The Cold Six Thousand (78 page)

Fred had King’s travel plans. Dwight Holly pouched them. They came from an FBI source.

King went to Selma. He arrived on 3/22. Fred O. and Jim Ray were there. The conditions were sub-par. Fred O. stalled D-day.

King stayed in Selma. Jimmy drove to Atlanta. He knew King lived there. King foxed him. King flew to Jew York. King had business there.

Dwight got a tip. His Fed source pouched it. RED RABBIT to Memphis. Arrival 3/28. There’s a garbage strike there.

Dwight recruited Wayne on 3/30. “Raul” goosed Jimmy Ray. Cash perks and meth—Memphis dead-ahead.

It was NOW. Fred said so. Fred knew it. Jimmy was strung out. Jimmy craved the “Bounty.” Jimmy craved this mock Holy Grail.

Wayne watched the balcony. Wayne saw activity.

Dwight ran death-threat checks. The Memphis Feds supplied facts. King logged eighty-one death threats. Klan threats mostly.

King blew them off. King shined them on. King scorned security.

Wayne watched the balcony. Wayne saw Dr. King. They went back. They intertwined. They had symmetry.

He went to Little Rock. He enforced integration. He saw King there. He saw that fuck film. It was FBI-shot. He saw King there. He killed three coloreds. King indicted Las Vegas. King almost went there. He killed Bongo in Saigon. King hated his war. He killed Wendell Durfee. Wayne Senior found Durfee. King served his vengeance cause.

Wayne Senior knew:

You
want
it. I
made
you. It’s
yours
.

He killed Durfee. Dwight suborned him. He joined Wayne Senior’s cause. It’s Wayne Senior’s Hate School. It’s the postgrad course. Coloreds foist chaos. Coloreds breed discord. Coloreds spawn doss.

Wayne Senior said you learned. Wayne Senior said you paid. Wayne Senior said you earned this shot.

Wayne Senior bragged:

Ward Littell’s retiring. Mormon heavies love me.
I’ll
get his Hughes spot. It’s certain. I know. I was told.

Carlos Marcello called me. We talked. We discussed Littell’s retirement. We discussed general business. We discussed the Hughes spot.

Carlos said this:

Littell worked for Hughes
and
me.
You
take that full spot. Littell suborns Nixon. Littell retires then.
You
go from there.
You
work with Nixon.
You
secure our requests.
You
insure our warranty.

Wayne Senior said this:

My son the chemist. You know him.
I
know he’s outgrown Pete B.

Carlos said this:

We’ll find a spot. We’ll bring Wayne in. It’s adios to Pete B.

Wayne watched the balcony. Wayne saw King laugh. Wayne saw King slap his knees.

I hate smart. I’ve killed five. You can’t outhate me.

(Bay St. Louis, 4/3/68)

C
astoff—9:16 p.m. Light wind. Course south-southeast.

The last gun run. The kadre kurtain kall.

Pete walked the deck. His pants fit tight. He wore three guns in. He wore his shirt out. His gut bulged. The silencers chafed.

He flew in. They held castoff. He flew in late. He looked for Wayne in Vegas. He tapped out. Carlos called him.

Carlos was Carlos. Fuck the Big Lie. Carlos was brusque:

“You found some things out. So what? You were never dumb, Pete.”

“Bob’s off somewhere. He’s working with Wayne. He don’t get hurt like the rest.”

“Don’t act aggrieved. Bring me some scalps. Remember, you owe me for Dallas.”

The boat pitched. The boat dipped. The boat leveled. Pete walked the deck. Pete thought it through. Pete fought butterflies.

They’re below deck. Get them alone/get them together. Hit the arms locker. Get a shotgun. Choke a tight spread.

Pilot the boat. You know how to. Head for Cuban seas. Lure Fuentes on. Lure Arredondo. Kill them/scalp them/dump them. Scalp and dump the rest.

Six snuffs. Butch haircuts. Scalped per kadre kode breach.

The boat ran smooth. Automatic pilot. Glassy Gulf seas.

Pete climbed the bridge. Pete read dials. Pete ran instrument checks. It’s OK. You know how. You’ll do it.

He walked below. He got flutters—biiiiiig butterflies. The main cabin stood full: Stanton/Guéry/Elorde/Dick Wenzel.

Pete jittered. Pete twitched. Pete bumped his head on a beam.

Stanton said, “They don’t build these boats for giants.”

Guéry said, “Which is my problem, too.”

Flash said, “I do not have that problem.”

Wenzel said, “You’re a shrimp, but you’re dangerous.”

They laughed. Pete laughed. Pete went lightheaded.

