Eversall taped Bobby. Two more times total—two crazy risks. Eversall balked then. Eversall cut Littell off.
That’s it. Shove your threats. I refuse to hurt Bobby. You’re sick. You’re fucked up. Bobby’s your sickness.
Littell retreated:
That’s it. No more. I promise you. I’ll lie to Carlos. I’ll say we failed.
Eversall walked then. Eversall tripped. His high shoe buckled and slid. Littell helped him up. Eversall slapped him. Eversall spat in his face.
Littell played the 1/29 tape. Low static/spool hum.
Bobby planned trials. Eversall took notes. Bobby yawned and digressed. His potential Senate run. The VP spot. That “cornpone son-of-a-bitch Lyndon Johnson.”
Bobby had a cold. Bobby waxed profane. LBJ was a “dipshit.” Dick Nixon was a “numbnuts” with a “kick-me sign.” Mr. Hoover was a “psycho fruitcake.”
Littell pressed Rewind. The tape reversed. Littell played the 2/5 tape.
Here’s Bobby—reverent now.
He toasted Jack. He quoted Housman: “To an Athlete Dying Young.” Eversall sniffled. Bobby laughed—“Don’t go soft on me.”
A new man spoke. Static fizzed his words. Littell heard his garbled “Hoover and King.”
Bobby said, “Hoover’s scared. He knows King’s got balls like J.C.”
38
(Las Vegas, 2/10/64)
Monarch rocked.
The noon rush / mucho calls / ten cabs out. The hut rocked—Eldon Peavy had guests.
Sonny Liston. Four bad-boy jigs. Conrad & the Congoites or Marvin & the Mau-Maus.
Pete watched.
He dipped his seat. He ran the heat. He did arithmetic. Peavy had twenty cabs. Peavy ran three shifts. Add airport runs and deadheads.
The hut rocked. A driver hawked fur coats. The Mau-Maus mauled them. Sonny fanned a roll. Peavy peeled bills off.
The Congoites capered. They fondled fur. They manhandled mink. They chewed up chinchilla.
Sonny looked bad. The Clay fight boded. Sonny had the odds. Sam G. demurred. Sam liked Clay. Sam said Sonny had habits.
It was cold. Brrr—Vegas winters. Pete shivered and goosed the heat.
Texas was cold. Florida ditto. He just got back from his trip. He didn’t find Hank K. He didn’t find Wendell Durfee. He traveled alone. He schemed a trifecta.
Plan A: Find and clip Hank. Plan B: Detain Durfee. Plan C: Bring Wayne in to kill him.
No tickee/no washee. No find/go seek.
He got back. He called Ward. He pitched him: I want to buy Monarch Cab. Ward nixed it. Ward said don’t bid. Ward said don’t extort ownership.
We need Peavy. We need his votes. Don’t scotch his gaming-board status. Sage fucking advice—Ward Littell–style.
Pete skimmed the radio. Pete watched the hut. Peavy quaffed gin. The Mau-Maus quaffed scotch-and-milk. Sonny dumped capsules. Sonny made lines. Sonny sniffed powder up.
Peavy walked out. Sonny strolled with him. The Congoites conga’d. They slurped milk. They grew white goatees. Spooks called scotch-and-milk “pablum.”
A stretch pulled up. The crew piled in. The stretch pulled out. Pete tailed it slow.
The stretch hooked west. The stretch stopped quick. There—the Honey Bunny Casino.
Peavy got out. Peavy walked in. Pete idled back. Pete scoped the window.
Peavy hit the chip cage. Peavy bought play chips. The cage man filled a sack. Peavy walked out. Peavy jumped in the stretch. The stretch pulled out fast.
Pete tailed it. It cut west. It stopped mucho quick. There—Sugar Bear Liquor.
Five whores ran out—darkies all—prom gowns and heels.
They piled in the stretch. They huffed hard. The windows fogged up. The stretch wiggled and bounced.
Said whores worked.
The axle scraped. The shocks creaked. The undercarriage shimmied. Two hubcaps popped off and rolled.
Pete laughed. Pete fucking roared.
The whores piled out. The whores giggled and wiped their lips. The whores waved sawbucks.
Pete flashed on the dead whore. Pete smelled the torched trailer.
The stretch pulled out. Pete tailed it. They cut west. They hit West Vegas. They went in waay deep. There—Monroe High School.
The back gate was down. The bleachers were packed. A banner read: Welcome Champ!
Full house:
Colored kids—two hundred strong—this big schoolday treat.
