The Playpen Lounge was a storefront. The Playpen Lounge sat off skid row.

Wayne drove to Fresno. Wayne polled street creeps. Wayne found it. The creeps spieled lore-the Pen's a pus-pit-all fear the King!

He's this mean swish. He's Haiti-bred. He's pure calypso. He sports a crown. He's a he-she. He's a hermaphrodite.

Wayne walked in. The decor clashed-Camelot meets Liberace.

Velvet walls. Purple drapes. Nail-studded armor. A bar and wall booths-pink Naugahyde.

A jukebox cranked. Mel Tormй crooned. The natives stirred. Wayne drew looks. Wayne drew ooh-la-las.

Colored trade-queens and jockers.

There's the King. He's got a booth. He's got his crown. He's got the pedigree: Knife scars/mashed ears/pipe-wound regalia.

Wayne walked over. Wayne sat down. King Arthur sipped a frappй.

"You're too haughty to be Fresno PD, and you're too butch to be anything but a cop."

The jukebox vibrated. Wayne reached back. Wayne grabbed and yanked the cord.

"My money. Your information."

The King tapped his crown. It was kid-pageant issue-rhinestones on tin.

"I just consulted my thinking cap. It said, 'Policemen demand, they don't pay.'"

The King lisped. The King trilled. The King sashayed. Two fags swished by. One tittered. One waved.

Wayne said, "I _was_ a cop."

"Oh, pshaw, you silly savage. You didn't have to say that."

Wayne pulled out his money. Wayne fanned his money. Wayne flashed a table lamp down.

"Wendell Durfee. I heard you know him."

The King tapped his crown. "I'm getting a vision… yes… there it is… you're that Vegas cop who lost his poor wife to Wendell."

The jukebox popped. Kay Starr popped on. Wayne reached back and popped the cord. A fag grabbed his hand. A fag scratched his palm. A fag giggled lewd.

Wayne pulled his arm back. The fags giggled. The fags withdrew. They swished off. They vamped Wayne. They blew kisses.

Wayne wiped his hand. The King laughed. The King went oh, pshaw.

"I had a brief encounter with Wendell, several months ago. I bought a string of girls from him."

"And?"

"And the Bakersfield fuzz discouraged me from procuring in their jurisdiction."

"And?"

"And Wendell was looking for a _nom de pimp_ with irresistible panache. I suggested the name Cassius Cool, which he adopted."

Wayne tapped the money. "Keep going. I know there's more."

The King tapped his crown. "I'm getting a vision… yes… you killed three unarmed Negro men in Las Vegas… and… yes… Wendell made your wife climax before he killed her."

Wayne pulled his piece. Wayne raised it. Wayne cocked it. Wayne heard echoes. Wayne heard hammers click.

He looked around. He checked the bar. He saw fags. He saw guns. He saw suicide.

He holstered up. The King grabbed his money.

"Wendell enticed some crackers into a rigged dice game and was firmly advised to leave Bakersfield. I heard he lit out for L.A."

Wayne looked around. Wayne saw fags with guns. Wayne saw mean faces.

The King laughed. "Grow up, child. You can't kill _all_ the niggers."

83

(Saigon, 8/20/65)

Pete said, "Wayne took some scalps."

Cocktail hour. Drinks at the Catinat. Grenade nets and gook brass galore.

Stanton snarfed pвtй. "Cuban or Negro American?"

Pete smiled. "He's back. I'll tell him you asked."

"Tell him I was pleased to learn that he's diversified."

The bar was packed. MACV guys hobnobbed. Trilingual talk flowed.

Pete lit a cigarette. "The Relyea thing pissed me off. I want to move recognizable U.S.-sourced guns."

Stanton smeared toast. "You've made that clear. That said, I should state that Bob's done a bang-up job so far."

