He played his version. "Fear" said it all. You've got her. You could lose her--per Dallas.
You sweat Fear. You ooze Fear. You test the Fear logic. You know you walked because: It was that big. It was that audacious. It was that wrong.
You test the logic. You fret it. You show fear. You scare people. You pass your fear on. The wrong people find you and knock.
Barb worked "Twilight Time." Barb caressed the low notes.
Wendell Durfee knocked. Lynette paid. Dead women scared him. Lynette as Barb. Lynette as "Jane."
He saw Lynette's body. He had to. The picture stuck. He conjured it. He banished ft. He dreamed it and tore the sheets up.
Barb kissed off "Twilight Time." Barb did the Mashed Potato. Barb did the Swim.
The spell died. Her fast tunes deep-sixed it. A waiter schlepped a phone up.
Pete cradled it. "Yeah?"
A man said, "Carlos wants to see you."
"Where?"
"De Ridder, Louisiana."
He flew to Lake Charles. He cabbed to De Ridder. It was wet. It was hot. The heat spawned bugs.
De Ridder was Shit City. Fort Polk stood close. The town lived off Army handouts.
Chicken-fried-steak joints and rib cribs. Beer bars/tattoo parlors/ nudie-mag stalls.
Carlos limo'd up. Pete met him. The local crackers watched. Dumb crackers--gap-mouthed bug-magnets all.
They drove east. They caught red clay and pine bluffs. They looped the Kisatchee Forest.
Pete raised a screen. Pete cut the driver off. Vents pumped cold air in. Dark tint killed the sun.
Carlos bankrolled a camp--forty Cubans total--would-be killer ops. Carlos said, "Let's see my boys." Carlos said, "Let's talk."
They drove. They talked. They passed Klan klonklaves. Carlos ragged the Klan--they hate Catholics--that means they hate us.
Pete nixed him--I'm Huguenot--you fucks fucked my kin.
They talked. They rehashed la Causa. Tiger Kab and Pigs. LBJ's big walkoff. Carlos brought a bottle. Pete brought paper cups.
Carlos said, "The Outfit's got zero affection for the Cause. Everyone thinks, 'We shot our wad, we lost the casinos, it's spilled milk under the bridge.'"
They hit a rut. Pete spilled X.O.
"Havana was beautiful. Vegas can't hold a candle."
"Littell's got a foreign-casino plan. Everyone's gaga, as well they fucking should be."
They passed Army trucks. They passed signs. Signs ragged the ACL-Jew.
Pete said, "The old crew was good. Laurent Guery, Flash Elorde."
Carlos nodded. "Good narcotics men and good killers. You never doubted their sincerity."
Pete dabbed his shirt. "John Stanton was a good ops man. You had the Outfit and the Agency together."
"Yeah, like that song. 'For one brief shining moment.'"
Pete crushed his cup. "Stanton's in Indochina?"
"Don't be such a Frenchman. They call it Vietnam now."
Pete lit a cigarette. "There's a cab biz in Vegas. I could turn it into a moneymaker for us. Littell wants me to hold off, because the owner's on the license boards."
Carlos sipped X.O. "Don't work so hard to impress me. You're not Littell, but you're good."
The troops snapped to. Pete paced the line. Pete came to critique and review.
Forty Cubanos--porkers and stringbeans--jail recruits all.
Guy Banister recruited them. Guy knew a cop in John Birch. The cop fudged his jail sheets. The cop freed prospects. Said prospects were pervs. Said prospects were "musicians"--Cugie Cugat manques.
Pete walked the line. Pete checked guns. M-ls and M-14s--dead bugs chambered in.
Barrel dust. Mildew. Moss rot.
Pete got pissed. Pete got a headache. The head geek paced the line behind him.
An Army stupe--Fort Polk trash--some kiddie kommando. He ran a Klan klique. He ran a still. He sold oat mash. He supplied alcoholic Choctaws.
The troops sucked poodle dick. The camp ditto.
Quonset huts and pup tents--fucking Boy Scout stock. A "Target Range"--scarecrows and tree stumps. An "Ammo Dump"--made from Lego logs.
The troops snapped to. The troops shot a salute. They fumbled their rifles. They fired off-sync. Eight bolts jammed up.