Four men/no sidearms/good. All relaxed/sipping scotch/good.

Note this oversight. Note this fuck-up and glitch:

You
could
have brought Seconal. You
could
have spiked the scotch. You
could
have killed them asleep.

Stanton said, “We’ll refuel at Snipe Key.”

Wenzel said, “They’re meeting us eighty knots out. It’s the only way to rendezvous before dawn.”

Pete coughed. “It’s my fault. I was late.”

Flash shook his head. “The last time. We no go without you.”

Guéry shook his head. “You were always the one with the … 
qu’est-ce que
 … ‘greatest commitment.’ ”

Wenzel slugged scotch. “I’ll miss the runs. I hate the Reds as much as the next white man.”

Flash smiled. “I am not white.”

Wenzel smiled. “In your heart you are.”

Pete faked a yawn. His chest pinged. His pulse raced.

“I’m tired. I’m going to lie down for a bit.”

The guys smiled. The guys nodded. The guys grinned and stretched. Pete walked back. Pete shut the door. Pete ran a cabin check:

Four units/low bulkheads/four sleeping sacks. Please get drunk. Please crap out. Please crap out in shifts.

He opened the cargo hold. The boat rolled. The boat rolled
très
light. It rolled too drifty—sans-gun-ballast light.

He popped the storage door. He looked in. He hit the light.

Bam:

Empty
/no
guns
/no
ordnance packed tight.

He got butterflies. Huge now. Sized like King Kong.

No guns.
No gun run
. Loose ends scheduled up.
They
kill
you
. They dump
you
. They kill Fuentes and Arredondo.

The boat pitched. Pete dug his legs in. Pete popped the shotgun rack. He got moths—big fuckers—way up in his chest.

He pulled shotguns. He worked slides. He popped the shells chambered in. Butterfingers: four shotguns/shells popping/no hands to catch said.

Shells dropping. Shells spinning. Shells hitting the floor deck. Shells skitting and rolling free.

He grabbed them. He stuffed his pants. He stuffed his teeth. He fumbled the shotguns. He refilled the rack. He heard the cargo door creak.

He turned around. He saw Wenzel. He looked dumb. He looked
caught
. He had shells in his teeth.

Wenzel shut the door. Wenzel stepped close. Wenzel made fists.

“What the fuck are—”

Pete looked around. Pete saw the flare gun. It’s close. It’s on a wall hook.

He spit the shells out. He stepped back. He grabbed it and aimed. He pulled the trigger. The flare ignited. The flare hit Wenzel’s face. Wenzel screeched. His hair burned. He batted his face.

The flare dropped. It burned Wenzel’s clothes. It shot flames chest to feet.

Pete stepped in. Pete grabbed Wenzel’s neck. Pete snuffed hair flames. He snapped left. He burned his hands. He snapped right.

Wenzel convulsed. Wenzel went limp. Wenzel’s eyebrows shot flames. Pete threw him down. Pete ripped his shirt off. Pete snuffed the flames.

The flare fizzled out. The door stayed shut.
Contained
stink and flames.

Pete flexed his hand. Burn blisters popped. Pete anchored his legs.

Now
.

They’ll miss him. They’ll need him. They’ll yell. The boat’s rolling. It’s on auto pilot. Wenzel stays on call.

Now
.

Pete clenched up. Pete listened—ear to the door.

Nothing.

He pulled his Walther. He cocked it. He opened the door. One walkway/four cabins/two per side wall.

Ten yards up: the main cabin/set perpendicular/with the door shut.

Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 1. He looked in. He braced the door.

Nobody.

Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 2. He looked in. He braced the door.

Nobody.

Pete inched up. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 3. He looked in. He braced the door.

There’s Flash. He’s sacked out asleep.

Pete walked up. Pete aimed close. Muzzle to hairline/silencer tight. He shot once. His piece went pffft. Brains doused the bed.

Pete walked out. Pete took baby steps—slow. He hit cabin 4. He looked in. He braced the door.

Nobody.

Pete inched up. Pete ate jumbo moths and butterflies. Pete popped the main cabin door.

Nobody—all hands on deck.
Slow now
—with a deeeeeep breath.

He did it. He walked topside. He took baby steps. He got fifty-foot butterflies. His breath tugged. His hands shook. His sphincter blew. He smelled his shit. He smelled his sweat. He smelled cooked silencer threads.

Baby steps—three more now. Make the deck/watch your feet.

He pulled one Beretta. He cocked it. He climbed two guns out. His breath tugged. Baby steps slow and—

He hit the deck. His breath stopped. His left arm ripped. Pain shot heart to arm—fucked arteries.