The stretch parked on the football field. Pete idled by the gate. Pete kicked his seat back.
Sonny got out.
He weaved. He waved the chip sack. He faced the kids and swayed blotto. The kids cheered. The kids chanted “Sonny!” Some geek teachers watched.
The kids yelled. The kids banged their seats. The teachers guuulped. Sonny smiled. Sonny swayed. Sonny said, “Pipe down.”
The kids cheered. Sonny swayed. Sonny yelled: “Shut up, you punk motherfuckers!”
The kids shut up. The teachers cringed. Sonny dished inspiration.
Study hard. Learn good. Don’t rob no liquor stores. Play to win and go to church. Use Sheik-brand rubbers. Watch me whup Cassius Clay. Watch me kick his punk Muslim ass back to Mecca.
Sonny stopped. Sonny bowed. Sonny pulled a flask. The kids cheered. The teachers clapped demure.
Sonny waved his sack. Sonny grabbed play chips. Sonny tossed them wide.
The kids snatched them. The kids snared them. Kids bumped kids. Kids reached short. Kids fell on kids below.
Sonny tossed chips—big wads—dollar chips all. Kids reached high. Kids toppled. Kids engaged in fistfights.
Sonny raised his flask. Sonny waved bye-bye. Sonny jumped in the stretch.
The stretch pulled out. Pete U-turned and tailed it. Kids shrieked Champ bye-bye!
The stretch hauled. Pete hauled up close. They tore speed limits. They cut east and south. They hit downtown Vegas.
Traffic snarled. The stretch looped Fremont. The stretch braked and stopped.
There—
A parking lot. An army-navy store—Sid the Surplus Sergeant.
The crew piled out. The crew yukked and huddled. The crew piled in the backdoor. The driver waved—adios, Mau-Maus—the stretch vamoosed.
Pete parked. Pete locked his car. Pete dawdled and ambled up. Pete braced the backdoor.
He ambled in. He cut through a storeroom. He pushed through pea-coats on racks. He saw crates/cartons/trench tools. He caught a cosmoline stench.
He hit a hallway. He heard sounds. He followed titters and love grunts—aaooooo!
He ambled. He tracked the noise. He crouched and crept. He saw a cracked door and peeked in.
Stag-flick time. A bedsheet screen and a projector. Lez antics—young girls entwined.
The Mau-Maus tittered. Peavy yawned. The girls ran fourteen tops. Sonny cracked a red devil. Sonny powdered a palm. Sonny sniffed the shit up.
The girls strapped on dildoes. A donkey appeared. El Burro wore diablo horns.
Pete walked outside. Pete found a pay phone. Pete called the Stardust book. He placed a bet—forty grand—Clay over Liston.
The Deuce rolled low—nickel slots/bingo/shots-and-beer.
The dealers wore sidearms. The bar served jar brew. The cocktail chicks whored. The Deuce pandered low. You had oldsters and wetbacks. You had more spooks than Ramar of the Jungle.
The lounge supplied a floor view. Pete lounged and sipped club soda. Pete watched the floor show.
A geez pulls his air tube. He’s ninety-plus. He smokes a Camel. He hacks blood. He sucks oxygen. Two fruits lock eyes. Said fruits strut green shirts. Green shirts are fruit semaphore.
Two jigs lurk. They’re snatch-and-run guys. Dig their gym shorts and sneakers. Wayne walks up. Wayne wears a belt sap. Wayne wears handcuffs.
He taps the jigs. They share a look—woe-is-fuckin’-me.
Wayne slaps them. Wayne kicks them. Wayne grabs their conk napes and shoves them. They get the picture. They evict themselves—We Sha
ll Not Overcome.
Pete clapped. Pete whistled. Wayne turned and saw him. He walked up. He swiveled a chair. He nailed a floor view.
Pete said, “I didn’t find him. I think he’s down in Mexico.”
“How hard did you look?”
“Not that hard. I was looking for a guy in Florida, mostly.”
Wayne flexed his hands. Knuckle cuts oozed.
“We could teletype the federales. They could put out their own APB. We could pay them to hold him for me.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “They’d kill him themselves. They’d lure you down there, steal your money, and kill you.”
Wayne watched the floor. Pete tracked his eyes. There—one coon/one whore/unruly shit pending—
Wayne stood up. Pete grabbed his belt. Pete yanked him back down.
“Let it go. We’re having a conversation.”
Wayne shrugged. Wayne looked aggrieved. Wayne looked fucking deprived.
