"Would you like an update?"
Moe rolled his eyes. "Tell me. Use words of one syllable only."
"Short and sweet, then. I think we'll get our price. They're discussing undistributed profits tax now."
Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.
"I know you don't like him, but that well-known goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior is essential to our plans. We need his union, and we need to keep his ex-buddies and Mormons in general running skim on those charter flights. Now, we've got the papers and TV bribed to do this 'Hughes is cleaning out Mob influence in Vegas' number, which makes me think we should recruit some more clean Mormon skim guys, because Hughes will insist on hiring Mormons to work the key fucking managerial positions, and I do not want any old-line skim people hanging around looking conspicuous when we can have some well-scrubbed shitheel Mormons, _especially_ since the skim ante is about to go way up."
Littell brainstormed. Littell checked the window. He saw nut swarms. He saw newsmen. He saw clowns with snack carts.
"The publicity heat will be going up, too."
Moe lit a cigarette. Moe popped digitalis.
"Tell me what you're thinking. Go to two syllables if you have to."
Littell brainstormed-one quick brain draft. Propose it/convince Moe/refine the draft. Gift Mr. Hoover/earn a gift reciprocal/earn back to BLACK RABBIT.
Moe rolled his eyes. "A trance you're in. Like the Vegas sun finally got to your head."
Littell coughed. "Are you still buffered from your old-line skim people?"
"The ones we replaced? The ones we shitcanned for the Mormons?"
"Right."
Moe rolled his eyes. "We always buffer. It's how we survive."
Littell smiled. "Let's give some of them up to the Feds, as soon as Mr. Hughes takes over a few hotels. It will buttress our publicity campaign, it will make Mr. Hoover happy, it will tie the Feds here up in litigation."
Moe dropped his cigarette. Moe singed deep-pile carpet. Moe toed the butt flat.
"I like it. I like all deals that fuck disenfranchised personnel."
"I'll call Mr. Hoover."
"You do that. You say hi and give him our best regards, in your best lawyer way."
Voices boomed eight tables up-tax rates/tax incentives. Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked eight yards. They bypassed two tables.
"I know you been through this with Carlos and Sam, but I want you to hear it from my perspective, which is we do not want a fucking repeat of the 1960 election. We want to back a strong guy who'll come down hard on all this agitation and civil unrest and stand firm in Vietnam, as well as leave us the fuck alone. Now, per the aforementioned goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior, let me say this. We've heard that he's no longer schlepping hate pamphlets, that he's cleaned up the seedier aspects of his act, and that him and his Mormons are getting tight with that wellknown political retread Richard M. Nixon, who has always hated the Reds a good deal more than he's hated the so-called Mafia. We want you to talk to Wayne Senior and get an indication as to whether Nixon will run, and if he says yes, you know what we want and what we're willing to pay."
Voices boomed ten tables up-tax nuts/tax credits.
Littell coughed. "I'll call him when I get a-"
"You call him in the vicinity of the next five minutes. You meet him and lay it out. You get him to plant the seed with the Nixon people, and you tell him _you'll_ be the guy to sit down with Nixon, if and when that shifty cocksucker runs."
Littell said, "Jesus Christ."
Moe said, "Your goyishe savior. A presidential cat in his own right."
Voices boomed ten tables up-Negro hygiene/Negro sedation.
o o o
The T-Bird-hole 10.
Play crawled. Duffers hacked. Oldsters bumped carts. Littell sipped club soda. Littell watched hole 9.
Women dumped shots. Women blew putts. Women sprayed sand. Ball beaters all-no Janice types.
He called Wayne Senior. He made the meet. He called Mr. Hoover. He got an aide. He promised news. He promised hard data. Mr. Hoover was out. The aide said he'd find him. The aide called back. The aide said:
Mr. Hoover's busy. Talk to SA Dwight Holly-he's in Vegas now.
Littell agreed. Littell assessed.
Mr. Hoover loves Dwight. Dwight's _his_ assessor. Dwight will see you and assess. Work Dwight/work said assessment/work back to BLACK RABBIT.
A breeze strafed through. Golfers blew shots. Putts blew way wide. Littell brainstormed. Littell watched hole 9.
Work Wayne Senior. Glean data. His union broke laws. His union ignored civil-rights codes. Glean said data. Leak it to Bobby. Maybe now/maybe later/maybe '68.
He'd be free. He'd be "retired." Bobby might run for Prez. Funnel the leaks/buffer the leaks/cloak the source disclosure.
Littell watched hole 9. Wayne Senior played up.
He dumped his approach. He hit the trap. He chipped out wide. He three-putted. He laughed. He left his golf pals.
He walked over brisk. Littell arranged a lawn chair.
"Hello, Ward."
"Mr. Tedrow."
Wayne Senior leaned on the chair. "Things run dense with you. Every word has its meaning."
"I'll state my case briefly. I'll have you back on the tee in five minutes."
Wayne Senior smirked. Wayne Senior grinned aw-shucks.
"I thought we might work at a thaw. We could commiserate over a certain woman and go from there."
Littell shook his head. "I don't kiss and tell."
"That's a shame, because Janice certainly does."
A ball shanked close. Wayne Senior ducked.
Littell said, "My people will be needing some men to work at Mr. Hughes' hotels, along with some new couriers. I'd like to go through your union files and look for prospects."
Wayne Senior twirled his putter. "_I'll_ pick the men. The last time we did business, my men quit the union and I lost my percentage."
Littell smiled. "I reinstated it."
"You reinstated it reluctantly, and you're the last man on God's green earth that I'd let in my files. Dwight Holly thinks you're a bad man to trust with information, and I would guess that Mr. Hoover concurs."
Littell cleaned his glasses. Wayne Senior blurred.
"I was told that you've become friends with Richard Nixon."
"Dick and I are getting close, yes."
"Do you think he'll run in '68?"
"I'm sure he will. He'd prefer to run against Johnson or Humphrey, but he'll buck the younger Kennedy if he has to."
Littell smiled. "He'll lose."
Wayne Senior smiled. "He'll win. Bobby isn't Jack by a long shot."
A ball rolled up. Littell grabbed it.
"If Mr. Nixon runs, I'll ask you to arrange a meeting with me. I'll state my clients' requests, gauge his response, and take it from there. If Mr. Nixon agrees to honor the requests, he'll be compensated."
Wayne Senior said, "How much?"
Littell said, "Twenty-five million."
97
(New Hebron, 11/30/66)
Klantics:
Klan klowns hauled guns. Klan klowns oiled guns. Klan klowns klipped koupons.
They sat around. They worked inside. They ducked a hailstorm outside. The Fьhrer Bunker-ripe with farts and gun residue.
Wayne lounged. Bob Relyea dipped numbers. Bob Relyea bitched.
"My fucking contacts are getting lazy. They want to burn the serial codes as part of the deal, that's fine with me, even though Pete don't like it. But doing the job myself is another fucking thing."