Pete said yes. Pete amended. Pete said Die Tough.
It was hot. It was a.m.-sticky. The dash fan puffed. Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete chewed Turns.
6:18. 6:22. 6:29. Fuck, this could go on-- There's Stanton.
With a suitcase. Errands first? Then the airport?
Stanton got a cab. The cab pulled out. The cab pulled out slow. Pete nudged his driver--tail that cab fast.
The driver gunned it. A cab cut him off. The driver swung around fast. Tu Do was busy. Gun trucks goosed traffic chop-chop.
Stanton's cab cut south. Pete's cab bird-dogged it. Pete's cab stuck two car lengths back. A rickshaw cut in. A coolie lugged cargo--tail cover boocoo.
Traffic slowed. They drove south. They bopped toward the docks.
Pete's cab goosed the rickshaw. The driver rode his horn. The coolie flipped him off. Pete sighted in. Pete watched Stanton's cab antenna. It wiggles/it weaves/it tracks good.
They hit the docks. Pete saw warehouse blocks. Pete saw Ioooong buildings laid out. Stanton's cab braked. Stanton's cab stopped. Stanton got out.
The rickshaw passed him. Pete's cab passed him. Pete ducked and looked back. Stanton grabbed his suitcase. Stanton walked. Stanton unlocked a warehouse.
He did it mock-cool. He looked around. He stepped in. He pulled the door shut.
Stanton's cab waited. Pete's cab U-turned. Pete's cab parked down the block. Pete swiveled the fan. Pete ate hot air and watched.
Time the visit. Do it now. Run your time clock.
Pete checked his watch dial. The second hand swept. Six minutes/nine/eleven.
Stanton walked out. Stanton still had his suitcase. Stanton locked the door up.
He shagged his cab. He stretched and yawned. The cab took off northbound--toward Tan Son Nhut.
Pete paid his driver. Pete got out and walked. The cab peeled off.
The warehouse stretched. It ran two football fields plus. One story/ one steel door. Side walkways adjacent. Mesh-covered windows inset.
Pete pushed the buzzer. Chimes ricocheted. No footsteps/no voices/no peephole slid back. Two walkways. Side windows. No witnesses out.
Pete cut south. Pete hit the near walkway. Pete took his coat off.
He found a window. He flexed his hands. He peeled the mesh back. His bad hand tore. Glass specks got reimbedded.
He made a fist. He wrapped it up. He made a coat-fabric glove. He punched out the window. Glass blew inward.
He hauled himself up. He squeezed through the frame space. He rolled to the floor. His hand throbbed. He squeezed blood out. He patted the wall. He caught a switch. Lights went on--two football fields plus.
He saw a space. He saw a floor. He saw merchandise. He saw swag. He saw rows and rows. He saw piles and piles.
He walked. He touched. He looked. He counted. He inventoried. He saw: Sixty boxes stuffed with watches--pure gold waist-high. Mink coats dumped like trash--forty-three piles hip-high. Six hundred Jap motorcycles--laid side to side. Antique furniture--twenty-three rows stretched wide.
New cars--parked side by side. Thirty-eight rows/twenty-two cars per/stretched out lengthwise.
Bentleys. Porsches. Aston-Martin DB-5s. Volvos/Jaguars/Mercedes.
Pete walked the rows. Pete ID'd booty. Pete saw export tags attached. Point of shipment: Saigon. Point of entry: U.S.
Kall it easy. Kall it kold. Kall it dead: Swag. Black-market-purchased. Non-U.S-derived. Swag from Europe/Great Britain/the East.
Stanton ran the gig. His CIA pals helped. They bootjacked kadre money. They laundered it. They glommed luxury shit.
Stanton's disbanding. They ship the goods now. They ship duty-free. The Boys help them. Carlos walks point. They resell near-retail. Carlos takes points. Carlos pays the Stanton guys. Cold millions accrue.
The dope plan. The funnel. Cash for the Cause. Wrong--the Cause was THIS.
Pete walked the warehouse. Pete kicked tires. Pete smelled leather seats. Pete flicked antennas. Pete buffed rosewood. Pete fondled mink.
THIS.
He tracked logic. He looked for loopholes. He got none.
And: Stanton stopped here. Stanton lugged in his suitcase.
Why?
He dropped something off. He picked something up.
Which?
