The Cold Six Thousand (56 page)

They cut through it. A current hit. They pulled left. They scraped sand. They capsized. They rolled.

They dragged the raft up to high sand. They scoped out the hut. Twelve-by-twelve/four men in it/forty yards up.

Beside it: The barracks/one doorway/one floor.

They shared binoculars. They honed the lens. They nailed snapshots. One open door. Two bed-rows. 2:00 a.m./thirty men/bunks and bug nets.

Flash hand-talked. Flash said hut first. We go with silencer pops.

They checked their Berettas. They unwrapped the Zip. They bug-crawled three abreast. Laurent lugged the Zip.

Wayne wheezed. Wayne ate sand. Wayne jittered. They got close—six yards out—Wayne saw whole faces.

The Militia guys sat. The Militia guys smoked. Wayne saw four carbines stacked.

Flash lip-synced numbers—shoot prone on three.

One—they aimed prone. Two—they triggered up. They fired on three—synced silencer plops.

They hit strong. They hit main mass. They hit heads and chests. They double-tapped. They aimed up. They shot fast. They hit groins. They hit backs. They hit necks.

Two fucks fell. Two chairs toppled. Two fucks scree-screeched. Two mouths gapped. Two mouths flapped soundless—wave-noise suppressed.

Flash rolled up. Flash got close. Flash shot main mass. The bodies jerked. The bodies sponged lead.

Flash signaled. The barracks—NOW.

Laurent lit the Zippo. The cherry top flared. They crawled up. They got close. There’s the target. There’s the door.

Laurent stood up. Laurent braced the doorway. Laurent Zippo-ized. He strafed the beds. He strafed the bug nets. He strafed
putos Red
.

Commies burned. Commies screamed. Commies rolled out of fart-sacks. Commies tangled up bug nets and ran.

Laurent burned bed sheets. Laurent burned walls. Laurent burned men in skivvies and pajamas. Commies ran. Commies fell. Commies crashed windows out.

The barracks burned. Commies ran—Reds on fire.

They ran out the back door. They ran to the beach. They fell in the sand. They ran and hit water.

Waves doused them. Waves deflamed them. Waves sucked them in. Waves boiled. The barracks burned. Ammo ignited.

Laurent chased fireballs. Laurent strafed wet sand. Laurent cooked salt water.

Flash walked to the hut. Flash dragged two dead men out. Flash dumped them and pissed on their heads.

Wayne walked up. Wayne got stage fright. Do it. Show them. Show
Pete
.

He pulled his knife. He picked a scalp. He dug the blade in.

Bakersfield—travel-fucked. Dusty streets/dusty skies/dusty air. The San Joaquin Valley—wall-to-wall dust—farm dirt and glare.

He was travel-fucked. He jumped Cuba to Snipe Key. He jumped Snipe Key to Bon Secour. He jumped Bon Secour to New Orleans. He took three flights west. He got bad sleep. He went off Dexedrine.

He called Saigon. Mesplède patched him to Pete. He praised the run. He praised the guns. He ragged Bob’s number-dips.

Pete was pissed. Pete ragged Bob.
Stamp
the numbers—
scare
the Beard—flaunt U.S. Code.

Wayne called Barb. It was tense. Tense off that fight. Barb had news. Barb had a pending gig—adjunct-USO.

We’re doing Saigon. We’re doing Da Nang. Please lure Pete to the show. He said sure. He said I’ll be back. He said I’ll be travel-fucked.

Wayne cruised Bakersfield. Wayne read his maps. He flew in. He glommed a rental car. He cruised straight back out.

Mextown ran east. The truck farms ran east. You had beer bars/trailers/motels. You had dust. You had dust bugs. You had Mex cribs galore.

He hit the bars. He sipped beer. He coaxed information. Barmen talked. Barmen travelogued.

Wetback whores?
Shit
. Wetbacks
are
whores.

They jump borders. They steal jobs. They work cheap. They overbreed. They live to fuck. They whelp like chihuahuas. They pick crops.
They get paid—they fuck
real
whores then. Wetback pimps pimp wetback whores—the payday proliFUCKation.

They swarm motels. They production-fuck. They proliFUCKate. Check the Sun-Glo. Check the Vista—check the whole scene. Payday’s tomorrow—the wets proFUCKate—you’ll dig the scene.

Wayne dropped the name “Wendell Durfee.” Wayne dredged up some shrugs.

Who’s that? Some jigaboo?

That’s right—he’s colored. He’s quite loud and tall.

Sheeeit—

Wetbacks hate jigs. Crop men hate jigs. That jig better haul.

Payday:

Wayne cruised truck farms. Wayne loitered. Wayne watched.

