There—not no, it’s yes.
Pete saw her legs. Pete saw her. Pete caught her kiss standing up. Wayne smiled. The Bondsmen clicked in. Barb launched Viet rock.
Whistles/wolf calls/cheers—
Barb danced. Barb shimmied. Barb kicked a shoe off. The shoe sailed high. Guys grabbed and reached. Pete reached higher up.
It’s close. It’s—
His chest popped. His wind died. His left arm blew up.
It’s close. It’s high-heeled and spangled. It’s green and—
His left arm died. His left wrist torqued. His left hand blew up.
He grabbed right. He caught the shoe. He kissed it. He fell down. He squeezed the shoe. Barb blurred white white.
84
(Washington, D.C., 9/4/65)
Riot. Revolt. Insurrection.
NBC ran replays. TV pundits assessed.
Littell watched.
Negroes threw Molotovs. Negroes threw bricks. Negroes sacked liquor stores. Chief Parker blamed hoodlums. Bobby urged reforms. Dr. King urged dissent.
Dr. King digressed. Dr. King stressed other riots. Dr. King stressed Vegas West.
Replays: Negroes throw Molotovs/Negroes throw bricks/Negroes sack liquor stores.
Littell watched replays. Littell replayed vintage Drac:
“We’ve got to sedate those animals, Ward. We don’t want them that agitated that close to my hotels.”
Don’t say it: “Pete’s selling sedation, sir, but it doesn’t appear to be working right now.”
Ditto Pete. Barb called him last week. Barb said Pete had a heart attack.
It was bad. Pete was stable now. The old Pete was fucked. Barb came on strong. Barb begged him:
Pull strings. Brace Carlos. Make Pete retire. Bring him home. Make him stay. Do this for me.
Littell said he’d try. Littell called Da Nang. Littell talked to Pete. Pete was hoarse. Pete was tired. Pete sounded weak.
Littell called Carlos. Carlos said it’s up to Pete.
Littell killed the TV. Littell eyed his news pic. He’d clipped it. He’d saved it. He’d laminated it.
The Washington Post: “KING ATTENDS AIDE’S FUNERAL.” Aide Lyle Holly—dead per suicide—FBI plant WHITE RABBIT.
King’s RED RABBIT. Bayard Rustin’s PINK. Brother Dwight Holly’s BLUE. They all stand close. RED and PINK mourn. BLUE RABBIT smirks.
He clipped the shot. He studied it. He built some rage. He watched riot footage. He watched replays. He built more rage.
He traveled for work. He left Vegas. He drove to L.A. He saw a tail. He ignored it. He built more rage.
He knew:
Mr. Hoover doubts you. BLUE RABBIT doubts you. Said doubts plague BLACK RABBIT. WHITE RABBIT dies. You view the prelude. You spark apprehension. Mr. Hoover calls. You dissemble. He probes.
Call it a spot tail. You’ve seen none since. Logic meets rage.
You were spot-tailed pre–BLACK RABBIT. Mr. Hoover told you. Mr. Hoover pulled said tails. Mr. Hoover reinstated them—post–Lyle suicide.
Ergo:
He did not suspect you then. He does suspect you now.
He worked. He traveled—Vegas to L.A. He saw no tails en route. He saw Janice in Vegas. He saw Jane in L.A. He saw no tails at either venue.
Jane scared him. Jane knew him. Mr. Hoover knew about Jane. Agents planted her fake transcript. Agents gave her Tulane.
He checked for tails. He checked daily. He saw none. He replayed riot footage. He replayed Dr. King’s words. He replayed Lyle’s file near-verbatim.
He built a plan. He decreed escalation. He flew to D.C. He did some Teamster work. He stopped by the SCLC. He logged no tails en route.
He talked to Bayard Rustin. Bayard took a call. He excused himself. He found Lyle’s old cubbyhole. He worked fast. He deployed his briefcase. He went through boxed items. He stole Lyle’s typewriter. He stole Lyle’s memo stack.
The office mourned Lyle. They didn’t know Lyle was WHITE RABBIT.
Lyle gambled. Lyle stiffed you. You lost no respect. Lyle betrayed you. Lyle died. Now Lyle resurrects and repents.
Littell made coffee. Littell studied Lyle’s memos. Littell traced the name Lyle D. Holly.
He practiced. He got it. He prepped Lyle’s portable. He rolled in an envelope. He typed all caps:
“TO BE SENT IN THE CASE OF MY DEATH.”
