew to the States. If you let me talk to him alone, I’ll get the rest of it.”

Stanton nodded. Stanton stood up. Stanton cued the gooks—
venez, venez
.

They walked out together. Pete grabbed the bottle. Guéry snatched it. Guéry drained it. Guéry hitched his pants up.

“I will never have children now.”

“It’s not like you want them.”

“No. The world has become too communistic.”

“I think I know why you held back.”

Guéry wiped his nose. “I did not betray the kadre.”

“I know you didn’t.”

Guéry rubbed his balls. “Chuck … 
qu’est-ce
 … received a letter from his parents. I think they are not sane.”

Pete lit two cigarettes. Guéry snatched one.

“Chuck lives at their house. They said they found his … 
journal
?”

“Journal, right.”

“Which described our operation in Dallas … for which … they demanded an explanation … which … Chuck said he would fly home and … 
qu’est-ce
 … take care of it.”

Pete kicked a doorpost. “He stole bomb ordnance for
that
?”

Guéry coughed. “No. For something else. He would not tell me.”

Pete walked outside. Slaves double-timed past him. Guards popped rubber rounds.

Stanton straddled a fence rail. “How bad?”

Pete shrugged. “You tell me. Laurent said it’s a family grudge, and Chuck flew out with explosives.”

Stanton chewed a hangnail. “There’s a courier flight leaving for Fort Sam Houston. You and Wayne go find him and kill him.”

(Houston, 6/21/65)

G
ulf heat:

Low clouds and thick air. Air as bug propellant.

And bug catalyst. And bug haven. And bug launching pad. Bug
heat
—80 at 2:12 a.m.

The freeway was dead. Bugs bipped off the car. Pete drove. Wayne read maps.

Chez Chuck was on Driscoll. Chez Chuck was close. Chez Chuck was near Rice U.

Wayne yawned. Pete yawned. They yawned contrapuntal. They flew eighteen hours—Saigon to Houston—they plowed six time zones.

They flew transport. They sat on crates. They ate canned corn exclusive. Stanton set a car up—a ’61 Ford—there at Fort Sam.

Bum wheels altogether. No muffler. No fucking Air King.

Stanton knew some of it. Pete said so. Pete said he withheld the key shit. Maybe Chuck’s here. Maybe Chuck’s not. Maybe Chuck’s in Bogalusa.

With Bob Relyea—kadre-ex—kurrent Klan klown. Bob ran a snitch-Klan. Wayne Senior ran Bob. That meant
he
could WATCH.

They ditched the freeway. They took side streets. They ran their high beams. Houston was the shits—brick cribs and bug lights abundant.

Stanton shot them filework: stats per Chez Chuck. Chuck’s dad and mom were Fred and Edwina. They had a ’53 Olds.

Texas plates: DXL-841.

They hit Kirby Street. They hit Richmond. They turned hard right. There—Driscoll—1780/1800/1808.

1815 was glazed brick. No palace/no slum. Two floors and no lights extant.

Pete parked. Wayne grabbed two flashlights. They got out. They circled the house. They flashed the windows. They flashed the doors.

Bugs stirred. Owls stirred. Wasps bombed a nest.

Wayne flashed the back porch. Pete flashed a hedge. Wayne caught a glint—light on steel—Pete threw his beam down.

Wayne reached in. Wayne grabbed and pulled. Wayne sliced two fingers up.

There—

One Texas license plate—stuffed in a hedge. Bingo on DXL-841.

Pete said, “He changed plates on the Olds.”

Wayne sucked his fingers. “Let’s go in. We might find something.”

Pete flashed the back door. Wayne walked up and looked. Okay: One lock/flat bolt/wide keyhole.

Pete cupped his light. Wayne pulled his picks and jabbed at the hole. Two missed. One hit. One slid in deep.

He twisted it. He turned it. He popped the bolt. They popped the door and walked in.

They flashed the floor. They flashed a stairwell. Wayne smelled mold. Wayne smelled baked beans.

They turned left. They hit a hall. They hit a kitchen. Wayne felt trapped heat. Moonlight sieved through venetian blinds.

Pete pulled the blinds. Wayne hit the lights. There:

Sink water—dark pink—carving knives afloat. Baked beans and fruit flies on mold. Hair in a colander. Dots on the floor. Dots by the fridge.

Pete opened it. Wayne smelled it. They
saw
it:

The severed legs. The diced hips. Mom’s head in the vegetable bin.

(Bogalusa, 6/21/65)

P
hone work:

Room 6—the Glow Motel—direct calls out. Outside noise as direct counterpoint.

Shouts. Rebel yells. Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! We Shall Overcome!

We’re in BOMBalusa now. We remember BOMBingham.

He slept with the riddle. He lived with it. He ran.

