(Vietnam, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, Bay St. Louis, Cuban Waters, 11/4/67--12/3/67)
More: Troop infusions. Troop movements. Troops dead.
More: Bomb raids. Ground raids. Resistance.
Resistance in-country. Resistance at home. Resistance worldwide. The war was MORE. The biz was LESS. Wayne knew it.
Less: Territory. Profit growth. Potential.
The kadre shared lab space. The Can Lao co-opted. Why do it? The Can Lao shipped to Europe. The kadre shipped to Vegas. Note the dichotomy.
The kadre did good biz. The Can Lao did great biz. Note the discrepancy. The war defined MORE. The biz defined LESS. Note the inconsistency.
Their turf was restricted. West Vegas was sapped. They had no growth room. Pete pouched Stanton. Pete pouched once a month. Pete said let us GROW.
Out of Vegas. Into L.A. Into Frisco.
We've got Tiger Kamp. We've got poppy slaves. We've got dope fields boocoo. We can GROW. We can earn MORE. The Cause will GROW.
Stanton said no. Stanton insisted. Wayne read his tone. Said tone was hinky. Said tone was quasi-weird. Pete wants MORE. Stanton wants LESS. Note the entropy.
Wayne wanted MORE. Wayne rotated east. Wayne saw more incessant. More troops smoking weed. More troops popping pills. More troops scared incessant.
Big "H" killed fear. They'd find it. Wayne knew.
The war thrilled him. The war rocked. The war grew. The "Cause" bored him. The "Cause" vexed. The "Cause" entropied.
Log it: Cuban runs/forty-plus/no at-sea resistance. It was boring now. It was impotent. It was quasi-weird.
The Cause was flypaper. Pete was a fly. Pete was stuck on 1960. Laurent was a fly. Flash was a fly. They buzzed Cuba persistent.
They talked stale shit. They talked coups and Reds. They talked domino jive. Bob talked stale shit. Bob talked race and Reds. Bob talked domino jive.
Bob vibed hinky. Bob vibed it weeks running. Bob vibed quasi-weird. Bob vibed anxious. Bob vibed scared. Bob vibed jazzed.
Bob vibed stuck. Cuba is flypaper. Cuba is quicksand. Cuba is glue.
Vegas is quicksand. Barb knows it. Barb extricates. Pete knows it. Pete stays.
Pete hit Wayne. Wayne took it. Pete apologized. Pete was frayed. Barb was in exile. The biz was exiled.
Pete wants MORE. Pete's frustrated. Stanton's entrenched. Pete's stuck. Pete's impeded. Pete's fuse might fry.
Pete and Barb cut a truce. Said truce was a travel ban--Vietnam nyet. Pete was stuck. Pete was truce-restricted. Pete talked truce overrides.
I'll fly to Saigon. I'll brace Stanton. I'll demand MORE.
And Stanton will wink. And Stanton will smile. And Stanton will mollify.
The war was MORE. The biz was LESS. Wayne Senior was MORE plus. They were equals now. Friends of sorts. Friends with non-Pete dimensions.
Pete seeks MORE. Pete seeks more dope turf and money. Wayne Senior seeks MORE. Wayne Senior dumps his hate biz. Wayne Senior disdains more money. Pete finds frustration. Wayne Senior finds Dick Nixon.
Pete hobnobs with pushers. Pete schieps cab calls. Pete walks flypaper. Wayne Senior plays golf. Wayne Senior shoots skeet. Wayne Senior drinks with Dick Nixon.
He worked for them. They were inimical types. They ran real to putative father. He loved both their women. He lived sans women. Wendell D. and Lynette made that fly. He head-tripped women. He head-tripped Barb mostly. He head-tripped Barb until then.
He hit her. She grabbed a knife. She ran from him and Pete. She grabbed the war. She sifted shit through.
Pete. Pete's gigs. The Life.
She kicked dope. She kicked the Life. She ran smug now. She jumped off flypaper. Her shit cohered. She lost her allure. He loved her more. He liked her less. His torch fizzled.
He head-tripped Janice. It ran twenty years now. He fucked her for payback on Dallas. He extricated. She paid.
She still limped. She still cramped. Her breath still spasmed. He saw her in Vegas. He saw her with Ward and solo. She saw him watching sometimes. She always smiled. She always waved. She always blew kisses.
It took him back. Old glimpses in windows. Peeks through cracked doors.
She was forty-six now. He was thirty-three. Her hips cocked funny. She had limp side-effects. He wondered how far her legs spread.
Relight the torch. Dig the glow. Groove on the cause-and-effect. She's real again. She's in your head--because you're back with Wayne Senior.
Grunt work. Hate-mail duty. Let's study hate. Let's see how it works. Let's see what it says.
Wayne Senior said I'm storing intelligence. I'm skimming data off the FBI. I'm polling resentment. I'm taking its pulse. It's academic for now.
Wayne Senior spoke lofty. Wayne Senior spoke abstract. Wayne Senior spoke with forked tongue.
Wayne knew: He's teaching you. Read the hate. Don't hate fatuously.
He rotated. He ran Saigon to D.C. He pulled intercepts. He did sneakins. He bagged mail. He mimeographed. He print-dusted. He got zero. He ran ninhydrin tests. He got loop whirls and partials. He learned the Hate Alphabet.