They made some noise. They roused some birds. Birdshit disinterred and fell.
Carlos bowed. Carlos tossed the donation bag. The head geek caught it and bowed.
"Mr. Banister and Mr. Hudspeth will be coming in soon. They're transporting some ordnance."
Carlos lit a cigar. "That my ten grand's paying for?"
"That's correct, sir. They're my chief weapons procurers."
"They're making money off my donations?"
"Not in the sense you imply, sir. I'm sure they're not making a personal profit."
Prime "ordnance": One picnic table/one bar-b-que pit.
The geek blew a whistle. The troops hit the range. They fired. They shot low. They missed.
Carlos shrugged. Carlos nursed a grievance. Carlos walked off. The geek shrugged. The geek nursed hurt feelings. The geek walked off.
Pete walked. Pete checked the range. Pete checked the dump. Pete critiqued the stock.
Two machine guns--old 50s--slack triggers/loose belts. Six flamethrowers--cracked feeders/cracked pipes. Two speedboats--pull motors--lawn-mower drive. Sixty-two revolvers--corroded and fucked.
Pete found some oil. Pete found some rags. Pete cleaned some .38s up. The sun felt good. The oil deterred mosquitoes. The "troopers" worked out.
They did push-ups. They wrecked their manicures. They huffed and puffed.
He ran ace troops. He hit Cuba. He scalped mucho Reds. He killed Fidelistos. He went to Pigs. He tried to kill Fidel. They should have won. Jack the K. fucked them. Jack paid. He paid. It got all shot to hell.
Pete cleaned guns. He swabbed barrels, He dipped butts. He brushed cylinders. He scoured moss rot.
An old Ford pulled in. The paint job screamed RIGHT-WING NUT!
Dig it: Crosses. The stars & bars. Inverted swastikas.
A trailer bounced behind the Ford. Gun barrels extruded. The Ford brodied. The Ford slid. The Ford grazed the bar-b-que pit.
The Ford stalled and died. Guy B. got out. Hank Hudspeth helped him up. Guy was cardiac red. Guy survived #3. Carlos said his pump was shot.
Guy looked drunk. Guy looked frail. Guy looked diseased. Hank looked drunk. Hank looked strong. Hank looked dead mean.
Guy lugged out hot dogs. Hank dumped steaks and buns. They looked around. They saw Pete. They puckered up.
Hank whistled. Guy hit his horn. The troops shagged ass up.
Hank dumped briquettes. The head geek filled the pit. Guy gasspritzed it. They built a fire. They torched hot dogs. The troops swamped the trailer.
They whooped. They yanked guns. They dollied them over--full-drum Thompsons/one hundred plus.
Pete grabbed one. The butt was chipped. The drum was jammed. The balance was off.
Shit knockoffs--Jap stock.
The troops stacked the Tommys. Pete ignored them. The pit whooshed. Bugs bombed the chow.
Guy walked to the limo. Carlos got out. Guy hugged him and chatted him up.
The troops lined up. Hank dispensed plates. Pete grabbed a .38. Pete dry-fired it.
Carlos walked up. Carlos said, "I hate drunks." Pete aimed at Guy. Pete dry-shot him--pop!
"I'll clip him. He knows too much."
"Maybe later. I want to see if we can whip these clowns into shape."
Pete wiped his hands. Carlos palmed the gun.
"I got a lead on Hank Killiam. He's in Pensacola."
Pete said, "I'll go tonight."
Carlos smiled. Carlos aimed at Pete. Carlos dry-shot him--pop!
"Betty McDonald's in the Dallas County Jail. She told a cop that she got warned out of town last November. I'm not saying it was you, but . . ."
39.
(Las Vegas, 2/13/64)
They blew skeet. They shot custom guns.
They shot off the back deck. They shot custom clays. Janice slung them up. She sat below. She caught some rays. She wore a bikini swimsuit.
Wayne Senior scored persistent. Wayne missed fairly wide. He'd fucked up his hand. He beat up on coloreds. It fucked up his grip.
Janice popped a clay. Wayne fired. Wayne missed.
Wayne Senior reloaded. "You're not holding the stock tight enough."
Wayne flexed his hand. He'd fucked it and re-fucked it. It stayed fucked all the time.
"My hand's bothering me. I hurt it at work."