Pete glanced around. “Does your father own this place?”
“No, it’s Outfit. Santo Trafficante has points.”
Pete blew smoke rings. “I know Santo.”
“I’m sure you do. I know who you work for, so I’ve put that much of Dallas together.”
Pete smiled. “Nothing happened in Dallas.”
A whore walked by. Wayne drifted. Wayne watched the floor. Pete grabbed his chair. Pete jerked it and centered it. Pete killed the floor view.
“Look at me when I talk to you.”
Wayne made fists. His knuckles popped. His knuckles seeped.
Pete said, “Don’t use your hands. Use your sap if you have to.”
“Like Duane Hint—”
“Can it, all right? I’ve had dead women up to here.”
Wayne coughed. “Durfee’s good. That’s the part that gets me. He’s stayed ahead of everyone since Dallas.”
Pete chained cigarettes. “He’s not good, he’s lucky. He came to Vegas like a dumb bunny, and moves like that will get him dropped.”
Wayne shook his head. “He’s better than that.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He can give me up for Moore.”
“Bullshit. It’s his word versus yours and no body.”
“He’s good. That’s the part …”
A spook walked by. Wayne eyeballed him. He saw Wayne and blinked.
Pete coughed. “Who owns Sid the Surplus Sergeant?”
Wayne said, “A clown named Eldon Peavy. He named it after some queer buddy of his who died from the syph.”
Pete laughed. “He’s showing smut films there. Underaged kids, the whole shot. How big a bust is that on his end?”
Wayne shrugged. “The State Code’s soft on possession. He’d have to manufacture and sell the films, or coerce and suborn the kids.”
Pete smiled. “Ask me why I care.”
“I know why. You want to buy out Monarch and relive your fucking Miami adventures.”
Pete laughed. “You’ve been talking to Ward Littell.”
“Sure, client to lawyer. I asked him why you take so much shit from me, but he wouldn’t give me an answer.”
Pete cracked his knuckles. “Bet on Clay. Your boy Sonny needs more time in the gym.”
Wayne flexed his hands. “There’s a Sheriff’s Vice guy named Farlan Moss. He investigates businessmen for people who want to take over their action. He won’t fabricate, but if he gets incriminating evidence, he’ll turn it over to you and let you use it any way you like. It’s an old Vegas strategy.”
Pete grabbed a napkin. Pete wrote it down: “Farlan Moss/CCSD.”
Wayne twirled his sap. “You’ve got this weird thing for me.”
“I had a kid brother once. Someday I’ll tell you the story.”
The Bondsmen vamped. Barb grabbed the mike. She curtsied. Her gown hiked. Her nylons stretched.
Pete sat ringside. A geek had Wayne’s seat. Wayne worked late now. Wayne caught Barb haphazard.
Ward said he talked to Wayne Senior. Senior ragged on Junior. Ward passed it on.
Junior was a hider. Junior was a watcher. Junior lit flames. Junior torched. Junior lived in his head.
Barb blew a kiss. Pete caught it. Pete covered his heart. He made two T’s—their private signal—do “Twilight Time.”
Barb caught it. Barb cued the Bondsmen. Barb kicked the tune off.
He missed her for days on. They kept diverse hours and slept diverse shifts. They stashed a cot backstage. They made love between shows.
It worked. They worked. It wrecked him. It scared him.
Barb watched the news. Barb tracked the Warren thing. Barb nursed Dallas. Barb nursed her link to Jack.
She never said it. He just knew. It wasn’t sex. It wasn’t love. “Awe” said it all. You killed him. The fix held. You killed him and walked.
He played his version. “Fear” said it all. You’ve got her. You could lose her—per Dallas.
You sweat Fear. You ooze Fear. You test the Fear logic. You know you walked because:
It was that big. It was that audacious. It was that wrong.
You test the logic. You fret it. You show fear. You scare people. You pass your fear on. The wrong people find you and knock.
Barb worked “Twilight Time.” Barb caressed the low notes.
Wendell Durfee knocked. Lynette paid. Dead women scared him. Lynette as Barb. Lynette as “Jane.”
He saw Lynette’s body. He had to. The picture stuck. He conjured it. He banished it. He dreamed it and tore the sheets up.
Barb kissed off “Twilight Time.” Barb did the Mashed Potato. Barb did the Swim.
The spell died. Her fast tunes deep-sixed it. A waiter schlepped a phone up.
Pete cradled it. “Yeah?”
A man said, “Carlos wants to see you.”
“Where?”
