Wyoming went for Bad-Back Jack. The delegates went stone fucking nuts.

Hughes doused the volume and scrunched up on his pillows. “He’s nominated. But that’s a far cry from being elected.”

Pete said, “Yes, sir.”

“You’re being deliberately obtuse. ‘Yes, sir’ is not the proper response, and you’re sitting there in that chair being deliberately disrespectful.”

A commercial blipped on: Yeakel Oldsmobile, the voters’ choice!

“How’s this? ‘Yes, sir, Jack’s got a nice head of hair, but your man Nixon will thrash him soundly in the general election.’”

Hughes said, “It’s better, but I detect a certain impertinence.”

Pete cracked his thumbs. “I flew out because you said you needed to see me. I brought you a three-month supply of shit. You said you wanted to discuss some subpoena dodging strategy, but all you’ve done so far is rant about the Kennedys.”

Hughes said, “That is gross impertinence.”

Pete sighed. “Get your Mormons to show me the door, then. Get Duane Spurgeon to score you dope in violation of six trillion fucking state and Federal statutes.”

Hughes flinched. His IV tubes stretched; his blood bottle wiggled. Vampire Howard: sucking in transfusions to assure his germfree longevity.

“You’re a very cruel man, Pete.”

“No. Like I told you once before, I’m your very cruel man.”

“Your eyes have gotten smaller and crueler. You keep looking at me strangely.”

“I’m waiting for you to bite my neck. I’ve been around the block a few times, but this new Dracula kick of yours is something to see.”

Hughes fucking smiled. “It’s no more amazing than you fighting Fidel Castro.”

Pete smiled. “Was there something important you wanted to talk about?”

The convention- flashed back on. Bad-Back Jack supporters whooped and swooned.

“I want you to vet the subpoena-avoidance plans my Mormon colleagues have devised. They’ve come up with some ingenious-” -

“We could have done it over the phone. You’ve been holding the TWA paperwork off since ‘57, and I don’t think the Justice Department gives a shit anymore.”

“Be that as it may, I now have a specific reason to avoid divesting TWA until the most opportune moment.”

Pete sighed. Pete said, “I’m listening.”

Hughes tapped his drip gizmos. A blood bottle drained red to pink.

“When I finally divest, I want to use the money to buy hotelcasinos in Las Vegas. I want to accumulate large, undetectable cash profits and breathe wholesome, germ-free desert air. I’ll have my Mormon colleagues administer the hotels, to insure that Negroes who might pollute the environment are politely but firmly discouraged from entering, and I’ll create a cash-flow base that will allow me to diversify into various defense-industry areas without paying taxes on my seed money. I’ll-”

Pete tuned him out. Hughes kept spritzing numbers: millions, billions, trillions. Jack the K. was on TV-spritzing “Vote for Me!” with the sound down.

Pete ran numbers in his head.

There’s Littell in Lake Geneva-chasing the Pension Fund. There’s Jules Schiffrin-a well-respected Chi-Mob graybeard. Jules just might have the Pension books stashed at his pad.

Hughes said, “Pete, you’re not listening to me. Quit looking at that puerile politician and give me your full attention.”

Pete hit the off switch. Jack the Haircut faded out.

Hughes coughed. “That’s better. You were looking at that boy with something like admiration.”

“It’s his hair, Boss. I was wondering how he got it to stand up like that.”

“You have a short memory. And I have a short fuse where ironic answers are concerned.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. You might recall that two years ago I gave you thirty thousand dollars to try to compromise that boy with a prostitute.”

“I remember.”

“That’s not a complete answer.”

“The complete answer is ‘Things change.’ And you don’t think America’s going to get between the sheets with Dick Nixon when they can cozy up to Jack, do you?”

Hughes pushed himself upright. His bed rails shook; his IV rig teetered.

“I own Richard Nixon.”

Pete said, “I know you do. And I’m sure he’s real grateful for that loan you floated his brother.”

Dracula got the shakes. Dracula got his dentures snagged up on the roof of his mouth.

Dracula got some words out. “I-I-I’d forgotten that you knew about that.”

“A busy guy like you can’t remember everything.”

Drac reached for a fresh hypo. “Dick Nixon’s a good man, and the entire Kennedy family is rotten down to the core. Joe Kennedy’s been lending gangsters money since the ‘20s, and I know for a fact that the infamous Raymond L. S. Patriarca owes him the very shirt off his back.”

He had the Nixon loan documented. He could feed the dope to Boyd and curry big-time favor with Jack.

Pete said, “Like I owe you.”

Hughes beamed. “I knew you’d see my point.”

Littell studied his new face.

His weak jawline was rebuilt with pins and bone chips. His weak chin was smashed into a cleft. The nose he always hated was flattened and ridged.

Helen said he looked dangerous. Helen said his scars put hers to shame.

Littell stepped back from the mirror. Shifting light gave him new angles to savor.

He limped now. His jaw clicked. He put on twenty pounds in the hospital.

Pete Bondurant was a cosmetic surgeon.

He had a bold new face. His old pre-Phantom psyche couldn’t live up to it.

He was afraid to move on Jules Schiffrin. He was afraid to confront Kemper. He was afraid to talk on the phone-little line clicks popped in his ears.

The clicks could be jaw-pin malfunctions. The clicks could be audial DTs. -

He was six months short of retirement. Mal Chamales said the Party needed lawyers.

A TV boomed next door. John Kennedy’s acceptance speech faded into applause.

The Bureau discontinued their assault inquiry. Hoover knew that he could sabotage Boyd’s Kennedy incursion.

Littell stepped close to the mirror. The scars above his eyebrows furrowed.

He couldn’t stop looking.

Pete turned forty on a speedboat run to Cuba. He led a raid on a militia station and took sixteen scalps.

Ramon Gutiйrrez sketched up a Cadre mascot: a pit bull with an alligator snout and razor-blade teeth. Ramуn’s girlfriend sewed up mascot shoulder patches.

A printer fashioned mascot calling cards. “FREE CUBA!” roared out of the Beast’s mouth.

Carlos Marcello carried one. Sam Gi carried one. Santo Junior handed out dozens to friends and associates.

The Beast craved blood. The Beast craved Castro’s beard on a stick.

Training cycles pushed through Blessington. The invasion plan mandated new ordnance. Dougie Frank Lockhart purchased surplus landing craft and “invaded” Alabama once per cycle.

The Gulf Coast simulated Cuba. Trainees hit the beach and scared the shit out of sunbathers.

Dougie Frank trained troops full-time. Pete trained troops parttime. Chuck, Fulo and Wilfredo Delsol ran the cabstand.

Pete led speedboat runs into Cuba. Everybody went along- except Delsol.

The Obregуn kill snipped part of his balls. Pete didn’t judge him-losing blood kin in a flash was no picnic.

Everybody sold dope.

The Cadre supplied spook junkies exclusively. The Miami PD implicitly approved. Narco Squad payouts served as disapproval insurance.