Wayne checked his drawers. Wayne tallied weapons-throwdown shit all. Six shivs/eight pistols/one sawed-off shotgun.
He worked the Deuce. He disarmed punks. He stole their shit. He saved it to plant on Durfee. Janice loved it. Janice called it his hope chest.
He checked his tip file. He'd tallied ninety-one tips. All bullshit/all jive.
Cars pulled up outside. Doors slammed. The carport boomed loud. Your host-Wayne Senior.
Another hate-tract "summit meet." His "biggest and best"-selfdescribed.
Ten meets in ten days. Fund meets and "summits." Tract-distributor drives. Let's fuck civil rights. Let's laud _states'_ rights. Let's push more tracts. Mr. Hoover wants speed. Mr. Hoover wants wide distribution.
Wayne Senior told Wayne that. Wayne Senior spieled EVERYTHING. Wayne Senior torqued his HATE.
_He_ held back. _He_ observed partial disclosure.
He saw Fed cars. He saw Fed surveillance. Feds perched down the road. Feds watched the meets. Feds checked license plates.
_Local_ Feds-_non_-FBI-Dwight Holly's boys.
Wayne Senior was distracted. Wayne Senior was tract-obsessed. Wayne Senior missed the heat. Wayne Senior talked. Wayne Senior torqued Wayne. Wayne Senior worked to impress.
Wayne Senior knew Ward Littell now. Wayne Senior bragged it up: "Littell needs some help. I might be planting some of my people in the Hughes organization."
Wayne called Littell last week. Wayne warned him: Wayne Senior will fuck you-and Dwight Holly's acting up.
Wayne cleaned his knives. Wayne cleaned his guns. Wayne stacked shotgun shells. Janice walked in. Janice was pool-wet. Janice smelled like Coppertone and chlorine.
Wayne tossed her a towel. "You used to knock."
"When you were a boy, I did."
"Who's he got today?"
"The John Birch people. They want him to change the print style on the fluoridation tracts, to distinguish them from the racier stuff."
Her tan was uneven. Her swimsuit rode low. Some black hair showed.
"You're dripping all over my rug."
Janice toweled of f. "Your birthday's coming up."
"I know."
"You'll be thirty."
Wayne smiled. "You want me to say, 'And you'll be forty-three in November.' You want to know if I'm keeping track of those things."
Janice dropped the towel. "Your answer satisfied me."
Wayne said, "I don't forget things. You know that."
"The things that count?"
"Things in general."
Janice scoped out the corkboard. Janice scoped M. L. King.
"He doesn't look like a Communist to me."
"I doubt if he is."
Janice smiled. "He doesn't look like Wendell Durfee, either."
Wayne flinched. Janice said, "I have to go. I've got bridge with Clark Kinman."
o o o
The Deuce was dead. Dead occupancy/dead slots/dead tables.
Wayne prowled.
He walked. He perched. He tailed Negroes. He announced his intent and deterred. They ran from him. They ignored him. They played it cooooool.
The shift dragged. _He_ dragged. He sat by the teller's cage. He cranked his stool up.
A Negro walks in. He's got a brown bag. He's got a jug. He hits the slots. He drops some dimes. He hits some baaaaad luck.
Forty pulls and no payoffs-righteous baaaad luck.
The guy whips his dick out. The guy urinates. The guy sprays the dime slots. The guy sprays a dykey-ass nun.
Wayne walked over.
The guy laughs. The guy breaks his jug. Glass flies. Wine shvitzes. The nun Hail Marys.
The guy laughs. I gots me a cutter. It gots a paper-bag grip.
He lunged.
Wayne stepped back. Wayne trapped his arm. Wayne snapped his wrist. The guy puked. The guy dropped the cutter.
Wayne kicked him prone. Wayne kicked his teeth in. Wayne knee-dropped him.
46
(Las Vegas, 7/6/64)
Eldon Peavy vibed butch. Eldon Peavy vibed mean queen.
3:10 a.m.
The hut was dead. Peavy worked solo. Pete walked right in. Peavy hinked. Peavy reached. Peavy was _trиs_ slow.
Pete blocked the desk. Pete yanked the drawer out. Pete grabbed the gun.
Peavy regrouped. Peavy showed savoir faire. He dipped his chair. He raised his feet. He stroked Pete's thighs.
"Tall, dark, and vicious. My type to a T."
Pete popped the clip. Pete popped the shells. They bipped and flew.
Peavy smirked. "Want to audition? Kept man or geisha boy, you call it."
Pete said, "Not tonight."
Peavy laughed. "Hey, he speaks."
The desk phone rang. Peavy ignored it. He wiggled his feet. He toecrawled. He nuzzled Pete's thighs.
Pete lit a cigarette. "'The film racket is implemented by Tijuana policemen, who employ and frequently coerce underaged girls.'"
Peavy wiggled his toes. "Shit, you had my hopes up. You know that song? 'Someday he'll come along, the man I love.'"
Pete turned out his pockets. Pete pulled out two hundred G's-new Knotes all.
He dropped said money. He grabbed Peavy's feet. He dropped them desk-adjacent.
"We need your Gaming and Liquor Board votes, and you get to keep a 5% interest."
Peavy pulled a comb. Peavy puffed his spitcurl.
"I know shakedowns and legal forceouts intimately, so go to the next step and say you'll blow up my cabs."
Pete shook his head. "If I go to the next step, you lose the 5%."
Peavy flipped Pete off. Pete yukked. Pete showed him three pix.
Rose Paolucci: in church. Rose Paolucci: blowing a bull mastiff. Rose Paolucci with her uncle-John Rosselli.
Peavy smirked-tee-hee-hee-Peavy focused in.
He went pale. He popped sweat. He tossed his dinner. He doused the switchboard. He soaked the phone. He grabbed the money wet.
Pete snagged the Rolodex. Pete grabbed Milt Chargin's card.
o o o
They met at Sills' Tip-Top. They talked shit. They noshed pancakes.
Milt was hip. I'm a comic. I gig local. Call me Mort Sahl unchained.
Milt knew Fred Otash. Milt knew Pete's rep. Milt dug the scandal-rag days. Milt knew Moe D. Milt knew Freddy Turentine. Freddy bugged fag pads for _Whisper_.
Pete leveled. Pete said I bought Monarch. Pete said I need your help now.
Milt was glad. Monarch was a fruit bowl. Monarch was a fruit cocktail. You need _some_ fruits. The fruit biz rocks. You _don't_ need a froufrou aesthetic.
Pete quizzed Milt. Milt leveled.
He eschewed the fruit scene. He eschewed the smut scene. He eschewed the froufrou aesthetic. He said he'd stay on. He made some suggestions.
Peavy owns the Cavern. That homo hut hops. Let's junket the fruits to and fro. Let's be careful. Let's be cool. Let's live with _some_ froufrou aesthetics.
They talked shit. They discussed Peavy's gigs. Some to eschew/some to enhance/some to revise.
Pete quizzed Milt. Pete said strut your stuff-play Mr. Vegas insider.
"I'm on the Strip, and I want to get laid for a hundred. Where do I go?"
"Try Louis at the Flamingo. He runs a fuck pad on the premises. You get an around-the-world for a C-note."
"Suppose I want dark stuff?"
"You call Al at the chambermaids' union. It's good trim, if you don't mind shtupping in a mop closet."
"Who do I avoid?"
"Larry, at the Castaways. He runs drag queens in the guise of real women. The rule of thumb is, 'Don't trust what won't disrobe.'"
"Suppose I want a three-way with two lezzies?"