There--Wayne Senior's print style. The paper stock/the margins/the type.
Text and cartoons. Martin Luther Coon and the plump woman. Fat Jews with fangs.
Martin Luther Coon--priapic.
His dick's a branding iron. It's red hot. The head's a hammer-and-scythe.
Wayne spat on the picture. Wayne ripped it crossways. Wayne shredded it up.
21.
(New Mexico, 12/24/63)
Gusts kicked in. The plane dipped resultant.
The sky was black. The air was wet. Ice hit the props. Altus, Oklahoma--due east.
Chuck flew low. Chuck flew radar-proof. Chuck flew minus landing log. No airstrip. No runway. We're heading for Jack's rural lodge.
The cockpit was cramped. The cockpit was cold. Pete goosed the heat. He called ahead. He played tourist. He heard that Jack Z. had three guests.
Quail hunters. Praise Jesus--all men.
Chuck knew the lodge. Chuck spent time there. Chuck knew the floor plan. Jack slept in the office. Jack parked his guests close. There'd be three rooms with through doors.
Pete checked the cargo hold: Flashlights/shotguns/magnums. Kerosene/gunnysacks. Friction tape/rubber gloves/rope. A Polaroid camera/four straitjackets/four honey jars.
It was overkill. Carlos loved wet work. Carlos thought plans up. Carlos popped his rocks secondhand.
Chuck read a hate tract. The dashboard threw light. Pete saw cartoons and FBI text. Hate and smut--a coon named Bayard Rustin--a queer cluster-fuck.
Pete laughed. Chuck said, "Why'd we go to that party? I'm not complaining, now. I met a few kindred souls."
The plane dipped. Pete bumped his head.
"I was letting someone know that I won't go away."
"You want to tell me who and why?"
Pete shook his head. The plane jumped. Pete's knees hit the dash.
Chuck said, "Mr. Tedrow's some kind of American. That's more than I can say for his son."
"Junior's a piece of work. Don't underestimate him."
Chuck popped Dramamine. "Mr. Tedrow knows all the right people. Guy B. said he put some cash into a certain operation."
Pete rubbed his neck. "There was no operation. Don't you read the fucking New York Times?"
Chuck laughed. "You mean I was dreaming then?"
"Treat it that way. You'll live longer."
"Then I must've dreamed up all those people that Carlos wants to clip."
Pete rubbed his eyes. Fuck--Headache #3,000.
"Then I'll be dreaming when we take out Jack Z., and I'll really be dreaming when we find old Hank and those cunts Arden and Bet--"
Pete grabbed his neck. "Nothing happened in Dallas, and nothing's happening now."
3:42 a.m.
They touched down. The ground was glass. Chuck cut the flaps and braked. They spun. They brodied on ice. They did figure eights and stalled in tall grass.
They put their vests on. They grabbed flashlights/shotguns/magnums. They screwed on silencers.
They hiked southeast. Pete paced it out: .32 miles. Low hills. Caves set in sheet rock. Cloud cover and a high moon.
There--the lodge--down on paved land.
Twelve rooms. A horseshoe court. Dirt-road access. No lights. No sounds. Two jeeps upside the office.
They walked up. Chuck stood point. Pete flashed the door. He saw a spring lock. He saw a loose knob. He saw a workable gap.
He pulled his knife. He wedged it in. He snapped the bolt. He walked in. The door creaked. He kept his beam low.
Three steps to the counter--hold for a ledger on a chain.
He walked up blind. Chuck's floor plan worked. He bumped the counter. Eyes left--a side door wide open. Room #1--dark.
His eyes adjusted. He squinted. He caught gray tones in black. He looked through room 1. He squinted. He saw the room #2 door ajar.
Ears left--snores in room 1. Ears front--snores behind the counter.
Pete smelled paper. Pete touched the countertop. Pete brushed the ledger. He flashed the top page. He saw three guests logged in--housed in rooms 1/2/3.
Pete leaned on the counter. Pete pulled his piece. Pete flashed his light and aimed at the snores. There's Jack Zangetty--face-up on a cot--eyes shut and mouth wide for flies.
Pete aimed off the beam. Pete squeezed a shot. Jack's head snapped. Jack's teeth exploded.
The silencer worked--sounds like a cough and a sneeze. One more now--safekeeping.
Pete aimed off the beam. Pete squeezed a shot. Pete nailed Jack's wig. Blood and synthetic hair/a cough and a sneeze.
Impact--the wig flew. Impact--Jack rolled off the cot.
Jack hit a bottle. The bottle fell. The bottle bumped and rolled.
Loud bumps. Loud noise. Loud rolls.
Pete killed his light. Pete ducked low. Knee cartilage crunched. Eyes left/ears left/catch the doorway.
