The Cold Six Thousand (48 page)

Pete laughed. Fuck it—Pete
knew:

Sonny was old. Sonny was slow. Sonny was tigerfried.

(Las Vegas, Saigon, Saravan, Bao Loc
3/21/65–6/15/65)

L
et’s escalate. Let’s
watch
.

Khanh is in. Khanh is out. Premier Ky kreams Premier Khanh. Don’t blink—koups and kream-outs kome kwick.

“Escalate”—a verb—LBJ’s word: “To increase, enlarge or intensify.”

The war escalated. Wayne watched.

More troops came in. More troops got pledged. Provocation meant response. More Marines came in. More Marines got pledged. More Airborne came in. More Airborne got pledged in response.

More dead:

More bomb attacks in mid-Saigon. More mid-range dead. The Brinks Hotel/the embassy—more Yankee dead.

More VC. More night patrols. More sabotage.

Pleiku—much aircraft blow—nice U.S. fleet. VC attack—most bold and sincere. VC use pole-and-satchel bombs—homemade
/très
VC. TNT/palm leaves/bamboo.

Many
planes blow.
One
VC die.

Provocation meant response. Response meant bomb runs. More pilots. More troops. More artillery.

Stanton ran numbers. Provocation meets response—thus fervor meets weight. Stanton predicted two hundred K troops—in by ’66.

Big numbers. Big ordnance. Big weight.

Wayne watched. Wayne dug it. Wayne missed the point. Vietnam was a shithole. The Cong couldn’t lose. The Cong lived to die.

A Cong walked in the Go-Go. Said Cong wore Cong drag—black pj’s deluxe. A spec-4 shot him. A chest bomb blew. Oops—Cong booby-trapped.

Six dead—all U.S.—Cong reigns six-to-one.

Stanton loved the war. Pete loved the war. Stanton and Pete loved Cuba. Cuba was a shithole. Cuba was Saigon with sand.

The kadre loved the war. The kadre kame for Kuba. Wayne came to watch.

He stayed in Saigon. He cooked dope. He watched. GIs hit the Go-Go. GIs bought whores. GIs fucked whores on floor planks.

He watched.

The O-heads decomped. Quicklime ate bone. Marvs made fertilizer. Marvs sold it discount.

He watched.

The Cong burned pylons. Saigon went dark. Pilots dropped psychedelic-tint flares.

He watched. He worked. He lived in Saigon. He cabbed to Bao Loc. He bought weapons. Said weapons were dope cover. Said weapons were donation stock.

He jeeped up and back. He tailed patrols. His standard procedure was
watch
.

4/8/65—near Dinh Quan. Rice field firefight—jarheads and VC.

A road mine popped. Wayne’s jeep flew. The windshield blew up. The driver ate glass. The driver died. Wayne crouched by his stiff.

Bushes—off the road. They’re moving now. They’re bush-wrapped VC.

They charged. The jarheads proned out. Fair fight/no cover.

Wayne rolled free. Wayne pulled his piece. Wayne shot three VC. His shots dinged. He hit tin vests—fucking trashcan lids.

The VC fired. The jarheads fired. The jarheads aimed high and low. They shot feet. They shot legs. They shot faces. They hit vest-free zones.

The VC went down. Rounds dinged off the jeep. A medic went down with one in the neck. Wayne rolled and fired free.

He hit six VC. He notched all head shots. He double-killed.

The jarheads stood up. A jarhead tripped a punji stick. Spikes slammed him—knees to nipples—punctures and rips.

Wayne rolled to the medic. Wayne grabbed his Syrettes—pure morphine cc’s.

He rolled to the jarhead. He shot up the jarhead. The jarhead convulsed. The jarhead hurled chunks of his spleen.

Wayne had white horse—one spike in his pocket—one short test dose.

He found a vein. He geezed the man. The man gasped. The man smiled. The man nodded out.

Wayne timed his death. He went out in sixteen seconds. He went out wispy and numb.

Pete was World War II. Pete had a rule: Don’t sell to GIs. It was naive. It negated the real rule: provocation meets response.

“Our Boys” would fight the war. “Our Boys” would look for outs. “Our Boys” would find Big “H.”

Stanton had terms: “the Agency’s War” and “the Personal Commitment.”

He killed Bongo. He committed. He joined the war then. He squashed a bug. It felt right. It felt impersonal. He killed Bongo. He dumped Bongo. He took his own pulse. Sixty-two beats a minute—no malice/no stress.

Rats ate Bongo. Some Marvs found his bones. A rumor spread: Chemist do it—chemist kill pimp.

Whores braced Wayne. They said be our pimp—we love you. He said no. He saw that colored whore. He saw her trailer.