To: Marches and pray-ins and cross burns. To: Beatings and hecklings and shouts.

He assumed a Fed presence. He laid cover tracks. He called Carlos. He set up a meet. He flew through New Orleans.

BLUE RABBIT might be here. Add BLUE’s Brother WHITE. Add Hoover confidants. Add local Feds.

He laid tracks. I was close.
It
was close. I had to see. I’m CRUSADER RABBIT. I’m a fool for civil rights.

Littell checked his phone book. Littell ran motels. He called the Texas DMV this morning. He got Chuck Rogers’ stats.

Houston/Driscoll Street/one Oldsmobile. Texas plates: DXL-841.

He got the stats. He got the room. He called motels. Forty-two local—dull phone-book stats.

He played Fed. He dropped his stats. He checked registrations. He made 19 calls. He got all nos. He hit Clerk 20.

“You the second police type who called ’bout that Olds. Only this other guy didn’t give me no DXL number, he said it’d have hot Texas plates.”

He brainstormed the response. He ran RABBITS. FATHER RABBIT’s Wayne Senior. FATHER knows Chuck. FATHER runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT’s close. WILD RABBIT’s Klan.

There’s BLUE RABBIT. He’s Fed. Who
else
wants Chuck?

He called motels. He hit 28. He got nil results. The outside noise got bad—these loud Nigger! shouts.

Littell worked. Littell called motels. Littell got nil results. Motel 29. Motel 30. Motel 31-2-3.

Motel 34: “You’re the second guy askin’ about that Rogers an’ that car, but I ain’t seen him or it.”

The Moonbeam Motel/the Lark Motel/the Anchor Motel—nil results. The Dixie/the Bayou/the Rebel’s Rest:

“Office. May I help you?”

“This is Special Agent Brown, FBI.”

The guy laughed. “You come to curtail these agitators?”

“No, sir. It’s about something else.”

“That’s too bad, because—”

“I’m looking for a white man driving a 1953 Oldsmobile with Texas license plates.”

The man laughed. “Then you’re one lucky member of the Federal Bureau of Integration, ’cause he checked into room 5 yesterday.”

“What? Repeat th—”

“I got it right here. Charles Jones, Houston, Texas. ’53 Olds sedan, PDL-902. By my lights, he’s a mean motherhumper. Probably gargles with antifreeze and flosses with razor blades.”

Traffic crawled. The disruption ratched it up.

Sidewalk marches. Hecklers. TV crews out. Signs and countersigns. Shriekers with good lungs. Nonparticipants out for yuks.

Freedom Now!/Jim Crow Must Go!/Nigger Go Home! We shaaaall overcome!
in re-run shouts
.

Littell drove his rental car. Traffic slogged. Littell parked and walked. Egg crews roamed. White kids chucked eggs. They chucked at Negroes. They nailed perceived Feds.

Littell walked. Littell dodged eggs. Eggs hit marchers. Eggs hit picket signs.

Egg crews walked. Egg trucks roamed. Egg men trucked ammo. Eggs flew. Eggs hit doors. Eggs hit awnings and cars.

The marchers wore slickers. The slickers dripped yolk. The slickers dripped cracked shells. Cops stood around. Cops dodged eggs. Cops sucked Nehi and Coke.

Littell walked. Eggs creased him. Littell looked
all
-Fed.

He cut left. He walked two blocks. He passed two egg huts. Egg crews formed. Egg crews armed. Egg trucks loaded up.

He saw it—right there—the Rebel’s Rest.

One floor. Ten rooms. All street-view units. Rebel flag and rebel sign—neon Johnny Reb.

Parking slots/outdoor walkway/the office detached.

Littell palmed a credit card. Littell cut straight over. Littell saw room 5.

He knocked. He got no answer. No car in front/no people/no Olds 88.

He faced the street. He braced the door. He worked backwards. There now—by touch:

The jamb. The bolt. Wedge the card and slide it through fast.

He did it. The door popped. He fell backwards inside. He locked the door behind him. He hit the lights. He checked the room out.

One bed. One bathroom. One closet. One overnight bag on the floor.

He tossed the bag. He saw clothes and a razor. He saw hate tracts. He checked the closet. He checked the shelf. He saw a box of fuses—half full.

He saw a Mossberg pump. He saw a .45. He saw a .357 mag.

He grabbed the pump. He dumped the shells. He grabbed the .45. He popped the hot round. He popped the clip.

He grabbed the mag. He popped the cylinder. He dumped the shells. He pulled the rug up.

He hid the ammo. He shut the closet door. He killed the room lights. He sat down. He pulled his piece. He cocked the hammer.

He leaned on the bed. He faced the door. He counted rabbits full-out.

He dozed. He cramped up. He heard chants outside. Two words—say two blocks out.

“Freedom” and “nigger”—two words overlapped.