"Take care of it. You and Sonny. Barb's gone, so we'll pretend this never happened."
A nun walked by. Said nun shot a look--you pagans stop that!
Pete walked off. Wayne sat up. Wayne got more breath. Two punks strolled by. They saw Wayne recumbent. They giggled it up.
Wayne stood up. Wayne dodged skycaps and bag carts. Wayne hit a phone booth.
He dropped coins. He dialed. He got a buzz tone. He got three rings. He got Him.
"Who's calling at this ungodly hour?"
Wayne said, "I want that job."
98.
(Las Vegas, 12/1/66)
Onstage: Milt C. and Junkie Monkey.
Milt said, "What's all this tsuris with Howard Hughes?"
Junkie Monkey said, "I heard he's a swish. He moved in to get next to Liberace."
The crowd yocked. The crowd roared.
Milt said, "Come on. I heard he was shtupping Ava Gardner."
Junkie Monkey said, "I'm shtupping Ava. She traded up from Sammy Davis. Sammy's on the golf course. This square comes up to him and says, 'What's your handicap?' Sammy says, 'I'm a one-eyed shvartze Jew. Nobody will sell me a house in a nice neighborhood. I'm trying to effect a peace accord between Israel and the Congo. I've got no place to hang my Sy Devore beanie.'"
The crowd yocked. Milt moved his lips. Milt puppet-talked bad. Pete watched. Pete smoked. Pete mourned Barb.
She was three days gone. She didn't call. She didn't write. He didn't call. He didn't write. He braced Wayne instead.
It was bullshit. Wayne was right. He knew it. Barb split. He exploited it. He indulged. He smoked. He ate burgers. He worked the Fuck-It Diet. He boozed. He caught Milt. He caught Barb's crew. The Bondsmen sans Barb--Shit City.
The lounge was packed. Young stuff mostly. Milt drew hip kids.
Junkie Monkey said, "Frank Sinatra saved my life. His goons were stomping me in the Sands parking lot. Frank said, 'That's enough, boys.'"
The crowd yocked. Pete smoked. A geek tapped his arm. Pete turned around. Pete saw Dwight Holly.
They hit Pete's office. They stood by the wet bar. They crowded each other. They stood in tight.
Pete said, "It's been a while."
"Yeah, as in '64. Your boy Wayne killed three shines."
Pete lit a cigarette. "And you made out."
Dwight shrugged. "Wayne fucked me up, but you and Littell set it straight. Now, ask me if I came to say thanks."
Pete poured a scotch. "You were in town, so you thought you'd drop by."
"Not quite. I'm in town to see Littell, which I'd prefer you keep to yourself."
Pete sipped scotch. Dwight tapped his chest.
"How's your ticker?"
"It's fine."
"You shouldn't be smoking."
"You shouldn't be jerking my chain."
Dwight laughed. Dwight poured a scotch.
"How'd you like to help me entrap a Commie sympathizer?"
"You and Mr. Hoover?"
"I won't say yes or no to that. Silence implies consent, so draw your own conclusions."
Pete said, "Lay it out. The money first."
Dwight swirled scotch. "Twenty grand for you. Ten each for your bait, your backup, and your bug man."
Pete laughed. "Ward's a good bug man."
"Ward's a prince of a bug man, but I'd prefer Freddy Turentine, and I'd prefer that Ward be kept in the dark about this."
Pete grabbed an ashtray. Pete stubbed his cigarette.
"Give me one good reason why I should fuck Ward over to help you."
Dwight undid his necktie. "One, all this shit is tangential to Ward. Two, it's a high-line gig that you won't be able to resist. Three, you're in the Life for life, you'll fuck up sooner or later, and Mr. Hoover will intercede for you, no questions asked."
Pete sipped scotch. Pete rolled his neck. Pete tapped his head on the wall.
"Who?"
"Bayard Rustin, male Negro, age fifty-four. Civil-rights agitator with a yen for young white boys. He's horny, he's impetuous, he's as Red as they get."
Pete tapped his head. "When?"
"Next month, in L.A. There's an SCLC fund-raiser at the Beverly Hilton."
"That's cutting it close."
Dwight shrugged. "The bait's the only holdup. Do you think you--"
"I've got the bait. He's young, he's queer, he's attractive. He's got some potential cop shit hanging over him, which--"
"Which Mr. Hoover will frost out, no questions asked."
Pete tapped his head. Pete tapped it hard. Pete sparked a headache.
"I want Fred Otash on backup."
"Agreed."
"Plus Freddy Turentine and ten grand for expenses."
"Agreed."
Pete's stomach growled. The scotch fucked with it. Pete thought Cheeseburger.
Dwight smiled. "You bit fast. I thought I'd have to work you."
"My wife left me. I've got time to kill."
Otash said, "Sal scores tonight. I'll lay you six to one."
Car surveillance--Fred O's car--the seats pushed way back. Fred O's farts and Fred O's cologne.
They watched the street. They watched Sal's car. They watched the Kiondike Bar. Pete lit a cigarette. Pete had gas. Pete snarfed two cheeseburgers late.
"Of course he'll score. He's a half-assed movie star."
He flew straight out. He called Otash. He briefed him. They checked Sal's pad. Sal was gone. They checked Sal's known haunts: The 4-Star/the Rumpus Room/Bitt's Bayou.
Shit--no Sal car/no Sal.
They checked the Gold Cup. They checked Arthur J's. They checked the Klondike--8th and LaBrea.
Tilt-- Pete said, "You're sure he won't rabbit?"
"On Dom? Sure I'm sure."
"Tell me why."
"Because I'm his new daddy, Because I'm the guy he has coffee with every morning. Because I'm the guy who dumped Dom and his fucking car down a lime pit in the fucking Angeles Forest."
Pete chained cigarettes. "The Vegas end's good. No cops so far."
"Dom was a fly-by-night. You think his pimp boyfriend will file a missing-persons report?"
Sal walked out. Sal had a date. Sal hung on some hunky young quiff.
Otash hit the horn. Pete hit the lights. Sal blinked. Sal saw the car. Sal stalled the quiff and walked over.
Pete rolled his window down. Sal leaned on the ledge.
"Shit. It's a life sentence with you guys."
Pete flashed a snapshot reminder. Streetlight hit Donkey Dom's thumb. Sal blinked. Sal gulped. Sal vibed sick.
Pete said, "You like dark stuff, right? You get the urge once in a while."
Sal weaved a hand--dark meat/comme ci comme ca.
Otash said, "We're fixing you up."
Pete said, "He's a nice guy. You'll thank us."
Otash said, "He's cute. He looks like Billy Eckstine."
Pete said, "He's a Communist."
99.
(Las Vegas, 12/2/66)