The rumor spread. Chuck heard it. Chuck told Bob. Bob braced him. Bob said come south and join my Klan—we’ll fuck niggers up.

Wayne said no. Bob dropped hints: I work for your dad. Wayne said no. Bob laughed. Wayne said he might come to WATCH.

He watched in Saigon. He watched in Bao Loc. He watched in Vegas. He watched the pushers. He tailed the pushers. He ensured subservience.

He watched West LV. He watched the bars. He watched that trailer. Junkies used it now. Junkies geezed within. They ignored the soot. They ignored the smell. They ignored the whore’s bones.

He watched West LV. He asked around. He trawled for Wendell Durfee. The locals ignored him. The locals misled him. The locals spit on his shoes.

He logged tips. He paid rewards. He logged futile data. He hit the bars. He logged fear. He brought Sonny Liston along.

Sonny quaffed J&B. Sonny popped pills. Sonny ran riffs: Wendell Durfee went Muslim—Muhammad speaks—it gots to be!

Wendell runs a mosque. Wendell knows Cassius Clay. Wendell knew the late Malcolm X.

Storm the Nigger Mosques. Climb the Nigger Grapevine. Comb the Nigger Underworld. Patch the Nigger Switchboard. Punch the Nigger Teletype—and track that nigger down!

Sonny peeled his nigger eyes. Sonny filed his nigger claws. Sonny tapped his nigger intuition. Sonny logged tips. Sonny dished out rewards. Sonny pledged results.

Pete said Durfee was dead. DPD killed him unpublicized. They killed him for Maynard Moore.

Wayne said no—you’re wrong. Wayne logged tips and WATCHED.

He logged lounge time. He watched Barb. He took side seats. He looked backstage. He got candid shots.

The Bondsmen smoked weed there. Barb popped pills. Barb popped Johnnie Black. Her eyes showed it. Her pulse showed it. She cleaned up for Pete’s rotations.

He watched. He saw things everywhere. He felt invisible.

He logged lounge time. He caught Barb’s gigs. He saw Janice and Ward Littell. They sat close. They held hands. They brushed knees.

He saw them. They never saw him. Sonny had a theory: Only niggers see you.

(Las Vegas, 6/18/65)

J
anice hit balls.

She chipped off her porch. Said porch as golf range—tee/putting strip/net.

It was hot. Janice wore a middy blouse and shorts. Littell watched her concentrate. Littell watched her hit.

Janice teed balls. Janice hit shots. Janice stretched the net. She swiveled. Her blouse gapped. Her beating scars flexed.

She said, “I saw Wayne Senior at the DI. He was making a phone call.”

Littell smiled. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you hate him, and you’re curious about the men I’ve slept with.”

Littell sipped coffee. “I hope I haven’t been prying.”

“That’s impossible with me. You know how I love to divulge.”

“I do know. It’s something that separates—”

“Me from Jane, I know.”

Littell smiled. “Tell me what you heard.”

Janice teed a ball. “He was in the casino, and he was using one of those courtesy phones. He didn’t see me behind him.”

“And?”

“And he was talking to a man named Chuck. He was talking about the bad reception from Vietnam, and he was cracking jokes about Bogalusa and ‘Bombalusa.’ ”

Littell stirred his coffee. “That’s it?”

“That and the way he was gloating, with that Indiana drawl of his.”

Hold it. Stop right—

Littell stirred his coffee. Littell thought it through. Bogalusa was East Louisiana. Bogalusa was Klan kountry.

Vote drives—right now—fronted by SCLC. BLACK RABBIT on go. Wayne Senior as FATHER RABBIT.

Hold it. Stop right—

You’re
CRUSADER RABBIT. Bayard Rustin’s PINK. You taped PINK. PINK told you about Bogalusa. You told Mr. Hoover.

Mr. Hoover knows. Mr. Hoover never calls. Mr. Hoover pledges memos. Mr. Hoover sends none.

Janice built a martini. “Is there room for two in that trance of yours, or should I leave you alone?”

Littell coughed. “Do you have any idea who Chuck is?”

“Well, I’d say he’s that little man who flew a plane to Wayne Senior’s Christmas party, and showed up with your caveman friend Pete.”

Hold it. Stop right—

Chuck Rogers: Pilot/killer/racist nut/Dallas shooter. Vietnam and Pete’s gig—covert CIA.

FATHER RABBIT runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT is Army. WILD RABBIT serves “overseas.” Mr. Hoover talked rabbits. Mr. Hoover talked dates. WILD RABBIT to leave the Army—5/65. WILD RABBIT to go Klan then.

“Ward, am I going to have to do a striptease to pull you out of that trance?”

He worried it. He tested it. He dreamed RABBITS. He carried it with him. He brought it home. He slept with it.

