Wayne watched. Wayne yawned. Bob dabbed M-14s. Bob dabbed pumps. Bob dabbed bazookas. He wore rubber gloves. He swiped a brush. He smeared caustic goo.
Wayne watched. The goo ate numbers-three-zero codes.
Bob said, "My contacts boosted some Army trucks near Memphis. There's this little town called White Haven, where all the caucasoids moved to to get away from the spooks. Half the town's Army EM."
Wayne sneezed. The caustics stung. Wayne lounged and drifted. Wayne Senior/job deals/"Hate Smart."
Bob said, "What do you call a monkey sitting in a tree with three niggers? You call him the Branch Manager."
The Klan klods howled. Bob booted snuff. Bob dipped M-14s. Pete kalled the kompound. Pete found Wayne an hour back. Pete reworked Wayne's rotation.
Don't surveille the gun run. Don't boat to Cuba. Fly to Vegas/meet Sonny/muscle a deadbeat.
Bob packed guns. Flash was due-kadre on kall. The karavan-New Hebron to Bay St. Louis.
Wayne stood up. Wayne toured the hate hut. Dig the wall-mounted shivs. Dig the Rebel drapes. Dig the wall photos: George Wallace/Ross Barnett/Orval Faubus.
Dig the group shots. There's the Regal Knights. There's a jail pic-three cons in the "Thunderbolt Legion."
Said cons wore jail garb. Said cons grinned. Said cons signed their names: Claude Dineen/Loyal Binns/Jimmy E. Ray.
Bob said, "Hey, Wayne. You ever talk to your daddy?"
o o o
He drove north. He flew Memphis to Vegas. He thought about Janice. He thought about Barb. He thought about Wayne Senior.
Janice aged strong. Good genes and will meet carnal desires. Barb aged fast. Bad habits and will meet fucked-up desires. Wayne Senior looked old. Wayne Senior looked good. Wayne Senior had hate-smart desires.
Janice limped. She'd fuck harder now. She'd outgun her handicap. She'd compensate.
The plane touched down. Wayne got off bleary-1:10 a.m.
He walked down the ramp. He trailed some nuns. He dodged skycaps with dollies.
There's Pete. He's by the gate. He's perched by some bag carts. He's _smoking_.
Wayne hitched up his garment bag. Wayne walked over bleary.
"Put that fucking cigarette-"
Pete pushed a bag cart. It hit Wayne's knees. It capsized him. It knocked him flat. Pete ran over. Pete stepped on his chest.
"Here's the warning. I don't care what you feel for Barb or what you think she's doing to herself. Hit her again and I'll kill you."
Wayne saw starbursts. Wayne saw sky. Wayne saw Pete's shoe. He sucked air. He ate jet fumes. He got breath.
"I was telling her something you won't, and I fucking did it to help you."
Pete flicked his cigarette. Pete burned Wayne's neck. Pete dropped a note on his chest.
"Take care of it. You and Sonny. Barb's gone, so we'll pretend this never happened."
A nun walked by. Said nun shot a look-you pagans stop that!
Pete walked off. Wayne sat up. Wayne got more breath. Two punks strolled by. They saw Wayne recumbent. They giggled it up.
Wayne stood up. Wayne dodged skycaps and bag carts. Wayne hit a phone booth.
He dropped coins. He dialed. He got a buzz tone. He got three rings. He got _Him_.
"Who's calling at this ungodly hour?"
Wayne said, "I want that job."
(Las Vegas, 12/1/66)
Onstage: Milt C. and Junkie Monkey.
Milt said, "What's all this tsuris with Howard Hughes?"
Junkie Monkey said, "I heard he's a swish. He moved in to get next to Liberace."
The crowd yocked. The crowd roared.
Milt said, "Come on. I heard he was shtupping Ava Gardner."
Junkie Monkey said, "_I'm_ shtupping Ava. She traded up from Sammy Davis. Sammy's on the golf course. This square comes up to him and says, 'What's your handicap?' Sammy says, 'I'm a one-eyed shvartze Jew. Nobody will sell me a house in a nice neighborhood. I'm trying to effect a peace accord between Israel and the Congo. I've got no place to hang my Sy Devore beanie.'"
The crowd yocked. Milt moved his lips. Milt puppet-talked bad. Pete watched. Pete smoked. Pete mourned Barb.
She was three days gone. She didn't call. She didn't write. _He_ didn't call. _He_ didn't write. He braced Wayne instead.
It was bullshit. Wayne was right. He knew it. Barb split. He exploited it. He indulged. He smoked. He ate burgers. He worked the Fuck-It Diet. He boozed. He caught Milt. He caught Barb's crew. The Bondsmen sans Barb-Shit City.
The lounge was packed. Young stuff mostly. Milt drew hip kids.
Junkie Monkey said, "Frank Sinatra saved my life. His goons were stomping me in the Sands parking lot. Frank said, 'That's enough, boys.'"
The crowd yocked. Pete smoked. A geek tapped his arm. Pete turned around. Pete saw Dwight Holly.
o o o
They hit Pete's office. They stood by the wet bar. They crowded each other. They stood in tight.
Pete said, "It's been a while."
"Yeah, as in '64. Your boy Wayne killed three shines."
Pete lit a cigarette. "And you made out."
Dwight shrugged. "Wayne fucked me up, but you and Littell set it straight. Now, ask me if I came to say thanks."
Pete poured a scotch. "You were in town, so you thought you'd drop by."
"Not quite. I'm in town to see Littell, which I'd prefer you keep to yourself."
Pete sipped scotch. Dwight tapped his chest.
"How's your ticker?"
"It's fine."
"You shouldn't be smoking."
"You shouldn't be jerking my chain."
Dwight laughed. Dwight poured a scotch.
"How'd you like to help me entrap a Commie sympathizer?"
"You and Mr. Hoover?"
"I won't say yes or no to that. Silence implies consent, so draw your own conclusions."
Pete said, "Lay it out. The money first."
Dwight swirled scotch. "Twenty grand for you. Ten each for your bait, your backup, and your bug man."
Pete laughed. "Ward's a good bug man."
"Ward's a prince of a bug man, but I'd prefer Freddy Turentine, and I'd prefer that Ward be kept in the dark about this."
Pete grabbed an ashtray. Pete stubbed his cigarette.
"Give me one good reason why I should fuck Ward over to help you."
Dwight undid his necktie. "One, all this shit is tangential to Ward. Two, it's a high-line gig that you won't be able to resist. Three, you're in the Life for life, you'll fuck up sooner or later, and Mr. Hoover will intercede for you, no questions asked."
Pete sipped scotch. Pete rolled his neck. Pete tapped his head on the wall.
"Who?"
"Bayard Rustin, male Negro, age fifty-four. Civil-rights agitator with a yen for young white boys. He's horny, he's impetuous, he's as Red as they get."
Pete tapped his head. "When?"
"Next month, in L.A. There's an SCLC fund-raiser at the Beverly Hilton."
"That's cutting it close."
Dwight shrugged. "The bait's the only holdup. Do you think you-"
"I've got the bait. He's young, he's queer, he's attractive. He's got some potential cop shit hanging over him, which-"
"Which Mr. Hoover will frost out, no questions asked."
Pete tapped his head. Pete tapped it hard. Pete sparked a headache.
"I want Fred Otash on backup."
"Agreed."
"Plus Freddy Turentine and ten grand for expenses."
"Agreed."
Pete's stomach growled. The scotch fucked with it. Pete thought Cheeseburger.