He unrolled the envelope. He rolled in a carbon sheet and paper. He squared off the SCLC letterhead.
Lyle Holly confessed.
To booze binges. To gambling. To passing bad checks. To betrayal—FBI-funded—at J. Edgar Hoover’s behest.
Count 1: Mr. Hoover is crazy. He hates Dr. King. I joined his hate campaign.
Count 2: I joined the SCLC. I hoodwinked Dr. King. I hoodwinked key staff.
Count 3: I rose within the movement. I wrote policy briefs. I logged secrets shared.
Count 4: I leaked secret data. I supplied the Feds. I said tap here. I said bug there.
Addendum 1: A tap and bug list. Certified taps and bugs—known to Littell. Said bugs and taps—likely known to Lyle Holly.
Count 5: I logged Dr. King’s indiscretions. I told Mr. Hoover. He penned a “suicide note.” It was mailed to Dr. King. It urged him to take his own life.
Count 6: Mr. Hoover’s hate grows. Mr. Hoover’s hate deepens. Mr. Hoover’s campaign will ascend.
Littell stopped. Littell thought it all through. Littell reassessed.
No—don’t snitch BLACK RABBIT. Don’t snitch BLUE RABBIT. Don’t snitch WILD RABBIT’s snitch-Klan. Don’t exceed credibility. Don’t indict yourself. Don’t reveal what Lyle might not know.
Count 7: I have done great harm. I despair for Dr. King. I indulge thoughts of my suicide. This letter remains sealed. Staff members will find it. They will send it if I die.
Littell unrolled the document. Littell signed it Lyle D. Holly.
He rolled in an envelope. He typed an address: Chairman/House Judiciary Committee. He rolled out the envelope. He rolled in an envelope. He typed an address: Senator Robert F. Kennedy/Senate Office Building.
It was risky. Bobby ran Justice—’61–’64. Bobby ran Mr. Hoover. Mr. Hoover ran autonomous. Mr. Hoover ran his hate campaign under Bobby’s flag. Bobby might thus feel guilty. Bobby might thus feel shame.
Trust Bobby. Trust the risk. Hit the SCLC. Drop the letters. Get the meter stamp.
Wait—then read the papers. Wait—then watch TV.
Bobby might report the leak. You could contact him. You could resurrect anonymously.
85
(Da Nang, 9/10/65)
Sickbay—pills / drips / IVs. Pete’s world now—Pete the Zonked and Weak.
Wayne pulled a chair up. Pete laid in bed. Barb fluffed his pillow.
“I talked to Ward. He said he’s dying to test his pull with the gaming boards. He thinks he can get you a license for a grind joint.” Pete yawned.
Pete rolled his eyes. That meant Fuck You.
A nurse walked in. She took Pete’s pulse. She checked Pete’s eyes. She ran Pete’s blood pressure. She logged it in.
Wayne checked the board. Wayne saw normal stats. The nurse split. Barb fluffed Pete’s pillow.
“We could run the place together. Ward says it’s a revolutionary concept. You with a legitimate source of income.”
Pete yawned. Pete rolled his eyes. That meant Fuck You. His weight was down. His skin was slack. His bones jutted out.
He fell off that bleacher. Wayne caught him. Pete gripped Barb’s shoe. Barb jumped off the stage. A guy caught her. Two medics showed.
One guy resuscitated. One guy grabbed at the shoe. Pete kicked him. Pete bit him. Pete kept the shoe.
Barb said, “I quit smoking. If you can’t do it, I can’t either.” She looked frazzled. She looked fried.
She looked fragged. Call it a pill run—grief-justified.
Pete said, “I want a cheeseburger and a carton of Camels.”
His voice held—good timbre/good wind.
r /> Wayne laughed. Barb kissed Pete. Pete goosed her and went goo-goo eyed. She blew kisses. She walked out. She pulled the door shut.
Wayne straddled his chair. “Ward will make you buy a place. For Barb’s sake, if nothing else.”
Pete yawned. “She can run it. I’m too busy as it is.”
Wayne smiled. “You’re dying to talk business. If that’s the case, I’m listening.”
Pete cranked the bed up. “You’re running things until I get out of here. That means in-country and stateside.”
“All right.”
“We’ve got a backlog of shit at the lab, so we’re freed up there. I want Mesplède and Tran to run Tiger Kamp. I want you, Laurent, and Flash to handle the conduit and oversee the Cuban runs, and I want you to back Milt up at Tiger Kab.”