He gulped air. He sucked spray. He fell to his knees. He dropped his left-hand gun. It clattered on teak.

He made noise. Somebody yelled. Noise boomed behind him.

Stanton.

Stanton yelled, “Dick!” Stanton yelled, “Pete!”

Down the deck. Forty feet. The aft rotor-seats.

Pete pitched forward. His left arm blew. The deck cracked his teeth. He rolled over. He gulped breath. He spit out cracked teeth.

He heard Guéry—aft and left—“I don’t see him.”

He heard Stanton—back-stairs aft—“I think he got Dick.”

He heard slides click. He heard hammers cock. He heard rounds snap in. His left arm exploded. His left arm died. His left arm flopped free.

He sucked air. He sucked hard. It hurt bad. It burned bad. He lodged some breath free.

He crawled.

One-handed. One-armed. At one-arm speed. He brushed a rope stack. It was cover. Thick ropes stacked deep.

He heard foot scuffs. They scuffed mid-deck left. He saw pantlegs and feet.

Guéry—fast-walking
—his
way.

His breath crimped. He saw starbursts. He saw twelve legs and feet. He aimed off the ropes. He aimed low. He fired.

He popped six shots fast. He got six muzzle bursts. Double vision/tracer zips/spider legs and feet.

Guéry screamed. Guéry dropped. Guéry grabbed his feet. Guéry fired way high. Shots ripped a mast sheet.

Pete sucked air. Pete
got
air. Pete got a bead. He aimed head high. He pulled slooow.

The slide jammed. Muzzle light dispersed. He saw Guéry with stump feet.

He heard foot scuffs. They scuffed way aft. They scuffed the back stairs clear. He pulled gun 3. His pump lurched. He dropped it.

Guéry fired. Shots hit the ropes. Shots ricocheted.

Pete rolled free. Pete crawled. Pete crawled with one arm and two feet. Guéry saw him. Guéry stretched prone. Guéry fired.

Tracers—loud and close in. Over his head. Scraping the gunwales. Ripping through teak. Six shots/seven/full clip.

Guéry dropped the gun. Pete got close. Pete one-arm leaped.

He bared his teeth. He bit down. He got Guéry’s cheek. He raked his fingers up and out. He gouged an eye free.

Guéry screamed. Guéry swung a fist. Guéry hit bared teeth. Pete bit down. Pete snapped bone. Pete made his good hand a V.

Guéry screeched. It was high-decibel. It was half whine/half screech.

Pete drove his hand up. Pete ripped throat tissue. Pete smashed neck bones. Pete drove up to bridgework and teeth.

Guéry spasmed. Pete yanked his arm out. Pete made a hole elbow-deep. Guéry spasmed. Pete rolled back. Pete dug in and shoved with his feet.

He kicked Guéry. He kicked hard right. He kicked him off the deck. He kicked him into the sea.

He heard a splash. He heard a scream. He sucked breath. He
got
breath. He crawled free.

He crawled. He crawled one-armed. Noise cut through deck teak.

It’s Stanton. He’s below deck. That’s steel gnashing steel. He’s in the cargo hold. He’s loading shotguns. Steel’s jamming on steel.

Pete sucked air. Pete rolled up. Pete made his knees. His bladder blew. His breath stopped. He sucked air in deep.

He walked. He staggered. He threw lopsided weight. He made the back steps. He smashed at the door. He threw lopsided weight.

Zero—
weak
weight—no give.

He kicked the door. He shoved the door. He threw lopsided weight.

Zero—
weak
weight—no give.

Barricade/smashproof/blocked stairs below.

Pete kneeled down. Pete laid down lopsided. Pete got echoes off the deckwood. Pete heard steel gnash steel.

It’s about three feet over. It’s about ten feet up. The deck’s scuffed there. It’s threadbare. It’s breakable teak.

Pete hauled his weight up. Pete heaved for breath. Pete made his knees.

He crawled. He knee-walked. He hit the anchor hub. He stood up. He invoked Barb. He did a dead squat. He threw his right arm out. He wrapped the anchor stem. He jerked and stood up.

His breath exploded. His breath held. His left arm burned up.

He stumbled. He weaved four feet starboard. He reared up to six-five plus. He let the anchor drop.

It cracked the deck. It shattered loud. It snapped threadbare teak. It fell below. It dropped straight down. It smashed John Stanton flush.

(Memphis, 4/4/68)

C
ountdown:

It’s 5:59. We’re heading for checkmate—pawn to RED KING. We’re close. King’s outside. King’s on the balcony.