Pete walked the walls. Pete tapped the walls. Pete tapped whole cement. No wall panels or hidey holes--shit.
Pete checked the floor. Pete looked for chipped paint. Pete looked for off-color streaks. Pete got whole cement/solid/no streaks.
Pete checked the ceilIng. It was solid cement. No patches/no caulking/no streaks.
No bathroom. No storerooms. No closets. Four walls/one looooong strrrretch/two football fields plus.
Something was somewhere. Something was here.
Cars/minks/watches. Motorcycles/antiques. It's a day's work. It's needle meets haystack. It's do It anyway.
He walked the rows. He plowed watch piles. He dug through mink. He grabbed. He touched. He fished.
Forty-three piles/sixty boxes--shit.
He walked the rows. He popped antique drawers. He rifled and dipped.
Twenty-three rows--shit.
His stomach growled. Hours flest No food and no fucking sleep.
He checked the motorcycles. He opened saddle bags. He popped gas caps and peeked.
Six hundred bikes--shit.
He checked the cars. He checked row by row. He checked twenty-two times thirty-eight.
He popped hoods. He popped glove compartments. He popped trunks. He checked under rugs. He checked engine mounts. He checked under seats.
Porsches first. Bentieys next--shit.
The space went dark. He worked by touch. Volvos/Jaguars/DB-5s. He got the feeL He worked fast--Braille by necessity Five models down. One left: Mercedes.
He hit the top row. He braced the first car. He snapped the hood. He touched the valve covers. He touched the air cleaner. He brushed a cylinder ledge.
Wilt--feel the bump--Braille by necess-- He felt the bump. He felt tape. He pulled. Something tore loose. Said something was textured and flat.
Rectangular. Paged. A long book.
He grabbed it. He reached up and popped a wind wing. He tapped the key and headlights. Good kraut autowerk--fog lIghts beamed out.
He got down. He turned pages. He read by fog light. One crosscolumned listing ledger--names/money/dates.
Key dates. Back to late '64. The kadre ops Inception.
Names: Chuck Rogers. Tran Lao Dinh. Bob Relyea. Laurent Guery. Flash Elorde. Fuentes/Wenzel/Arredondo.
Payouts/monthly stipends/covert. Odd spic names/cross-columned/ starred with "CM"s.
Kall it: CM for Cuban Militia. Cuban passage paid in full.
Pete scanned columns. Pete scanned dates. Pete scanned names. Names stated/names absent/names unindicted: His name/Wayne's/Mesplede's.
Money paid out. Loyalty purchased. Kadre kode breach.
Guery and Stanton ran poly tests. They were all lies. Flash snuck into Cuba. It was a lie. Cuban dissension--one sustained lie. Safe runs to Cuba--one prepaid lie. Cuban Militia sold out as fodder--part of the lie. Guns sent to Cuba--funneled to where?--key to the lie.
Cars.
Watches.
Furs.
Jap motorcycles.
Faggot antiques.
Years gone. One heart attack. THIS.
Pete dropped the ledger. Pete flipped the car key. Pete killed the fog lights.
The dark felt right. The dark scared him. IT WAS ALL A BIG FUCKING LIE.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/25/68. Telephone call transcript. Taped by: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: "FBI-Scrambled" / "Stage-1 Covert" / "Destroy Without Reading in the Event of My Death." Speaking: BLUE RABBIT, FATHER RABBIT.
BR: It's me, Senior. You hear those clicks?
FR: I know. Scrambler technology.
BR: Are you ready for some good news?
FR: If it relates to D-day, I am.
BR: It's connected. That's for damn sure.
FR: Have we got a date? Have we got a loc-- BR: My men found Wendell Durfee.
FR: Oh, sweet Jesus.
BR: He's in L.A. He's got a room on skid row.
FR: I hear the saints, Dwight. They're singing hymns all for me.
BR: My men make him for some rape-snuffs. You think he developed a taste with Lynette?
FR: How could he? She always struck me as frigid.
BR: RED RABBIT's on the move. I'm looking at D-day for sometime next month.
FR: Shitfire. Let's bring Wayne in, then.
BR: My guys have got Durfee staked out. I'll wait a few days, then have some jig stiff a call through Sonny Liston.
FR: Hymns, Dwight. I mean it. And all in stereo.
BR: You think Wayne's ready for this?
FR: I know he is.
BR: I'll patch you when I've got more news.