There now--a man laughs/a bed squeaks.
"Jack, is that a fresh jug you got?"
Light hues in the doorway--the geek's got white pajamas.
Pete flashed his light. Pete tracked up a white swath. Pete hit the man's eyes. He aimed off the beam. He squeezed a shot. He caught the 10-ring.
Blood and white blotting/a cough and a sneeze.
The man flew. The man hit the door. The man ripped the door loose. Eyes left--there's light--the #2 doorway. Ears left--there's boot thunks and zipper snags.
Pete proned out. Pete aimed. Now--watch the door.
A man opened it. Said man paused. Said man walked through room 1. Said man crouched and aimed a 30.06.
Pete aimed his piece. The man got close. A shotgun went off. Glass shattered--from the outside--pellets trashed a side window.
Chuck popping rounds. Chuck's special load--poison buckshot.
The man froze. Glass spritzed him. He covered his eyes. He ran blind. He bumped chairs. He coughed glass.
Pete fired. Pete missed. Chuck vaulted the window. He ran up fast. He nudged the man--BOO!--he shot the man in the back.
The man flew. Pete caught shell wads and BBs. Chuck ran south. Chuck blew out door #3.
Pete ran back. Chuck hit the lights. Light hit a man under the bed. He sobbed. His legs stuck out. He wore paisley PJs.
Chuck aimed low. Chuck blew his feet off. The man screamed. Pete shut his eyes.
The wind died. The day sparkled. The cleanup dragged.
They stole the jeeps. They drove the stiffs to the plane. They found a cave and drove the jeeps in. They lucked with some bats. They hit their horns. They evicted them. The bats bumped their windshields. They ran their wipers. They bumped the cocks uckers back.
They dumped kerosene. They torched the jeeps. The fire burned and died. The cave contained the fumes.
They walked to the plane. They wrapped the stiffs in straitjackets. They gunnysacked them. They pried their jaws out. They poured honey in. It lured hungry crabs.
Pete snapped four Polaroids--one per victim--Carlos wanted proof.
They flew low. They hit North Texas. They saw small lakes forever. They dumped three stiffs. Two splashed and sunk. One cracked hard ice.
Chuck skimmed tracts. Chuck flew low. Chuck steered with his knees.
He had a master's degree. He read comic books. He blew JFK's brains out. He lived with his parents. He stuck to his room. He built model planes and sniffed glue.
Chuck skimmed tracts. His lips moved. Pete caught the gist: The KKK klarifies a kontroversy. White men have the biggest dicks!
Pete laughed. Chuck dipped over Lake Lugert. Pete tossed Jack Z. in the drink.
22.
(Las Vegas, 1/4/64)
The Summit. The penthouse at the Dunes--one big table.
Decanters. Siphons. Candy and fruit. No cigars--Moe Dalitz was allergic.
Littell swept for bugs first. The Boys watched TV. Morning cartoons--Yogi Bear and Webster Webfoot.
The Boys took sides. Sam and Moe liked Yogi. Johnny R. liked the duck. Carlos liked Yogi's dumb pal.
Santo T. snoozed--fuck this kiddie shit.
No bugs--let's proceed.
Littell chaired the meet. The Boys dressed down--golf shirts and Bermuda shorts.
Carlos sipped brandy. "Here's the opening pitch. Hughes is non compos mental, and he thinks he's got Ward in his pocket. We sell him the hotels and make him keep our inside people. They step up the skim. He don't suspect anything, 'cause we show him some low profit figures before he buys."
Littell shook his head. "His negotiators will audit every tax return filed for every hotel, going back ten years. If you refuse to submit them, they'll try to subpoena them or bribe the right people for copies. And you can't submit doctored returns with low figures, because it will bring down your initial asking prices."
Sam said, "So?"
Littell sipped club soda. "We need the highest possible set purchase prices, with the buyout money dispersed over eighteen months. Our long-term goal is to establish the appearance of legitimately invested money, diverted into legitimate businesses and laundered within them. My plan is--"
Carlos cut in. "The plan--get to it, and lay it out in words we can understand."
Littell smiled. "We have the buyout and skim money. We purchase legitimate businesses with it. The businesses belong to recipients of pensionfund loans. They are the most specifically profitable and cosmetically noncriminal businesses that originated with loans from the 'real' books. Thus, the origin of the money is obscured. Thus, the recipients are prone to extortion and will not protest the forced buyouts. The recipients will continue to run their businesses. Our people will oversee the operations and divert the profits. We funnel the money into foreign hotel-casinos. By 'foreign' I mean Latin-American. By Latin-American I mean countries under military or strongly rightist rule. The casino profits will leave said countries untaxed. They will go into Swiss bank accounts and accrue interest. The ultimate cash withdrawals will be absolutely untraceable."