Pete said, "The old crew was good. Laurent Guйry, 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."
o o o
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 manquйs.
Pete walked the line. Pete checked guns. M-ls 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.
Pete found some oil. Pete found some rags. Pete cleaned some.38s up. The sun felt good. The oil deterred mosquitoes. The "troopers" worked out.
They did push-ups. They wrecked their manicures. They huffed and puffed.
_He_ ran _ace_ troops. _He_ hit Cuba. _He_ scalped mucho Reds. _He_ killed Fidelistos. _He_ went to Pigs. _He_ tried to kill Fidel. They should have won. Jack the K. fucked them. Jack paid. _He_ paid. It got all shot to hell.
Pete cleaned guns. He swabbed barrels, He dipped butts. He brushed cylinders. He scoured moss rot.
An old Ford pulled in. The paint job screamed RIGHT-WING NUT!
Dig it:
Crosses. The stars bars. Inverted swastikas.
A trailer bounced behind the Ford. Gun barrels extruded. The Ford brodied. The Ford slid. The Ford grazed the bar-b-que pit.
The Ford stalled and died. Guy B. got out. Hank Hudspeth helped him up. Guy was cardiac red. Guy survived #3. Carlos said his pump was shot.
Guy looked drunk. Guy looked frail. Guy looked diseased. Hank looked drunk. Hank looked strong. Hank looked dead mean.
Guy lugged out hot dogs. Hank dumped steaks and buns. They looked around. They saw Pete. They puckered up.
Hank whistled. Guy hit his horn. The troops shagged ass up.
Hank dumped briquettes. The head geek filled the pit. Guy gasspritzed it. They built a fire. They torched hot dogs. The troops swamped the trailer.
They whooped. They yanked guns. They dollied them over-full-drum Thompsons/one hundred plus.
Pete grabbed one. The butt was chipped. The drum was jammed. The balance was off.
Shit knockoffs-Jap stock.
The troops stacked the Tommys. Pete ignored them. The pit whooshed. Bugs bombed the chow.
Guy walked to the limo. Carlos got out. Guy hugged him and chatted him up.
The troops lined up. Hank dispensed plates. Pete grabbed a.38. Pete dry-fired it.
Carlos walked up. Carlos said, "I hate drunks." Pete aimed at Guy. Pete dry-shot him-pop!
"I'll clip him. He knows too much."
"Maybe later. I want to see if we can whip these clowns into shape."
Pete wiped his hands. Carlos palmed the gun.
"I got a lead on Hank Killiam. He's in Pensacola."
Pete said, "I'll go tonight."
Carlos smiled. Carlos aimed at Pete. Carlos dry-shot him-pop!
"Betty McDonald's in the Dallas County Jail. She told a cop that she got warned out of town last November. I'm not saying it was _you_, but…"
39
(Las Vegas, 2/13/64)
They blew skeet. They shot custom guns.
They shot off the back deck. They shot custom clays. Janice slung them up. She sat below. She caught some rays. She wore a bikini swimsuit.
Wayne Senior scored persistent. Wayne missed fairly wide. He'd fucked up his hand. He beat up on coloreds. It fucked up his grip.
Janice popped a clay. Wayne fired. Wayne missed.
Wayne Senior reloaded. "You're not holding the stock tight enough."
Wayne flexed his hand. He'd fucked it and re-fucked it. It stayed fucked all the time.
"My hand's bothering me. I hurt it at work."
Wayne Senior smiled. "On Negroes or assorted riffraff?"
"You know the answer to that."
"Your employers are exploiting your reputation. That means they're exploiting you."
"Exploitation works both ways. If that sounds familiar, I got it from you."
"I'll repeat myself, then. You're overqualified for random vengeance and work as a casino bouncer."
Wayne flexed his hand. "I'm developing some new tastes. You don't know if you disapprove, or if you should take partial credit."
Wayne Senior winked. "I could help you achieve what you want, in an intelligent fashion. You'd have a good deal of latitude for individual action."
Janice moved her chair. Wayne watched her. Her top chafed. Her nipples swelled.
Wayne said, "No sale."
Wayne Senior lit a cigarette. "I've diversified. You figured that out at Christmas, and you've started coming back for visits again. You should know that I'll be doing some _very_ interesting things for Mr. Hoover."
Wayne yelled, "Pull!" Janice tossed a clay. Wayne nailed it. His ears popped. His bad hand throbbed.
"I'm not going to hide under a sheet and rat off mail violators, so that you can sell more hate tracts."
"You've been talking to Ward Littell. You're in a vulnerable state, and men like Littell and Bondurant are starting to look good to you."
The sun hit the deck. Wayne squinted it off.
"They remind me of you."
"I won't take that as a compliment."
"You shouldn't."
"I'll say it once. Don't be seduced by lowlifes and thieves."