We hate smart. We contain. We consolidate. We fuck the bad haters. We spread the good hate.
Dreams. Reruns. Rotations.
Sleep on planes-crash time zones-see faces. Hate smart. Consolidate. Hail Father Rabbit!
The dreams reran. The concept held. The gist accrued: He needs you. He sees you. He _wants_ you.
91
(Las Vegas, Bay St. Louis, Cuban Waters, 4/1/66-10/30/66)
Wars:
The real war. The TV war. Barb's running fire.
They watch the news. He comments. He says we'll win. Barb says we shouldn't. Barb says we can't and we won't.
He says I've _been_ there. He says I _know_. _She_ says _I've_ been there. She says _I_ know. They escalate. They debate control. They debate containment. TV wars-parlor shit-sniper attacks.
It raged. It escalated. It stopped. Barb nuked him. Barb won.
She said, "Nobody's controlling the war, and you don't control the dope traffic, because _I_ met a doctor in Da Nang, and _he_ sends _me_ little tastes, and I boot them when I get bored to death or afraid that you'll fall off a fucking boat in the fucking Cuban sea."
He flipped out. He threw shit. He taxed out his heart. He tossed chairs. He broke windows. He chucked the TV out. One hoist-two hundred pounds airborne. One badass heart-patient trick.
The TV flew. The TV dropped fourteen stories. The TV dive-bombed a blue Ford.
He raged. His veins throbbed. His pump swelled. He crashed. He divebombed the couch. Barb talked up a truce.
I'm no junkie. I sniff it. I taste it. I never shoot up. I hate your work. I hate the war-it covers you.
He tried to fight. He gobbled air. His pump puttered and slogged. Barb held his hands. Barb held the cat. Barb talked _trиs_ slow.
I hate your work. I hate the Life. I hate Vegas now. We'll ride it out. We'll survive it. We'll win.
They made up. He got calm. He got some back-end wind. They made love. They wrecked the couch. The cat refereed.
Shit got said. Shit got aired. Shit went unsaid. No vows of abstinence/no vows to stop/no vows to change.
Truce.
They split the Stardust. They moved into the Cavern. They bought a new TV. Barb watched the war. Barb sulked and judged. He worked the biz. He ran dope. He ran guns.
Barb worked the Cavern. Barb wore go-go gowns. Barb showed off skin-plus. Dig it: No pinholes/no bruises/no tracks.
Truce.
They lived. They made love. He traveled. Barb flew then. He knew it. Barb flew White Powder Air.
They lived the truce. He nailed the Shit Clause:
Barb was right-the war was fucked-we couldn't win. Barb was right-they had big love-they'd stick and win. Barb was wrong-white horse had teeth-white horse bit to win.
White flag/ceasefire/truce.
He conceded points. He owed Barb. He brought her to Dallas. The truce held. The clause held. The ink ran.
You've got Barb. Jane is dead. Ward knows it. Ward said it once. Ward said Jane left me. Ward stopped short then.
Ward knew Jane's backstory. That scandal file told him. Ward could fill in the rest. Arden runs to Danny. They set sail. Gulf waters entice. They're tapped and tired-long years of flight.
Ward lost a woman. Carlos lost a boat. Carlos lost a spy. Carlos lost Danny. Carlos _killed_ Danny. Carlos dropped _la Causa_ flat.
The new boat bored him. The boat runs bored him. It was gadfly shit. The runs bored Pete. The runs vexed Pete. The runs stressed his pump.
Coast prowls and gun transfers-too easy. Raft runs and scalp hunts-light counts.
It's 1/66. Pete gets frustrated. Pete sends Flash in. Flash is Cuban. Flash is dark. Flash fits right in.
Flash tours Cuba. Flash meets Fuentes and Arredondo. They hit the hills. They tour kampsites. They see kadre gun-stocks.
Big kampsites. Big personnel. Big inventories stocked.