BOMBalusa. BOMBingham: September ’63. A bomb blows at 16th Street Baptist Church. Four Negro girls die.

He woke up. He made coffee. He built rationales:

Don’t call Mr. Hoover. Don’t raise an alarm. Don’t call Pete. Don’t mention Chuck. Don’t breach need-to-know. Don’t call Bayard. Don’t probe Bogalusa. Don’t sound his alarm.

Don’t call BLUE RABBIT. Don’t call WHITE RABBIT. Don’t rouse the Holly boys. They hate Negroes. They love Mr. Hoover.

Wayne Senior’s FATHER RABBIT. FATHER knows Chuck. FATHER runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT runs a klavern. The Feds fund it and impose rules:

“Operational guidelines.” “Violence to sustain informant credibility.” BOMBingham/BOMBalusa/BOMB—

Littell grabbed the phone. Littell called Barb. Littell ran a riff:

Laos. Pete’s dope clique. Is Chuck Rogers in?

Barb said, “Yes.”

Littell hung up. Littell called the switchboard. Littell braced an operator: Get me U.S. Customs—the passport office—New Orleans.

The operator ran it. Littell got the number. Littell dialed direct.

A man picked up. “Customs, Agent Bryce.”

“My name’s Ward Littell. I’m ex-FBI, with reserve credentials. I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”

“Well, sure, if I can.”

Littell grabbed a pen. “I need you to check your recently collated entries for flights from Laos and Vietnam. I’m looking for commercial or military landings at Customs-manned facilities in your jurisdiction, and I need the names on the passport-check lists.”

Bryce coughed. “Can you hold? I doubt if we’ve had more than three or four of those, tops.”

Littell said, “I’ll hold.”

Bryce hit a button. The connection fuzzed. Static hit the line. Littell held. Littell checked his watch. Littell counted rabbits.

BLUE RABBIT/WILD RABBIT/RED RABBIT. Three minutes/forty-two sec—

Bryce picked up. “Sir? We’ve only got one. I—”

“Can you give—”

“One ordnance flight. Saigon to the Air National Guard facility near Houston. The crew plus one passenger, a man named Charles Rogers.”

(Saravan, 6/19/65)

P
oly test—pure impromptu—John Stanton dropped in.

He cleared the hut. He rolled graph sheets. He rigged the machine. He fired the needle. He fired the pulse clip. He fired the dials.

Pete rigged a chair. Laurent Guéry sat down. Stanton rigged the blood-pressure cuff.

Stanton clamped the cuff. Pete looped the chest cord. Stanton pumped the cuff. Stanton read the dial:

Normal stats—110/80.

A wind stirred. Dope seeds blew. Pete shut the window.

Stanton grabbed a chair. Stanton pulse-clipped Guéry. Pete grabbed a chair. Pete watched the needle.

Stanton said, “Do you drink water?”

Guéry said, “Yes.”

The needle bumped. The needle slid. The needle flatlined. Stanton read the cuff and clip:

Okay—normal signs.

Stanton said, “Are you a citizen of the Republic of France?”

Guéry said, “Yes.”

The needle bumped. The needle slid. The needle flatlined. Stanton read the cuff and clip:

Okay—normal signs.

Pete stretched. Pete yawned—fuck this pro-forma jive.

Stanton said, “Are you a committed anti-Communist?”

Guéry said, “Yes.”

Flatline.

Stanton said, “Are you pro–Viet Cong?”

Guéry said, “No.”

Flatline.

Stanton said, “Have you ever stolen from the kadre?”

Guéry said, “No.”

The needle dipped two inches. The needle laid swerve lines. Stanton pumped the cuff. Stanton read the dial.

Not okay—140/110—non-normal signs.

Guéry squirmed. Pete eyeballed him. Pete read his signs: Chills/goose bumps/sweat.

Stanton said, “Have you ever stolen from kadre-adjunct personnel?”

Guéry said, “No.”

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

Stanton hit the intercom switch. Stanton talked gook: “
Quon, Minh. Mau len. Di, thi, di.
”

Two gooks ran in—one Marv and one Cong doubletime. Guéry squirmed. Pete read signs: Wet hands/wet armpits/crotch leaking sweat.

Stanton nodded. The gooks flanked Guéry. The gooks pulled batons.

Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge of such thefts?”

Guéry said, “No.”

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

Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Pete Bondurant perpetrated such thefts?”

Guéry said, “No.”

Needle bump. Flatline.

Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Jean Philippe Mesplède perpetrated such thefts?”

Guéry said, “No.”

Needle bump. Flatline.

Stanton said, “Do you have knowledge that Wayne Tedrow Junior perpetrated such thefts?”

Guéry said, “No.”

Needle bump. Flatline.