Wayne said, "I killed a colored guy in Saigon."
Sonny said, "I killed a white guy in St. Louis."
There's the church. It's dilapidated. It's sandblasted. It's neon-signed. Dig the prayer hands and crosses. Dig the Jesus rolling dice.
They parked. They walked back to the basement door. They picked the lock. They walked in.
They saw four junkies. They're crapped out on car seats-scavenged off old Cadillacs. They saw spoons and matchbooks. They saw spikes and tube ties. They saw bindles and white dregs.
There's a hi-fi. There's some LPs. It's all gospel wax.
The junkies reposed-one per seat-the land of Naugahyde Nod. They saw Sonny. They saw Wayne. They snickered. They giggled. They sighed.
Wayne said, "Go."
Sonny whistled. Sonny stomped. Sonny stormed Naugahyde Nod.
"You motherfuckers have got ten seconds to quit fucking with this house of worship and pay up what you owe."
One junkie giggled. One junkie scratched. One junkie chuckled. One junkie yawned.
Wayne turned on the hi-fi. Wayne flipped a disc. Wayne laid the needle down. It was loud shit. It was ecstatic-Crawdaddy's Christian Chorale.
Wayne said, "Go."
Sonny kicked the car seats. Sonny dumped the junkies. Sonny threw the junkies down. They squirmed. They squealed. They evacuated Naugahyde Nod.
Sonny kicked them. Sonny picked them up. Sonny dropped them. Sonny grabbed the car seats. Sonny aimed. Sonny dropped them on their heads.
They squealed. They screeched. They howled and bled.
Sonny slapped them. Sonny picked their pockets. Sonny tossed pocket trash. One guy turned his pockets out. One guy ran pleas.
Sonny picked him up. Sonny dropped him. Sonny kicked him. Sonny bent down. Sonny caught his pleas.
Sonny stood up. Sonny smiled. Sonny signaled Wayne. Crawdaddy crescendoed. Wayne pulled the plug and walked up.
Sonny smiled. "As of spring, Wendell Durfee was running a string of wetback whores in Bakersfield, California."
80
(Bon Secour, 7/22/65)
Boats:
Charter jobs. Teak hulls and big motors. Forty slips / thirty bare / thirty boats out.
Pete strolled dockside. Pete scoped slip 19. There's the _Ebbtide_. It runs fifty feet. Dig those high gunwales.
Nice shit. Mounted poles and cargo space. Spiffy brass fittings.
A guy worked on deck. He was mid-size. He ran mid-forties. He had a bum leg. He had a bad limp.
It was hot. The air dripped. Clouds densified. Mobile Bay-Shitsville-bait shacks and congestion.
Pete strolled deckside. Pete scoped slip 19.
He traced Jane's call. He flew in. He ran checks. "Dave Burgess" owned the _Ebbtide_. "Dave Burgess" chartered out. "Dave Burgess" knew guys in New Orleans. Add 2 and 2. Add D.B. "Dave Burgess" was Danny Bruvick.
The T C Corp owned the _Ebbtide_. Carlos owned T C. Carlos _was_ New Orleans.
He bribed a cop. He checked phone sheets. He ran phone checks. "Burgess" was good. "Burgess" used pay phones-right of f the dock.
"Burgess" called Carlos. "Burgess" called Carlos frequent. "Burgess" called Carlos four times last month.
Pete walked slip 19. "Burgess" scrubbed fishhooks. Pete stepped on deck. "Burgess" looked up.
He tweaked a bit. He perked a bit. His antennae twitched.
That speargun-_watch_.
"Burgess" reached for it. "Burgess" grabbed. "Burgess" nailed the grip. Pete aimed. Pete kicked out. Pete nailed the grip.
The speargun skittered. "Burgess" said, "Shit."
Pete walked up. Pete grabbed the speargun. Pete popped the spear out to sea.
"Burgess" said, "Fuck."
Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece.
"You're thinking 'Jimmy Hoffa sent this guy,' and you're wrong."
"Burgess" sucked a thumbnail. "Burgess" flexed his hand. Pete checked the boat out. The boat enticed. The boat seduced.
_Nice_: Steel hull/grappling posts/fittings. _Nice_: Hardwood from the Philippines.
"Burgess" flexed his wrist. "She's an old rum-runner. She's got all the-"
Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece. Pete pointed belowdeck. "Burgess" stood up. "Burgess" sighed. "Burgess" squared his bum leg and limped.
He wore shorts. Dig his scars. Dig his bullet-pocked knee.
He crossed the deck. He passed the wheelhouse. He took back stairs down. Pete tailed him. Pete scoped details.
Two wheel stands/control posts/full instruments. Teak walls/hall space/rear cabins. Rear engines/rear storage/rear cargo traps.
Pete walked ahead. Pete saw an office: two chairs/one desk/one booze shelf.
He pulled "Burgess" in. He grabbed a chair. He pushed "Burgess" down. He tucked "Burgess" in. He poured a libation.
The boat swayed. Pete sloshed Cutty. "Burgess" grabbed it. "Burgess" drained it. "Burgess" liquor-flushed.
Pete poured a refill. Pete poured big. "Burgess" refueled. "Burgess" sucked Cutty up.
Pete cocked his piece. "You're Danny Bruvick. I'm Pete Bondurant, and we've got some friends in common."
Bruvick burped. Bruvick flushed. Bruvick vibed lush.
Pete twirled his piece. "I want the whole story of you, 'Arden,' and Carlos Marcello. I want to know why Arden is shacked up with Ward Littell."
Bruvick eyed the bottle. Pete poured him a pop. Bruvick refueled. The boat dipped. Bruvick doused his lap.
"You shouldn't let me drink too much. I might get courageous."
Pete shook his head. Pete pulled his silencer. Pete tapped his piece. Bruvick gulped. Bruvick pulled beads out. Bruvick rosaried.
Pete shot the Cutty. Pete shot the Gilbey's. Pete shot the Jack D. Bottles spritzed. Teakwood cracked. Soft-points tore holes.
The room shook-sonic booms-the boat aftershocked.
Bruvick spazzed out. Bruvick squeezed his beads. Bruvick grabbed his ears.
Pete pulled his hands down. "Start with Arden. Give me her real name and lay out some perspective."
Bruvick sneezed. Gunpowder tickled noses. Gun cordite stung.
"Her real name's Arden Breen. Her old man was a labor agitator. You know, a Commie type."
Pete cracked his knuckles. "Keep going."
Bruvick tossed his hair. Glass shards flew.
"Her mother died. She got rheumatic fever. The old man raised Arden. He was a drunk and a whore chaser. He had a different name for every day of the week, and he raised Arden in whorehouses and union halls, meaning _bad_ union halls, meaning the old man talked Red, but cut management deals every chance he got, which was-"
"Arden. Get back to her."
Bruvick rubbed his knees. "She quit school early, but she always had a head for figures. She met these two whores who went to the bookkeeping school I went to in Mississippi and picked up some skills from them. She kept some whorehouse and union hall books, you know, gigs her old man got her. She'd work these classier houses and spy on the johns. She'd pump them for stock tips and shit like that. She was good at anything involving numbers and ledgers. You know, money calculations."
Pete cracked his thumbs. "Get to it. You're working up to something."
Bruvick rubbed his bad knee. Scar tissue pulsed.
"She started working in some classier houses. She met this money guy Jules Schiffrin. He was tied in with-"