He did re-sneaks. He replaced the mail. He savored the Hate Alphabet.
A for Anger. F for Fear. I for Idiocy. D for Dumb. R for Ridiculous. J for Justification.
Coloreds mock order. Coloreds foist chaos. Coloreds breed lunacy. The haters knew it. Wayne Senior knew it. He knew it. The haters lived to hate. That was wrong. That was lunacy. The haters lived disordered lives. The haters thrived on chaos. The haters mimed the hatees.
S for Stupid. R for Resentful. W for Weak.
He learned his lessons. He took Wayne Senior's Hate Course. He searched for Wendell Durfee.
He rotated south. He made Cuban runs. He rotated west to L.A. He prowled Compton. He prowled Willowbrook. He prowled Watts.
He watched Negroes. Negroes watched him. He stayed cool. He stayed calm. He knew his ABCs. Wendell was nowhere. Wendell, where you be? I hate you. I'll kill you. Hate won't hinder me.
Hate smart--like Wayne Senior. P for Poised. B for Brave. C for Collected.
He did intercepts. He culled hate. He caught lunacy.
Weird: He muscled a deadbeat. It was late '66. The clown was named Sirhan Sirhan. Sirhan had hate tracts. RFK got some hate notes. They were margin scrawled the same way.
All cap letters/headaches and pus/"Jewish Cancer Machine." Sirhan drools. Sirhan hates stupid. Sirhan foists lunacy.
Don't do it. It's counterproductive. It's dumb. It's insanity.
Hate smart. Like Wayne Senior. Like me.
105.
(Las Vegas, Sparta, Bay St. Louis, Cuban Waters, 11/4/67--12/3/67)
You're homeless.
You're a Vegas transient. You're embargoed at home. You're a fucking refugee.
It's jail. It's Skid Row. It mocks rotation. It's Splitsville. It's mockdivorce. It's past separation.
Barb split. Pete traveled--all-love rotations. Pete flew back alone--non-love rotations. The trips trashed him. The trips taught him. The trips made him see: You hate Vegas now. Without Barb it's shit. You're Joe Vegas Refugee.
He had the trifecta. It was all Vegas-bred--Tiger/the dope biz/the Cavern. He couldn't split. The Boys held his lease. It was sealed and marked "Dallas."
He loved the trifecta. He hated the venue. They all intertwined.
Stateless.
He met Barb. She slung plates. No high heels/no spangles. Her sister worked her. Her sister lubed her--goooood profit perks. Barb B.--exlounge queen. Waitress/restaurateur.
He couldn't have her. He couldn't have her on his terms. He couldn't have her at his location.
He hubbed in Vegas. He flew to Mississippi. He hated it. Dumb crackers and dumb niggers. Bugs and sand fleas.
He made boat runs. He got seasick. His pulse raced. He snarfed Dramamine. The runs bored him. Stealth and scalps and nothing more. No good resistance.
He was a transient. He was travel-screwed. He was a rotation refugee.
You want things. You can't have things. You can't give things up. You've got habits. You don't need them. You can't give them up.
Cigarettes. Pizza pie and pecan pie. Stiff drinks and steak.
He hid his habits in Sparta. Barb never saw. He flew out. He depurified. He binged on rotations.
Transient. Glutton. Exile. Exiled on boat runs/exiled down south/ exiled in Vegas.
Drac's town now--Drac's town cosmetic.
He knew Drac. They went back. They met in '53. He worked for Drac. He scored Drac dope. He scored Drac his women. Drac was a glutton then. Drac was a glutton still.
He cruised the Dl. He bribed a Mormon for a look-see. He bought a looooong look.
Drac dozed. Drac wore drip cords. Drac got a transfusion. Mormon blood/hormone-laced/pure. Drac was gaunt. Drac was svelte. Drac was chic. Drac wore a Kotex-box hat and Kleenex-box slippers.
Drac was on dope. Barb was of f dope. Pete pushed dope non-boocoo. Pete was hamstrung. Pete was profit-screwed. Pete was a dope refugee.
He begged Stanton. He said let me expand. Stanton always refused. He pouched Stanton. He pleaded and begged. Stanton always refused. Stanton always cited Carlos. Stanton always cited the Boys.
They don't want it. Live with it. It stands as their call. He lived with it. He hated it. He felt refugized.
He got ideas.
I'll fly to Saigon. I'll brace Stanton. I'll break the truce. I'll tell Barb to stamp my visa. I'll make her unleash my gonads.
I'll tell Stanton to expand the biz or shove it up your ass. Stanton would shit. Carlos would shit. The Boys might temporize.
It might work. It might shake them. It might serve to de-refugize. He needed it. He needed something. He needed MORE.
He got bored. He got crazed. He fretted shit.
Like: Cuba--mucho boat runs--no at-sea resistance.
Like: Bob Relyea--nervous and hi-amped.
He's talking trash. He's saying our work's dead. He's saying I've got work transcendent.
He went by Bob's kompound. He saw Bob with guns. He saw Bob burn three-zero codes.
Huh? What? Don't grab at straws. Don't be this skittish refugee.
He got bored. He got crazed. His pulse skipped.