"He has, but he's deep off in all that Klan shit, which could draw heat any fucking second. You want my opinion? We should rotate Laurent back to Laos to work Tiger Kamp, and keep Mesplиde in the States permanently to shag guns. He's got good connections, he's willing, and he's fucking capable."

Stanton shook his head. "One, Bob's got better connections, and he's got enough FBI cover to divert any trouble he might create. Two, you brought that Bruvick guy in, which lit a fire under Carlos, who is now all aflutter for the Cause, in a way he hasn't been since '62. He's _active_ now, he's the _only_ committed Outfit man, and I'm sure he's got gun sources. Three, Laurent's tight with Carlos, which is why I want him full-time stateside, instead of Mesplиde. He's the best man to work with Carlos and funnel our weaponry."

Pete rolled his eyes. "Carlos is a _Mob_ executive. The only gun contacts he's got are other exile groups with shit ordnance of their own. He won't be able to shag stuff as good as that Relyea batch, and how many fucking armory heists can we count on?"

A siren blew. The room froze. The gook brass drew guns. The siren died. The all-clear blew. The gook brass stashed their guns.

Stanton sipped wine. "We're covered as is. You and Wayne rotate, because you're the A-level personnel and you know the in-country and Vegas ends of the business. When Wayne's caught up at the lab, he's free to work Vegas and the funnel, and you-"

"John, Jesus Christ, will you-"

"No, let me finish. We lost Chuck, _c'est Ia guerre_, but Tran and Mesplиde are more than enough to run Tiger Kamp. We keep Mesplиde incountry, and we leave Flash and Laurent in Port Sulphur and Bon Secour. In other words, we're _covered_, and I don't want you second-guessing a perfectly operational system."

The siren blew. The all-clear blew. The AC died. A waiter cracked doors. A waiter cracked windows. A waiter rigged bomb nets.

Pete checked his watch. "I'm meeting Wayne. He's got a lead on some donation shit in Da Nang."

Hot air settled in. Waiters pulled fan cords.

"How many scalps did he take?"

"Four."

"Do you think he enjoyed it?"

Pete smiled. "With Wayne you never know."

Stanton smiled. "Will you allow me some sort of concession before you go?"

Pete stood up. The ceiling loomed. Pete dodged fan blades.

"Your shit's operational. It's just not as passionate as my shit."

o o o

They flew up. MACV ran Hueys-milk flights from Tan Son Nhut.

They sat on the back slats. Some admin pogues flew along. Dig it-let's catch this show in Da Nang.

Wayne yawned. Wayne just rotated in. Wayne was travel-fucked.

The flight overbooked. The kiddie brass partied. They made noise. They matched coins. They twirled their.45s.

The rotors whipped. The doors shook. The radio screeched. Pete and Wayne huddled. Pete and Wayne talked loud.

Agreed: Bob Relyea bites. Agreed: He's Wayne Senior's punk rabbit. Agreed: He shags good guns. Agreed: D. Bruvick's sly and yellow.

Carlos warned Bruvick. Carlos said don't call Arden-don't rat our Cuban runs. Bruvick fudged and tried to call. Wayne interdicted.

Agreed: Let's oust him. Agreed: Let's find a new boat man.

They agreed. Pete hedged somewhat. Pete said Carlos wants Bruvick. Bruvick's his inside man. Carlos distrusts everyone. Carlos plants informants.

Ergo: Bruvick makes Cuban runs. Bruvick calls Carlos. Bruvick informs on _us_.

Wayne _got_ it. Wayne digressed. Bruvick's ex Arden-now with Ward Littell. She's a spy. She watches Ward. She reports to Carlos.

Right-you got it-and that's _all_ you get.

Wayne said okay. Pete riffed on Carlos-the Graduate Course.

He runs people. He eats people. He's tight with John Stanton. He's greedy. He'll press John-feed me dope points. John will bow. _We'll_ bow too. We owe Carlos that. Carlos braced the other Boys. They waived Outfit laws. They let us white-dust West Vegas.