"You boys are suuuch the pair. You'll be holdin' hands any damn second."
That tore-- Wayne shoved Moore. Moore tripped. Moore knocked a lamp down. Jeff shook nelly-style. Wayne shoved him in the kitchen.
They fit tight. The sink cramped them. Wayne toed the door shut.
"Wendell Durfee's running. He always runs to Dallas, so why don't you tell me what you know about that."
"Sir, I don't--"
"Don't call me 'sir,' just tell me what you know."
"Sir, I mean mister, I don't know where Wendell's at. If I'm lyin', I'm flyin'."
"You're shucking me. Stop it, or I'll hand you up to that cracker."
"Mister, I ain't woofin' you. I don't know where Wendell's at."
The walls shook. Shit cracked one room over. Wayne made the sounds: Sap shots. Hard steel meets plywood and glue.
Jeff shook. Jeff gulped. Jeff picked a hangnail.
Wayne said, "Let's try this. You work at Dr Pepper. You got paid today."
"That's right. If I'm lyin', I'm--"
"And you made your probation payment."
"You ain't woofin' I did."
"Now, you've got some money left. It's burning a hole in your pocket. Wendell's your gambling buddy. There's some kind of payday crap game that you can point me to."
Jeff sucked his hangnail. Jeff gullllped.
"Then how come I ain't at that game right now?"
"Because you lent Wendell most of your money."
Glass broke. Wayne made the sound: One sap shot/one TV screen fucked.
"Wendell Durfee. Give him up, or I tell Tex that you've been porking little white kids."
Jeff lit a cigarette. Jeff choked on it. Jeff coughed smoke out.
"Liddy Baines, she used to go with Wendell. She knowed I owed him money, an' she came by an' said he was lookin' to get down to Mexico. I gave her all but five dollars of my check."
Wood cracked. The walls shook. The floor shook.
"Address?"
"Seventy-first and Dunkirk. The little white house two up from the corner."
"What about the game?"
"Eighty-third and Clifford. The alley by the warehouse."
Wayne opened the door. Jeff stood behind him. Jeff got in a runner's crouch. Moore saw Wayne. Moore bowed. Moore winked.
The TV was dead. The shelf shrine was dust. The walls were pulp and spit.
It got real.
Moore had a throwdown piece. Moore had a pump. A coroner owed him. He'd fudge the wound text.
Wayne went dry. Wayne got pinpricks. Wayne's nuts shriveled up.
They drove. They went Darktown-deep. They went by Liddy Baines' shack. Nobody was home--Liddy, where you at?
They hit a pay phone. Moore called Dispatch. Moore got Liddy Baines' stats: No wants/no warrants/no vehicle extant.
They drove to 83rd and Clifford. They passed junkyards and dumps. Liquor stores and blood banks. Mohammed's Mosque #12.
They passed the alley. They caught a tease: Streetlights/faces/a blanket spread out.
A fat man rolled. A plump man slapped his forehead. A thin man scooped cash.
Moore stopped at 82nd. Moore grabbed his pump. Wayne pulled his piece. Moore popped in earplugs.
"If he's there, we'll arrest him. Then we'll take him out to the sticks and cap him."
Wayne tried to talk. His throat closed. He squeaked. Moore winked. Moore yukked haw-haw.
They walked over. They cleaved to shadows. They crouched. The air dried up. The ground dropped. Wayne lost his feet.
They hit the alley. Wayne heard jive talk. Wayne saw Wendell Durfee.
His legs went. He stumbled. He toed a beer can. The dice men perked up.
Say what?
Who that?
Mama, that you?
Moore aimed. Moore fired. Moore caught three men low. He sprayed their legs. He diced their blanket. He chopped their money up.
Muzzle boom--twelve-gauge roar--high decibels in tight.
It knocked Wayne flat. Wayne went deaf. Wayne went powder blind. Moore shot a trashcan. The sucker flew.
Wayne rubbed his eyes. Wayne got partial sight. Dice men screamed. Dice men scattered. Wendell Durfee ran.
Moore aimed high. Moore sprayed a wall. Pellets bounced and whizzed. They caught Durfee's hat. They sliced the band. They blew the feather up.
Durfee ran. Wayne ran.
He aimed his piece up and out. Durfee backward-aimed his. They fired. Blips lit the alley. Shots cut the walls.