They lead a raid. They run sixty men. They blitz a Militia camp. They flank in. They lob shells. They pop bazookas. They run in under cover. They flank wide. They throw Zippo flames.
They killed eighty men. They lost three men. They shaved beards boocoo. Pete loved it. Pete revived behind it. Pete dropped pump weight boocoo.
Weight was weight. Shit was shit. Work was work. The docs said don't smoke. He did it, The docs said eat light. He did it. The docs said work light. He said Fuck You.
He worked the dope biz. He worked Tiger Kab. He worked the Cavern. The Cavern pandered. The Cavern rocked.
Hipsters loved it. Hipsters dug Milt C. and Junkie Monkey. Horn dogs loved it. Horn dogs drooled for Barb B. Sonny Liston loved it. Fruits loved it. Fruits swished in and Liberace'd.
Wayne Senior came by. Wayne Senior waxed nice. Need some help? Call if so-I know grind-joint casinos. Pete waxed nice. Pete said sure-I'll do that.
Wayne Senior came back. Wayne Senior lost money. Wayne Senior talked.
Life's cruel. Life's odd. Ward Littell's with my ex. How's my son? I know he's tough now. I know he works for you.
Pete waxed nice. Pete waxed bland. Pete waxed noncommittal. Wayne Senior talked. Wayne Senior talked truce. Wayne Senior said I miss my son-I know he's been wiiiiiild places.
Wayne Senior waxed anxious. The word was out-Drac's on his way. Drac the bloodsucker. Drac the Mob puppet. Drac the greedy centipede.
The prelude ran long. Pete worked it for three years. Pete notched some gooood benefits.
You're forty-six years old. You're a killer. You're a frog arriviste. You're rich. You're worth two million legit.
_Pas mal, mais je m'en fous_.
Preludes and fringe benefits. Money and debits. Barb and white horse. Barb and ennui. Barb and Vietnam.
They played a game. He got her nude. He got in tight. He checked her arms. He checked her veins. He checked her toes. He tickled her all over. He checked for needle tracks.
None.
It's contained. I control it. I taste little drops.
He checked her ankles. He tickled her. He traced her veins. She touched him. She pulled him in.
The game helped. The game hurt. The game took him back:
It's hot. His heart rips. He leaps for her shoe.
92
(Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Washington, D.C., Boston, New Orleans, Chicago, Mexico City, 4/1/66-10/30/66)
Mourner. Lover bereft.
She died. She left a file. She left a legacy. He tracked her southbound. He ran logic.
Logic:
Otash sees the scandal files. Otash spots Carlos and Jane. Otash calls Pete. Pete doubts Jane. Pete's doubts pre-exist. Jane runs. Jane finds Danny Bruvick.
He called airlines. He checked flights. He found the name Arden Breen. She flew to Mobile, Alabama. She flew to Bon Secour.
Logic:
Pete had Gulf ties. Pete ran guns. Pete gigged from Bon Secour. Pete interceded. Pete bucked Carlos. Pete made Jane run.
Carlos found Danny. Carlos found him with Jane.
That was theory logic. It was buttressed by facts. It was shaped by news clips.
She was dead. He mourned her. He worked with Carlos. They both kept mute. Carlos said nothing. Pete stayed mute. They both misread it. They both called it this way: Ward doesn't know what we know.
_I know_. I did the logic. I dream the gist.
Carlos kills flamboyant. His teams pack power tools. Carlos kills slow.
Chainsaws/shears/drills. Lathe chisels and fungo bats.
He dreamed it. He heard it. He saw it. He slept with it. He lived it. He didn't drink. He didn't seek numbness. He didn't anesthetize. He worked. He maneuvered. He hidey-hole stashed.
He hit the bank. He grabbed Jane's file. He studied it: six folders/typed notes/comprehensive.
Jane _knew_ him. The file _nailed_ him.
She predicted his embezzlements. She tracked his travels. She surmised his bank accounts. She critiqued his technique. She guessed at amounts. She assumed his guilt tithes.