Frank destapled him. Nuns shaved him. He dehazed. He saw razors and hands. He rehazed. He saw Japs and Betty.
Hands fed him soup. Hands touched his dick. Hands jabbed tubes in. The haze sputtered. Words filtered through. Decrease his dose--don't addict him.
He dehazed. He saw faces: Student nuns--the brides of Frankenstein. A slight man--Ivy League threads--John Stanton-like. Memory Lane: Miami/white horse/OutfitAgency ops.
He squinted. He tried to talk. Nuns went ssshhh.
He rehazed. He dehazed. He dehazed for real. Stanton was real--dig his tan--dig his drip-dry suit.
Pete tried to talk. His throat clogged. He hocked phlegm. His dick burned. He pulled his catheter out.
Stanton smiled. Stanton pulled his chair up.
"Sleeping Beauty awakes."
Pete sat up. Pete stretched his IV taut.
"You were tailing me. You saw me go off the road."
Stanton nodded. "And I called Barb and told her you were safe, but you couldn't have visitors yet."
Pete rubbed his face. "What are you doing here?"
Stanton winked. Stanton popped his briefcase. Stanton pulled out Pete's gun.
"You rest. The doctor said we'll be able to talk tomorrow."
They grabbed a bench. They lugged it outside. Stanton wore a drip-dry. Pete wore a robe.
He felt okay. Headaches--adieu.
He called Barb yesterday. They caught eight days up. Barb was okay. Stanton prepared her. Barb held in tough.
He read the Times-Herald. He got the gist. The Koethe snuff came and went. DPD worked it. DPD hassled queers. DPD cut them loose. The case vibed open file. It's a queer job--fuck it.
The Morning News ran a piece. They ragged Koethe. They ragged his "wild talk." Koethe was a perennial crank. Koethe was a "conspiracy nut."
He burned Koethe's notes. The Arden dirt went up. He debated. He decided--don't tell Ward Littell.
It was sketchy dirt--fill it out first.
A nun walked by--a sweet number--Stanton studied her.
"Jackie Kennedy wore hats like that."
"She wore one to Dallas."
Stanton smiled. "You're a fast study."
"I took Latin in school. I know what 'quid pro quo' means."
The nun smiled. The nun waved and giggled. Stanton was cute. Stanton lived on salads and martinis.
"Did you hear about that reporter who got killed? I heard he was writing a book."
Pete stretched. A head stitch popped loose.
"Let's start over. You were tailing me. You saved my life. I said thank you."
Stanton stretched. His shoulder rig showed.
"We know that some Agency men were at least peripheral to the Kennedy thing. We're pleased with the result, we have no desire to dispute the Warren Report, but for deniability's sake, we'd like a rough sketch."
Pete stretched. A stitch popped. Pete rubbed his head. Pete said, "Cuba."
Stanton smiled. "That's not much."
"It says it all. You know who he fucked with, you know who had the money and the means. You saved my life, so I'll be generous. You've met and worked with half the personnel."
The bench was damp. The slats sustained doodles. Stanton drew stars. Stanton wrote "CUBA."
Pete rubbed his head. A stitch unraveled.
"Okay, I'll play."
Stanton drew stars. Stanton put "!" after CUBA.
"Jack broke our hearts. Now Johnson's compounding the hurt."
Pete drew "?" Stanton crossed it out.
"Johnson's quits on the Cause. He thinks it's a loser and he knows it got Jack killed. He's fucked the Agency out of our Cuban ops budget, and some colleagues of mine think it's time to circumvent his policy."
Pete drew "!" Pete drew "$." Stanton crossed his legs. His ankle rig showed.
"I want to bring you to Vietnam. I want you to move Laotian heroin back to the States. I've got a team set up in Saigon. It's all Agency and South Vietnamese Army. You can recruit your own team on both ends. Dope has financed a dozen Vietnamese coups, so let's make it work for the Cause."
Pete shut his eyes. Pete ran newsreels. The French lose Algiers. The French lose Dien Bien Phu.
Et le Cuba sera notre grande revanche.
Stanton said, "You funnel the dope to Las Vegas. I've consulted Carlos on that aspect. He thinks he can get the Outfit to rescind their no-dope rule, if you push exclusively to Negroes. We want you to set up a system, buy off the key cops and limit your street exposure to the last two links on the distribution chain. If the Vegas operation flies, we'll expand to other cities. And 65% of the profits will go to worthy exile groups."
Pete stood up. Pete swayed. Pete threw hooks and jabs and popped stitches.
A nun walked by. She saw Pete. She got spooked. She crossed herself.
C'est un fou.
C'est un diable.
C'est un monstre Protestant.
56.
(Las Vegas, 9/30/64)
Break time--4:00 p.m. sharp.
He put his work down. He made coffee. He sat outside his suite. He played the news. He watched the course. Janice played most days.
She'd see him. She'd wave. She'd yell epigrams. She'd say, "You don't like my husband." She'd say, "You work too hard."
Janice played scratch golf. Janice moved lithe. She'd hit shots. Her skirts would hike. Her calves would bunch and stretch.
Littell watched 6. Littell played the news. LBJ barnstormed Virginia. Bobby barnstormed New York.
Janice played 6. Janice outdrove her friends. She saw him. She waved. She yelled.
She said, "My husband fears you." She said, "You need some rest."
Littell laughed. Littell waved. Janice aced a shot.
Jane feared Vegas. The Boys ran the town. Janice was Vegas direct. He enjoyed his glimpses. He took them to bed. He put Janice's body on Jane.
The news went off. Janice parred 6 and waved. Littell walked inside. Littell wrote appeal briefs.
Jimmy Hoffa was through. The Boys knew it. Carlos soldiered for Jimmy. Carlos dunned donations. Carlos built a Help Jimmy Fund. It was futile. It was hopeless. Their bribe roll had crapped out.
Littell put his brief down. Littell grabbed his bankbooks. Littell ran figures and totaled his tithes.
Glad tidings: The bagmen aced Wayne Senior. The bagmen stole his skim fees. The bagmen were duplicitous. The bagmen were good. The bagmen were Mormon-rowdy.
He directed them. He ran the skim. He wrote fictive reports. He lied to Drac. He embezzled Drac. He sucked Drac's blood.
The bagmen bagged. The bagmen moved six hundred grand--two weeks' worth of skim. He took his 5%. He fed his Chicago account. He opened accounts in Silver Spring and D.C. He used fake ID. He laundered the cash. He tithed the SCLC.
He wrote tithe checks. Five grand per. He wrote them under pseudonyms. He print-wiped the envelopes.
Drac and the Boys meet Dr. King--We Shall Overcome.
His desk phone rang. He grabbed it.
"Yes?"
Static hiss--long distance. A garbled Pete: "Ward, it's me."
The hiss built. The line buzzed. The hiss leveled flat.
"Where are you?"
"I'm in Mexico City. I'm losing the fucking connection, and I need a favor."
"Name it."
"I need Wayne to cut the apron strings and come to work for me."
Littell said, "With pleasure."
57.
(Las Vegas, 9/30/64)
Janice fucked Clark Kinman. Wayne watched.
She left the lights on. She knew he was there. She rode Kinman. She showed her backside.
Wayne braced the mirror. Wayne sipped Wayne Senior's scotch. It was her sixth show. It was his sixth hide-and-see.
He surveilled the motel. Janice fucked every night. Wayne Senior caught her most times. The gigs were synced. Ditto the arrivals.