Wets pick cabbage. Wets yank weeds. Wets fill garbage drums. Sirens blow. The wets yell. The wets drop hoes and run.

They hit pay trucks. They line up. They shag cash and run—
families/hombres/muchachos
.

Some clique up. Some walk off. Some liiiiinger.
Hombres todos
—men with shit-eater grins.

Trucks pull up.
Hombres
greet
hombres. Hombres
dispense: Jar brew/rubbers/French ticklers/T-Bird/white port/nude Polaroids. Beaver pix of Mexi-whores—let’s proFUCKate.

Wayne walked over.
Hombres
cringed. Wayne vibed
Migra
fuzz. Wayne mollified. Wayne spoke pidgin-Mex. Wayne coaxed info.

Dig:

The truck men pimped. They signed johns up early—supply meets demand. Go to the Sun-Glo and Vista. See the Fuckathon.

Wets scoped the beaver pix. Wets signed up. Wayne flashed Wendell Durfee pix and got nada. Shit—we ain’t seen him/we don’t know him/we hate
negritos
.

Wayne split. Wayne braced more truck pimps. Wayne got more nada. He regrouped. He read his maps. He crossed the tracks and cruised Darktown.
De facto
segregation—wets north/coloreds south.

He yawned. He fought sleep-fuckification. He slept too long last night. He slept fourteen hours. He logged some bad dreams.

Barb rags him—don’t pop pills—he rags Barb back. Don’t you do it—you’ll age bad—I love you.

Bongo co-starred. Bongo convulsed. Bongo snitched Wendell Durfee. Wendell’s in Cuba. He’s got the cold six thousand. He’s got a Castro beard.

Wayne cruised Darktown. Wayne hit pool halls. Wayne hit lounge spots. He vibed cop. He vibed grief. He wore his gun out.

Cops saw him. Cops waved. Cops vibed brother cop. He braced coloreds. He flashed his Wendell pix. He got huh?s. He got indignation.

You dig Watts? It could happen
here
. It could happen NOW.

He worked through it. He worked all day. He wore Darktown out. Nobody knew Wicked Wendell. Nobody knew jackshit.

Dusk hit. He drove to the Sun-Glo. He caught the Fuckathon.

Ten rooms/ten whores/ten parking-lot lines. Wets twenty-deep and pimps with stopwatches—you fuck off
my
clock.

Snack stands—all jerry-rigged/all run by
mamacitas
. They served beans. They served
cerveza
. They served
carnitas
.

It was hot. Fried pork spattered. Jalopy pipes popped.

Doors opened. Doors shut. Wayne got snapshots: Nude girls and wide-leg poses. Soiled sheets trashed up.

The lines moved fast—six minutes per fuck. Cops stood around. Pimps greased them—a dollar a fuck.

The cops ate
carnitas
. The cops worked the line. The cops sold bootjack penicillin. Wayne stood in line. Wayne drew stares. Wayne showed
his
snapshots.

Que? No se. Negrito muy feo
.

Wayne braced a mama-san. Wayne waved fifty bucks. He pidgin-talked. He told her—beer on the house.

She smiled. She shagged Lucky Lagers. She served the wets. She served the pimps. She served the cops.

She praised Wayne—
gringo muy bueno
.

Wayne got applause. Wets pumped his hands. Pimps waved sombreros. He re-showed his pix. They went around. They toured all the fuck-istos. The pix circuited. The pix got pawed. The pix came back.

A cop nudged Wayne. “I ran that smoke out of town three months ago. He was trying to pimp white girls, which didn’t sit right with me.”

Wayne goose bumped. The cop tapped his teeth.

“I heard he was tight with a smoke named King Arthur. I think he owns a queer bar in Fresno.”

The Playpen Lounge was a storefront. The Playpen Lounge sat off skid row.

Wayne drove to Fresno. Wayne polled street creeps. Wayne found it. The creeps spieled lore—the Pen’s a pus-pit—all fear the King!

He’s this mean swish. He’s Haiti-bred. He’s pure calypso. He sports a crown. He’s a he-she. He’s a hermaphrodite.

Wayne walked in. The decor clashed—Camelot meets Liberace.

Velvet walls. Purple drapes. Nail-studded armor. A bar and wall booths—pink Naugahyde.

A jukebox cranked. Mel Tormé crooned. The natives stirred. Wayne drew looks. Wayne drew ooh-la-las.

Colored trade—queens and jockers.

There’s the King. He’s got a booth. He’s got his crown. He’s got the pedigree: Knife scars/mashed ears/pipe-wound regalia.

Wayne walked over. Wayne sat down. King Arthur sipped a frappé.

“You’re too haughty to be Fresno PD, and you’re too butch to be anything but a cop.”

The jukebox vibrated. Wayne reached back. Wayne grabbed and yanked the cord.

