"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."

o o o

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 зa_.

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)

Tour time:

The DI sub-penthouse. Big Drac's sub-lair. Littell as tour guide. Dwight Holly as tourist.

Look:

There's the blood pumps. There's the drips. There's the freezers. There's the candy. There's the pizza. There's the ice cream. There's the codeine. There's the meth. There's the Dilaudid.

Dwight loves it. Dwight yuks. Dwight offends Mormons. Said Mormons scowl at said Fed.

Big Drac's incursion-now one week in.

The legislature waives anti-trust laws. The legislature delivers-go, Drac!

Buy the Dl. Buy the Frontier. Buy the Sands. Buy big! Buy _laissez-faire!_ Buy the Castaways. Gorge yourself. Buy the Silver Slipper.

Littell cracked windows. Dwight looked out. Dwight saw nuts with signs: "We love H.H.!"/"Wave to us!"/"Hughes in '68!"

Dwight laughed. Dwight tapped his watch-real business now.

They walked. They trekked hallways. They bagged a storeroom. File boxes hemmed them in.

Littell pulled his list out. Moe prepped it last night.

"Skim couriers. Easy litigations by any and all standards."

Dwight faked a yawn. "Expendable, buffered, non-Mormon couriers that divert heat from Dracula and ingratiate you with Mr. Hoover."

Littell bowed. "I won't dispute it."

"Why should you? You know we're grateful, and you know we'll prosecute."

Littell creased the list. Dwight grabbed it. Dwight dropped it in his briefcase.

"I figured you'd try to softsoap me about Lyle. The 'you lost a brother, I lost a friend' routine."

Littell coughed. "It was fifteen months ago. I didn't think it was fresh on your mind."

Dwight squared his necktie. "Lyle was doubling. He leaked some antiBureau shit to the House Judiciary Committee and Bobby Kennedy. Mr. Hoover had to pull a few bugs."

Littell went slack-jawed. I don't believe it! Littell made big eyes.

Dwight said, "Lyle, the closet liberal. It took some getting used to."

"I could have helped you."

Dwight laughed. "Yeah, you wrote the book."

"Not completely. You know I'd rather scheme against liberals than be one."

Dwight shook his head. "You _are_ one. It's this fucked-up Catholic thing you've got going. You love high-level ops, you love the great unwashed, you're like the fucking Pope ashamed that his church makes money."

Littell roared-Blue Rabbit-_mon Dieu!_

"You flatter me, Dwight. I'm not that complex."

"Yeah, you are. It's why Mr. Hoover enjoys you. You're Bayard Rustin to his Marty King."

Littell smiled. "Bayard has his own ambiguities."

"Bayard's a piece of work. I ran surveillance on him in '60. He poured Pepsi-Cola on his Cheerios."

Littell smiled. "He's King's voice of reason. King's been pushing on too broad a front, and Bayard's been trying to restrain him."

Dwight shrugged. "King's a bullet. It's his time, and he knows it. Mr. Hoover's getting old, and he's letting his hatred show in the worst possible ways. King orates and pulls his Mahatma Gandhi shit, and Mr. Hoover plays in. He's afraid that King will team up with Bobby the K., which as fears go has its merits."

Blue Rabbit shows insight. Blue Rabbit shows balls. Blue Rabbit doubts Mr. Hoover.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Dwight tugged his necktie. "On the King front, zero. Mr. Hoover thinks you were too close to Lyle's death and that Bogalusa bombing."

Littell shrugged-_moi?_-how _could_ he.

Dwight smirked. "You want back in. You got cut out of BLACK RABBIT, and it's galling you."

Littell smirked. "I'm wondering why Mr. Hoover had you pick up the list, when I could have airtelled it."

"No, you're not. You know he sent me to gauge your line of shit and decode your dissembling."

Littell sighed-how _passй_-you _know_ me.

"I miss the game. Tell him that for a fucked-up liberal, I'm on his side."