Wayne nodded. Wayne leaned on the bedrail.
Pete said, “I got a pouch from Bob. He’s got two truckloads of bazookas and high explosives pilfered out of Fort Polk. It’s a big haul, and it might take two boat runs. You take care of the Cuban transport, but in that case and in all future fucking cases, don’t go near the weaponry transactions and let Laurent and Flash drive the shit from New Hebron to Bon Secour. Bob’s got FBI cover, so I want him to stand as our most expendable guy. Laurent and Flash drive the guns, so they’re less expendable than Bob and a shitload more expendable than you. You stay safe, and you watch Danny Bruvick, who I do not trust worth a fucking shit.”
Wayne clapped. “Your wind is back.”
Pete checked the stat board. “Not bad. I’ll be out of here soon.”
Wayne stretched. “I talked to Tran. He said some slaves escaped with some M-base. They’re ex-VC, and Tran thinks they hooked up with some VC guys running a lab near Ba Na Key. He thinks they plan to cook up some shit and distribute it to our troops in the south, to demoralize them.”
Pete kicked the bedpost. The stat board fell.
“Have Mesplède interrogate the rest of the slaves. We might learn something that way.”
Wayne stood up. “Get some rest, boss. You look tired.”
Pete smiled. Pete grabbed Wayne’s chair. Pete snapped the back slats.
Wayne clapped.
Pete said, “Rest, shit.”
Barb danced. Barb obliged horny sailors. They swarmed her. They cut in. They swarmed three per song.
Canned songs/all staples/service club stock. “Sugar Shack”/surf shit/the Watusi.
Wayne watched. Barb’s hair bounced. Wayne saw new grays in the red. “Surf City” tapped out. Sailors clapped. Barb walked on back.
Wayne pulled her chair out. She sat down. She lit a match.
“I want a cigarette.”
Wayne plucked those new grays. Barb made an uggh face. Wayne sheared a few reds.
“You’ll get over it.”
Barb lit the grays. They poofed and burned up.
“I should go home. If I stay, I’ll start seeing things I don’t like.”
“Like our business?”
“Like the boy three wards down with no arms. Like the boy who got lost and got napalmed by his own guys.”
Wayne shrugged. “It goes with the job.”
“Tell Pete that. Tell him, ‘The next one might kill you, if the war doesn’t get you first.’ ”
Wayne plucked a gray. “Come on. He’s better than that.”
Barb lit a match. Barb lit the hair. Barb watched it burn.
“Get him out. You and Ward know the guys who can make it happen.”
“They won’t go for it. Pete’s in hock, and you know why.”
“Dallas?”
“That and the fact that he’s too good to let go.”
A sailor bopped by. Barb signed his napkin. Barb signed his jumper sleeve.
She lit a match. “I miss the cat. Vietnam gets me mushy for Vegas.”
Wayne checked her hair. Perfect—all red now.
“You’ll be home in three days.”
“I’ll kiss the ground, believe me.”
“Come on. It’s not that bad.”
Barb snuffed the match. “I saw a boy who lost his equipment. He was joking with a nurse about the Army buying him a new one. The second she walked out, he started to cry.”
Wayne shrugged. Barb tossed the match. It hit him. It stung. Barb walked. Sailors watched her. Barb walked to the john.
“Sugar Shack” kicked on. Time warp—that song on Jack Ruby’s jukebox.
Barb walked out. A sailor braced her. He was colored. He was tall. He looked like Wendell D.
Barb danced with him. They danced semi-slow. They shared some contact.
Wayne watched.
They danced nice. They danced hip. They danced by the table. Barb was loose. Barb was cool. Barb wore white dust on her nose.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 9/16/65. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. (OPERATION BLACK RABBIT Addendum.) Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director, BLUE RABBIT.
DIR: Good morning.
BR: Good morning, Sir.
DIR: Let’s discuss WILD RABBIT’s work in Mississippi. The oxy-moronic phrase “Redneck Intelligence Network” comes to mind.
BR: WILD RABBIT has been doing well, Sir. Our stipends have allowed him to recruit and secure intelligence, and FATHER RABBIT has supplied him with funds as well. He told me that he’s donating a portion of his hate-tract profits to WILD RABBIT’s incursion.
DIR: And the well-funded WILD RABBIT is achieving results?
BR: He is, Sir. His Regal Knights have been infiltrating other hate groups and supplying WILD RABBIT with information. I think we’ll have some mail-fraud indictments before too long.