“De Ridder, Louisiana.”
He flew to Lake Charles. He cabbed to De Ridder. It was wet. It was hot. The heat spawned bugs.
De Ridder was Shit City. Fort Polk stood close. The town lived off Army handouts.
Chicken-fried-steak joints and rib cribs. Beer bars/tattoo parlors/nudie-mag stalls.
Carlos limo’d up. Pete met him. The local crackers watched. Dumb crackers—gap-mouthed bug-magnets all.
They drove east. They caught red clay and pine bluffs. They looped the Kisatchee Forest.
Pete raised a screen. Pete cut the driver off. Vents pumped cold air in. Dark tint killed the sun.
Carlos bankrolled a camp—forty Cubans total—would-be killer ops. Carlos said, “Let’s see my boys.” Carlos said, “Let’s talk.”
They drove. They talked. They passed Klan klonklaves. Carlos ragged the Klan—they hate Catholics—that means they hate us.
Pete nixed him—I’m Huguenot—you fucks fucked my kin.
They talked. They rehashed la Causa. Tiger Kab and Pigs. LBJ’s big walkoff. Carlos brought a bottle. Pete brought paper cups.
Carlos said, “The Outfit’s got zero affection for the Cause. Everyone thinks, ‘We shot our wad, we lost the casinos, it’s spilled milk under the bridge.’ ”
They hit a rut. Pete spilled X.O.
“Havana was beautiful. Vegas can’t hold a candle.”
“Littell’s got a foreign-casino plan. Everyone’s gaga, as well they fucking should be.”
They passed Army trucks. They passed signs. Signs ragged the ACL-Jew.
Pete said, “The old crew was good. Laurent Guéry, Flash Elorde.”
Carlos nodded. “Good narcotics men and good killers. You never doubted their sincerity.”
Pete dabbed his shirt. “John Stanton was a good ops man. You had the Outfit and the Agency together.”
“Yeah, like that song. ‘For one brief shining moment.’ ”
Pete crushed his cup. “Stanton’s in Indochina?”
“Don’t be such a Frenchman. They call it Vietnam now.”
Pete lit a cigarette. “There’s a cab biz in Vegas. I could turn it into a moneymaker for us
. Littell wants me to hold off, because the owner’s on the license boards.”
Carlos sipped X.O. “Don’t work so hard to impress me. You’re not Littell, but you’re good.”
The troops snapped to. Pete paced the line. Pete came to critique and review.
Forty Cubanos—porkers and stringbeans—jail recruits all.
Guy Banister recruited them. Guy knew a cop in John Birch. The cop fudged his jail sheets. The cop freed prospects. Said prospects were pervs. Said prospects were “musicians”—Cugie Cugat manqués.
Pete walked the line. Pete checked guns. M-1s and M-14s—dead bugs chambered in.
Barrel dust. Mildew. Moss rot.
Pete got pissed. Pete got a headache. The head geek paced the line behind him.
An Army stupe—Fort Polk trash—some kiddie kommando. He ran a Klan klique. He ran a still. He sold oat mash. He supplied alcoholic Choctaws.
The troops sucked poodle dick. The camp ditto.
Quonset huts and pup tents—fucking Boy Scout stock. A “Target Range”—scarecrows and tree stumps. An “Ammo Dump”—made from Lego logs.
The troops snapped to. The troops shot a salute. They fumbled their rifles. They fired off-sync. Eight bolts jammed up.
They made some noise. They roused some birds. Birdshit disinterred and fell.
Carlos bowed. Carlos tossed the donation bag. The head geek caught it and bowed.
“Mr. Banister and Mr. Hudspeth will be coming in soon. They’re transporting some ordnance.”
Carlos lit a cigar. “That my ten grand’s paying for?”
“That’s correct, sir. They’re my chief weapons procurers.”
“They’re making money off my donations?”
“Not in the sense you imply, sir. I’m sure they’re not making a personal profit.”
Prime “ordnance”: One picnic table/one bar-b-que pit.
The geek blew a whistle. The troops hit the range. They fired. They shot low. They missed.
Carlos shrugged. Carlos nursed a grievance. Carlos walked off. The geek shrugged. The geek nursed hurt feelings. The geek walked off.
Pete walked. Pete checked the range. Pete checked the dump. Pete critiqued the stock.
Two machine guns—old 50s—slack triggers/loose belts. Six flamethrowers—cracked feeders/cracked pipes. Two speedboats—pull motors—lawn-mower drive. Sixty-two revolvers—corroded and fucked.