Wayne saw it. Wayne felt it. Wayne didn't hear shit.
He fired. He missed. Durfee fired. Durfee missed. Barrel flames. Sound waves. No real sound worth shit.
They ran. They stopped. They fired. They sprinted full-out.
Wayne popped six shots--one full cylinder. Durfee popped eight shots--one full-load clip.
The flares stopped. No light. No directional signs-- Wayne stumbled.
He slid. He fell. He hit gravel. He ate alley grit. He smelled cordite. He licked cigar butts and dirt.
He rolled over. He saw roof lights. He saw cherry lights twirl. Two prowl cars--behind him--DPD Fords.
He caught some sounds. He stood up. He caught his breath. He walked back. His feet scraped. He heard it.
Moore stood there. Cops stood there. The dice men lay prone. They were cuffed/shackled/fucked.
Shredded pants. Pellet burns and gouges--cuts to white bone.
They thrashed. Wayne heard partial screams.
Moore walked over. Moore said something. Moore yelled.
Wayne caught "Bowers." His ears popped. He caught whole sounds.
Moore flashed his sandwich bag. Moore spread the flaps. Wayne saw blood and gristle. Wayne saw a man's thumb.
5.
(Dallas, 11/23/63).
Window wreaths/flags/ledge displays. 8:00 a.m.--one day later--the Glenwood Apartments loves Jack.
Two floors. Twelve front windows. Flowers and JFK toys.
Littell leaned on his car. The facade expanded. He got the sun. He got Arden Smith's car. He got her U-Haul.
He borrowed a Bureau car. He ran Arden Smith. She came back clean. He got her vehicle stats. He nailed her Chevy.
She felt dirty. She saw the hit. She ran from the PD. That U-Haul said RUNNER.
She lived in 2-D. He'd checked the courtyard. Her windows faced in--no flags/no trinkets/no shrine.
He worked to midnight. He cleared an office space. Floor 3 was bedlam. Cops grilled Oswald. Camera crews roamed.
His bum ploy worked. Rogers walked. The bums escaped clean. He saw Guy B. He told him to brace Lee Bowers.
He read the wit statements. He read the DPD notes. They played ambiguous. Mr. Hoover would issue a mandate. Agents would secure it. Single-shooter evidence would cohere.
Lee Oswald was trouble. Guy said so. Guy called him "nuts."
Lee didn't shoot. The pro shooter did. Said pro shot from Lee's floor perch. Rogers shot from the fence.
Lee knew Guy's cutout. Cops and Feds worked him all night. He named no names. Guy said he knew why.
The kid craved attention. The kid was fucked-up. The kid craved the solo limelight.
Littell checked his watch--8:16 a.m.--sun and low clouds.
He counted flags. He counted wreaths. The Glenwood loved Jack. He knew why. He used to love Jack. He used to love Bobby.
He never met Jack. He met Bobby once.
He tried to join them. Kemper Boyd pushed his case. Bobby disdained his credentials. Boyd spread his loyalty. Boyd worked for Jack and Bobby. Boyd worked for the CIA.
Boyd got Littell a job. Ward, meet Carlos Marcello.
Carlos hated Jack and Bobby. Jack and Bobby spurned Littell. He built his own hate. He fine-tuned the aesthetic.
He hated Jack. He knew Jack. Scrutiny undermined image. Jack was glib. Jack had pizzazz. Jack had no rectitude.
Bobby defined rectitude. Bobby lived rectitude. Bobby punished bad men. He hated Bobby now. Bobby dismissed him. Bobby spurned his respect.
Mr. Hoover bugged Mob hangouts. Mr. Hoover picked up hints. He smelled the hit. He never told Jack. He never told Bobby.
Mr. Hoover knew Littell. Mr. Hoover dissected his hatred. Mr. Hoover urged him to hurt Bobby.
Littell had evidence. It indicted Joe Kennedy for long-term Mob collusion. He met Bobby--for one half hour--just five days back.
He stopped by his office. He played him a tape. The tape nailed Joe Kennedy. Bobby was smart. Bobby might link tape to hit. Bobby might gauge the tape as a threat.
Do not talk Mob Hit. Do not stain the name Kennedy. Do not stain sainted Jack. Feel complicitous. Feel guilty. Feel baaaad.
Your Mob Crusade killed your brother. We killed Jack to fuck you.