The Cold Six Thousand Read Online Free PDF

There’s Lee H. Oswald.
    Moore spat on the screen. “There’s the boy you should name your pickaninnies after. He killed my friend J. D. Tippit, who was one dick-swingin’ white man, and it offends me to be in the same room as you on the day he died.”
    Jeff shrugged. Jeff looked at Wayne. Moore twirled his sap. The TV popped off. Bum tubes crackled.
    Jeff twitched. His knees shook. Wayne touched his shoulder. Moore mimicked him. Moore swished.
    “You boys are
suuuch
the pair. You’ll be holdin’ hands any damn second.”
    That tore—
    Wayne shoved Moore. Moore tripped. Moore knocked a lamp down. Jeff shook nelly-style. Wayne shoved him in the kitchen.
    They fit tight. The sink cramped them. Wayne toed the door shut.
    “Wendell Durfee’s running. He always runs to Dallas, so why don’t you tell me what you know about that.”
    “Sir, I don’t—”
    “Don’t call me ‘sir,’ just tell me what you know.”
    “Sir, I mean mister, I don’t know where Wendell’s at. If I’m lyin’, I’m flyin’.”
    “You’re shucking me. Stop it, or I’ll hand you up to that cracker.”
    “Mister, I ain’t woofin’ you. I don’t know where Wendell’s at.”
    The walls shook. Shit cracked one room over. Wayne made the sounds:
    Sap shots. Hard steel meets plywood and glue.
    Jeff shook. Jeff gulped. Jeff picked a hangnail.
    Wayne said, “Let’s try this. You work at Dr Pepper. You got paid today.”
    “That’s right. If I’m lyin’, I’m—”
    “And you made your probation payment.”
    “You ain’t woofin’ I did.”
    “Now, you’ve got some money left. It’s burning a hole in your pocket. Wendell’s your gambling buddy. There’s some kind of payday crap game that you can point me to.”
    Jeff sucked his hangnail. Jeff gullllped.
    “Then how come I ain’t at that game right now?”
    “Because you lent Wendell most of your money.”
    Glass broke. Wayne made the sound: One sap shot/one TV screen fucked.
    “Wendell Durfee. Give him up, or I tell Tex that you’ve been porking little white kids.”
    Jeff lit a cigarette. Jeff choked on it. Jeff coughed smoke out.
    “Liddy Baines, she used to go with Wendell. She knowed I owed him money, an’ she came by an’ said he was lookin’ to get down to Mexico. I gave her all but five dollars of my check.”
    Wood cracked. The walls shook. The floor shook.
    “Address?”
    “Seventy-first and Dunkirk. The little white house two up from the corner.”
    “What about the game?”
    “Eighty-third and Clifford. The alley by the warehouse.”
    Wayne opened the door. Jeff stood behind him. Jeff got in a runner’s crouch. Moore saw Wayne. Moore bowed. Moore winked.
    The TV was dead. The shelf shrine was dust. The walls were pulp and spit.
    It got real.
    Moore had a throwdown piece. Moore had a pump. A coroner owed him. He’d fudge the wound text.
    Wayne went dry. Wayne got pinpricks. Wayne’s nuts shriveled up.
    They drove. They went Darktown-deep. They went by Liddy Baines’ shack. Nobody was home—Liddy, where you at?
    They hit a pay phone. Moore called Dispatch. Moore got Liddy Baines’ stats: No wants/no warrants/no vehicle extant.
    They drove to 83rd and Clifford. They passed junkyards and dumps. Liquor stores and blood banks. Mohammed’s Mosque #12.
    They passed the alley. They caught a tease: Streetlights/faces/a blanket spread out.
    A fat man rolled. A plump man slapped his forehead. A thin man scooped cash.
    Moore stopped at 82nd. Moore grabbed his pump. Wayne pulled his piece. Moore popped in earplugs.
    “If he’s there, we’ll arrest him. Then we’ll take him out to the sticks and cap him.”
    Wayne tried to talk. His throat closed. He squeaked. Moore winked. Moore yukked haw-haw.
    They walked over. They cleaved to shadows. They crouched. The air dried up. The ground dropped. Wayne lost his feet.
    They hit the alley. Wayne heard jive talk. Wayne saw Wendell Durfee.
    His legs went. He stumbled. He toed a beer can. The dice men perked