“My money. Your information.”

The King tapped his crown. It was kid-pageant issue—rhinestones on tin.

“I just consulted my thinking cap. It said, ‘Policemen demand, they don’t pay.’ ”

The King lisped. The King trilled. The King sashayed. Two fags swished by. One tittered. One waved.

Wayne said, “I
was
a cop.”

“Oh, pshaw, you silly savage. You didn’t have to say that.”

Wayne pulled out his money. Wayne fanned his money. Wayne flashed a table lamp down.

“Wendell Durfee. I heard you know him.”

The King tapped his crown. “I’m getting a vision … yes … there it is … you’re that Vegas cop who lost his poor wife to Wendell.”

The jukebox popped. Kay Starr popped on. Wayne reached back and popped the cord. A fag grabbed his hand. A fag scratched his palm. A fag giggled lewd.

Wayne pulled his arm back. The fags giggled. The fags withdrew. They swished off. They vamped Wayne. They blew kisses.

Wayne wiped his hand. The King laughed. The King went oh, pshaw.

“I had a brief encounter with Wendell, several months ago. I bought a string of girls from him.”

“And?”

“And the Bakersfield fuzz discouraged me from procuring in their jurisdiction.”

“And?”

“And Wendell was looking for a
nom de pimp
with irresistible panache. I suggested the name Cassius Cool, which he adopted.”

Wayne tapped the money. “Keep going. I know there’s more.”

The King tapped his crown. “I’m getting a vision … yes … you killed three unarmed Negro men in Las Vegas … and … yes … Wendell made your wife climax before he killed her.”

Wayne pulled his piece. Wayne raised it. Wayne cocked it. Wayne heard echoes. Wayne heard hammers click.

He looked around. He checked the bar. He saw fags. He saw guns. He saw suicide.

He holstered up. The King grabbed his money.

“Wendell enticed some crackers into a rigged dice game and was firmly advised to leave Bakersfield. I heard he lit out for L.A.”

Wayne looked around. Wayne saw fags with guns. Wayne saw mean faces.

The King laughed. “Grow up, child. You can’t kill
all
the niggers.”

(Saigon, 8/20/65)

P
ete said, “Wayne took some scalps.”

Cocktail hour. Drinks at the Catinat. Grenade nets and gook brass galore.

Stanton snarfed pâté. “Cuban or Negro American?”

Pete smiled. “He’s back. I’ll tell him you asked.”

“Tell him I was pleased to learn that he’s diversified.”

The bar was packed. MACV guys hobnobbed. Trilingual talk flowed.

Pete lit a cigarette. “The Relyea thing pissed me off. I want to move recognizable U.S.-sourced guns.”

Stanton smeared toast. “You’ve made that clear. That said, I should state that Bob’s done a bang-up job so far.”

“He has, but he’s deep off in all that Klan shit, which could draw heat any fucking second. You want my opinion? We should rotate Laurent back to Laos to work Tiger Kamp, and keep Mesplède in the States permanently to shag guns. He’s got good connections, he’s willing, and he’s fucking capable.”

Stanton shook his head. “One, Bob’s got better connections, and he’s got enough FBI cover to divert any trouble he might create. Two, you brought that Bruvick guy in, which lit a fire under Carlos, who is now all aflutter for the Cause, in a way he hasn’t been since ’62. He’s
active
now, he’s the
only
committed Outfit man, and I’m sure he’s got gun sources. Three, Laurent’s tight with Carlos, which is why I want him full-time stateside, instead of Mesplède. He’s the best man to work with Carlos and funnel our weaponry.”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Carlos is a
Mob
executive. The only gun contacts
he’s got are other exile groups with shit ordnance of their own. He won’t be able to shag stuff as good as that Relyea batch, and how many fucking armory heists can we count on?”

A siren blew. The room froze. The gook brass drew guns. The siren died. The all-clear blew. The gook brass stashed their guns.

Stanton sipped wine. “We’re covered as is. You and Wayne rotate, because you’re the A-level personnel and you know the in-country and Vegas ends of the business. When Wayne’s caught up at the lab, he’s free to work Vegas and the funnel, and you—”

“John, Jesus Christ, will you—”

“No, let me finish. We lost Chuck,
c’est la guerre
, but Tran and Mesplède are more than enough to run Tiger Kamp. We keep Mesplède in-country, and we leave Flash and Laurent in Port Sulphur and Bon Secour. In other words, we’re
covered
, and I don’t want you second-guessing a perfectly operational system.”

The siren blew. The all-clear blew. The AC died. A waiter cracked doors. A waiter cracked windows. A waiter rigged bomb nets.

Pete checked his watch. “I’m meeting Wayne. He’s got a lead on some donation shit in Da Nang.”