Sal dabbed his cuts. Sal checked the pix. Sal went gray-green.

"You know, I really liked him. He was bad, but he had this sweet side."

Otash rubbed his knuckles. Otash wiped his rings.

"Us or the fuzz?"

Sal said, "You."

Otash said, "Where is he?"

Sal said, "In the trunk."

Otash drew a dollar sign. Pete paid off-the trunk/six to one.

o o o

He flew home. The ride bumped. He worried Barb and Wayne.

Barb sniffed white horse. Wayne knew it. Wayne grieved. Wayne loves Barb. Wayne eschews women. Wayne's a watcher. Wayne's a martyr. Wayne's woman-fucked.

Warn Wayne. Tell Barb soft: _I know you-just me_.

The plane landed. Vegas glowed radioactive. Pete cabbed to the Cavern. Pete unlocked the suite.

The cat jumped him. He picked him up. He kissed him. He saw the note.

It's flat on the wall. It's taped high. It's his eye-level.

Pete,

I'm leaving you for a while to sort some things out. I'm not hiding; I'll be staying at my sister's house in Sparta. I need to get away from Vegas and figure out a way to be with you as long as you're doing the things that you do. You're not the only one who knows me, but you're the only one I love.

Barb

Pete tore the note up. Pete kicked walls and shelves. Pete hugged the cat. Pete let the cat claw his shirt.

96

(Las Vegas, 11/29/66)

Moe Dalitz said, "Look."

Littell checked the window. Littell saw nuts below. Ten floors down. Nuts with cameras. Nuts with kids in tow.

Moe said, "They think Hughes sleeps in a coffin. They figure he'll wake up at dusk and sign autographs in his cape."

Littell laughed. Littell went ssshhh. Hush now-biz-in-progress.

Ten yards up. Two tables-Mormons meet front men.

Moe grinned. "It's my fucking hotel and my fucking king-size conference room. I'm supposed to whisper in my own joint?"

A Mormon glanced over. Moe smiled and waved.

"Goyishe shitheels. Mormons are roughly synonymous with the Ku Klux Klan."

Littell smiled. Littell steered Moe. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.

"Would you like an update?"

Moe rolled his eyes. "Tell me. Use words of one syllable only."

"Short and sweet, then. I think we'll get our price. They're discussing undistributed profits tax now."

Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked ten yards. They bypassed three tables.

"I know you don't like him, but that well-known goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior is essential to our plans. We need his union, and we need to keep his ex-buddies and Mormons in general running skim on those charter flights. Now, we've got the papers and TV bribed to do this 'Hughes is cleaning out Mob influence in Vegas' number, which makes me think we should recruit some more clean Mormon skim guys, because Hughes will insist on hiring Mormons to work the key fucking managerial positions, and I do not want any old-line skim people hanging around looking conspicuous when we can have some well-scrubbed shitheel Mormons, _especially_ since the skim ante is about to go way up."

Littell brainstormed. Littell checked the window. He saw nut swarms. He saw newsmen. He saw clowns with snack carts.

"The publicity heat will be going up, too."

Moe lit a cigarette. Moe popped digitalis.

"Tell me what you're thinking. Go to two syllables if you have to."

Littell brainstormed-one quick brain draft. Propose it/convince Moe/refine the draft. Gift Mr. Hoover/earn a gift reciprocal/earn back to BLACK RABBIT.

Moe rolled his eyes. "A trance you're in. Like the Vegas sun finally got to your head."

Littell coughed. "Are you still buffered from your old-line skim people?"

"The ones we replaced? The ones we shitcanned for the Mormons?"

"Right."

Moe rolled his eyes. "We always buffer. It's how we survive."

Littell smiled. "Let's give some of them up to the Feds, as soon as Mr. Hughes takes over a few hotels. It will buttress our publicity campaign, it will make Mr. Hoover happy, it will tie the Feds here up in litigation."

Moe dropped his cigarette. Moe singed deep-pile carpet. Moe toed the butt flat.

"I like it. I like all deals that fuck disenfranchised personnel."

"I'll call Mr. Hoover."

"You do that. You say hi and give him our best regards, in your best lawyer way."

Voices boomed eight tables up-tax rates/tax incentives. Moe smiled. Moe steered Littell. They walked eight yards. They bypassed two tables.

"I know you been through this with Carlos and Sam, but I want you to hear it from my perspective, which is we do not want a fucking repeat of the 1960 election. We want to back a strong guy who'll come down hard on all this agitation and civil unrest and stand firm in Vietnam, as well as leave us the fuck alone. Now, per the aforementioned goyishe shitheel Wayne Tedrow Senior, let me say this. We've heard that he's no longer schlepping hate pamphlets, that he's cleaned up the seedier aspects of his act, and that him and his Mormons are getting tight with that wellknown political retread Richard M. Nixon, who has always hated the Reds a good deal more than he's hated the so-called Mafia. We want you to talk to Wayne Senior and get an indication as to whether Nixon will run, and if he says yes, you know what we want and what we're willing to pay."

Voices boomed ten tables up-tax nuts/tax credits.

Littell coughed. "I'll call him when I get a-"

"You call him in the vicinity of the next five minutes. You meet him and lay it out. You get him to plant the seed with the Nixon people, and you tell him _you'll_ be the guy to sit down with Nixon, if and when that shifty cocksucker runs."

Littell said, "Jesus Christ."

Moe said, "Your goyishe savior. A presidential cat in his own right."

Voices boomed ten tables up-Negro hygiene/Negro sedation.

o o o

The T-Bird-hole 10.

Play crawled. Duffers hacked. Oldsters bumped carts. Littell sipped club soda. Littell watched hole 9.

Women dumped shots. Women blew putts. Women sprayed sand. Ball beaters all-no Janice types.

He called Wayne Senior. He made the meet. He called Mr. Hoover. He got an aide. He promised news. He promised hard data. Mr. Hoover was out. The aide said he'd find him. The aide called back. The aide said:

Mr. Hoover's busy. Talk to SA Dwight Holly-he's in Vegas now.

Littell agreed. Littell assessed.

Mr. Hoover loves Dwight. Dwight's _his_ assessor. Dwight will see you and assess. Work Dwight/work said assessment/work back to BLACK RABBIT.

A breeze strafed through. Golfers blew shots. Putts blew way wide. Littell brainstormed. Littell watched hole 9.

Work Wayne Senior. Glean data. His union broke laws. His union ignored civil-rights codes. Glean said data. Leak it to Bobby. Maybe now/maybe later/maybe '68.

He'd be free. He'd be "retired." Bobby might run for Prez. Funnel the leaks/buffer the leaks/cloak the source disclosure.

Littell watched hole 9. Wayne Senior played up.

He dumped his approach. He hit the trap. He chipped out wide. He three-putted. He laughed. He left his golf pals.

He walked over brisk. Littell arranged a lawn chair.

"Hello, Ward."

"Mr. Tedrow."

Wayne Senior leaned on the chair. "Things run dense with you. Every word has its meaning."

"I'll state my case briefly. I'll have you back on the tee in five minutes."

Wayne Senior smirked. Wayne Senior grinned aw-shucks.

"I thought we might work at a thaw. We could commiserate over a certain woman and go from there."