DIR: FATHER RABBIT’s donations are in part self-serving. He aids WILD RABBIT’s cause and depletes the resources of his hate-tract rivals.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Is WILD RABBIT remaining tractable?
BR: He is, although I’ve learned that he’s running weaponry to Pete Bondurant’s narcotics cadre. As I understand it, he secures the weapons from armory heists and army base pilfering, which is odd, because I haven’t been able to find any recently filed reports on such incidents, anywhere in the south.
DIR: Yes, odd does describe it. That said, do you think WILD RABBIT will retain an acceptable level of deniability pertaining to his gun-running activities?
BR: I do, Sir. But should I tell him to stop?
DIR: No. I like his connection to Bondurant. Remember, we’ll be approaching Le Grand Pierre when we move BLACK RABBIT into the shakedown phase.
BR: I heard that he had a heart attack last month.
DIR: A pity. And the prognosis?
BR: I think it’s guardedly positive, Sir.
DIR: Good. We’ll let him recover and then add some stress to his overtaxed arteries.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Let’s discuss CRUSADER RABBIT. Have you accrued any substantive data?
BR: Yes and no, Sir. We’ve gotten nothing off the spot tails and the trash and mail covers, and I’m convinced that he’s too technically skilled to bug and tap. He’s retained his friendship with PINK RABBIT and visits him in D.C., which is hardly incriminating, since you urged him to do so.
DIR: Your tone betrays you. You’re tantalizing me. Shall I hazard a guess?
BR: Please do, Sir.
DIR: Your revelations pertain to CRUSADER’s women.
BR: That’s correct, Sir.
DIR: Expand your answers, please. I have a lunch date in the year 2000.
BR: CRUSADER has been seeing Janice Lukens, FATHER RABBIT’s ex-wife, in Las—
DIR: We know that. Pray continue.
BR: He lives with a woman in Los Angeles. Her alleged name is Jane Fentress.
DR: “Alleged” is correct. I helped to establish her identity two years ago. A New Orleans agent planted her college transcript.
BR: There’s much more to her, Sir. I think she could serve as our wedge if we need to disrupt CRU
SADER.
DIR: Expand your thoughts. The millennium bodes.
BR: I had her spot-tailed. My man took a set of prints off a glass she left at a restaurant. We ran them and got her real name, Arden Louise Breen, B-R-E-E-N, married name Bruvick, B-R-U-V-I-C-K.
DIR: Continue.
BR: Her father was a left-wing unionist. The Teamsters killed him in ’52, and it’s still a St. Louis PD unsolved. Allegedly, the woman held no grudge against the Teamsters, allegedly because her father forced her to become a call-house prostitute. She absconded on a KCPD receiving stolen goods warrant in ’56, at the same time her husband embezzled some money from a Kansas City Teamster local and disappeared.
DIR: Continue.
BR: Here’s the ripe part. Carlos Marcello’s front corporation bailed her out on the Kansas City bounce. She disappeared then, she’s got a bookkeeping background, and she’s rumored to have had a long-term affair with that old Mob hand Jules Schiffrin.
DIR: Boffo news, Dwight. Well worth your vexing preambles.
BR: Thank you, Sir.
DIR: I think your tale boils down to one salient truth. Carlos Marcello does not trust CRUSADER RABBIT.
BR: I came to that conclusion, Sir.
DIR: Pull the tails, along with the trash and mail covers. If we need to get at CRUSADER, we’ll go through the woman.
BR: Yes, Sir.
DIR: Good day, Dwight.
BR: Good day, Sir.
86
(Saravan, 9/22/65)
Torture:
Six slaves strapped down. Six Cong-symps wired. Six hot seats / six juice buttons / six testicle feeds.
Mesplède worked the juice box. Mesplède ran the juice. Mesplède asked the questions. Mesplède talked franglogook.
Pete watched. Pete chewed Nicorette gum. It was wet and hot—rainstorm boocoo. The hut sponged heat. The hut stored heat. The hut was a hot-plate boocoo.
Mesplède talked gook. Mesplède talked threat. Mesplède talked fast. His words slurred—gobbledeGOOK.
Pete knew the gist. Pete wrote the script. Pete read six faces.
Slaves escape. All pro-Cong. Who let them? I no know!—all six say it—I know no who!
It droned on—you tell me!—no no! Pete watched. Pete chewed gum. Pete read eyes.