Dwight winked. "I was talking to him this morning. I proposed a job for you, pending my assessment."

"Which is?"

"That you're a fucked-up liberal who disapproves of bugs and wiretaps, but loves to install them anyway. That you wouldn't mind bugging sixteen Mob joints for us, just so you can stay in the game."

Littell tingled. "Quid pro quo?"

"Sure. You plant the wires. You get out. We don't tell you where the listening posts are. You deny Bureau complicity if you get caught, and you win points with Mr. Hoover."

Littell said, "I'll do it."

The door blew open. Smells blew in: burnt pizza/spilled blood/ice cream.

_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 12/3/66. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. (OPERATION BLACK RABBIT Addendum.) Marked: "Recorded at the Director's Request"/"Classifled Confidential 1-A: Director's Eyes Only." Speaking: Director, BLUE RABBIT.

DIR: Good morning.

BR: Good morning, Sir.

DIR: Start with Le Grand Pierre, henceforth to be known as BIG RABBIT.

BR: He's in, Sir. Along with Fred Otash and Freddy Turentine.

DIR: Has he recruited his bait?

BR: He has, Sir. He'll be using a homosexual actor named Sal Mineo.

DIR: I'm delighted. Young Mineo was boffo in _Exodus_ and _The Gene Krupa Story_.

BR: He's a talented youth, Sir.

DIR: He is talented and given to Greek proffigacy. He has indulged numerous liaisons with male movie stars, among them James Dean, the "Human Ashtray."

BR: BIG RABBIT has chosen well, Sir.

DIR: To continue.

BR: BIG RABBIT has a wedge on Mineo, which he declines to reveal. He wants him protected if he's arrested by an outside agency. I think BIG RABBIT is buying himself protection, too.

DIR: He's buying, we're selling. I would be delighted to protect BIG RABBIT and young Mineo.

BR: I gave BIG RABBIT a fact sheet for Mineo to memorize. We want him to be able to convince PINK RABBIT that he's a civilrights zealot.

DIR: That will be no great stretch. Actors are morally decentered and psychically unhinged. They cling to their scripts of the moment with great verve. It fills their voids of emptiness and allots them the will to exist.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: To continue. Describe your meeting with CRUSADER RABBIT.

BR: To start, I'll finally have to concede that he's just as gifted as you've always contended. That said, I don't know how trustwortby he is, or isn't, for that matter. He seemed sincerely shocked when I mentioned my brother's alleged leaks to Bobby Kennedy and the Judiciary Committee, but he may have calculated his response in advance.

DIR: Do you remain convinced that your brother did not write that "Confession"?

BR: More than ever, Sir. Although now I'm starting to think that it was not CRUSADER RABBIT. I think there's a fair chance that it could have been someone within the SCLC, who had a private investigator or someone of that ilk sweep and find the bugs and taps, and then decide to capitalize on my brother's death and send in the "Confession."

DIR: I will concede the possibility.

BR: I think your basic assessment of CRUSADER RABBIT is valid, Sir. He lives for intrigue, he'll betray his moral convictions for the chance to do high-level ops, and he's trustworthy and exploitable within a limited sphere.

DIR: Did you offer him the chance to install the bugs?

BR: I did, Sir. He accepted immediately.

DIR: I thought he would.

BR: I'm glad you approved my proposal, Sir. Public opinion has turned against electronic surveillance, and we need organizedcrime wires in place.

DIR: I would amend your statement. We need covertly planted, deniable bugs monitored by handpicked agents in place.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: How did you describe the assignment?

BR: I said sixteen cities, Stage-2 Covert. I mentioned Mike Lyman's Restaurant in Los Angeles, Lombardo's in San Francisco, the Grapevine Tavern in St. Louis, and a few others.

DIR: Did you mention the stately El Encanto Hotel in Santa Barbara?

BR: I did, Sir.

DIR: How did CRUSADER react?

BR: He didn't. He obviously has no idea that Bobby Kennedy keeps a suite there.

DIR: The attendant irony delights me. CRUSADER RABBIT bugs Prince Bobby's hotel digs. He's convinced the suite belongs to a prince of organized crime.

BR: It's a pisser, Sir.

DIR: CRUSADER RABBIT is an entrenched Bobbyphile. You're sure that he has no knowledge of Bobby's suite?

BR: I'm certain, Sir. I've got the manager in my pocket. He told me that Bobby's policy is never to reveal that he stays there. He'll let CRUSADER in to do his work, and he'll make sure that Bobby's personal belongings are temporarily removed.

DIR: Salutary.

BR: Thank you, Sir.

DIR: We need access to Bobby. I'm convinced that he'll form an unholy alliance with RED RABBIT.

BR: We're covered on the Bobby front, Sir.

DIR: As we'll be on PINK front, assuming that young Mineo is convincingly fetching.

BR: He will be, Sir. We hired queer to entrap queer, which should pay off in the end.

DIR: I want a duplicate copy of the film. Have it processed the morning after the fund-raiser.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: Make two copies. I'll give Lyndon Johnson one for his birthday.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: Good day, Dwight. Go with God.

BR: Good day, Sir.

100

(Las Vegas, 12/5/66)

Wayne picked the lock.

He worked two picks. He tweaked the bolt. He jiggled hard right. Deadbeat patrol/room 6/Desert Dawn Motel.

Sonny said, "Motherfucker's got two last names. Sirhan Sirhan."

The door popped. They stepped inside. Wayne toed the door shut. Check the four-wall dump-site.

Soiled bed. No rugs. Horse-race posters/jockey silks/racing forms stacked.

Sonny said, "Motherfucker's a track nut."

The room smelled. Scents mingled. Spilled vodka and stale chink. Stale cheese spread and cigarettes.

Wayne checked the dresser. Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne sifted junk. Acne swabs/booze empties/cigarette butts.

Sonny said, "Motherfucker's a pack rat."

Wayne pulled drawers. Wayne perused. Wayne sifted junk. Racing forms and tip logs. Scratch sheets and hate tracts.

Cheap-paper tracts. _Non_-Wayne Senior stock. Text and cartoons-anti-Jew stuff.

Dollar-sign skullcaps. Bloody prayer shawls. Fangs dripping pus. "The Zionist Pig Order"/"The Vampire Jew"/"The Jewish Cancer Machine." Jews with claw hands. Jews with pig feet. Jews with scimitar dicks.

Wayne skimmed text. Said text waxed repetitious. The Jews fucked the Arabs. The Arabs vowed payback.

Sonny said, "Motherfucker don't like the hebes."

The text rambled. Typos reigned. Longhand margin notes crawled. "Kill Kill Kill!"/"Death to Israel!"/"Zionist Pig-Suckers Must Die!"

Sonny said, "Motherfucker's got a grievance."

Wayne dropped the tracts. Wayne shut the drawers. Wayne kicked a chair back.

"We'll give him two hours. He owes Pete a grand and change."

Sonny chewed a toothpick. "Barb split on Pete. Frankly, I seen it coming.

"Maybe I got to her."

"Maybe Pete's evil ways did. Maybe she said, 'Quit selling hair-o-wine to Sonny's fellow niggers or I'll leave your white ass, you honky motherfucker."

Wayne laughed. "Let's call her and ask."

"_You_ call. You the motherfucker who's in love with her and too mothertucking scared to say boo."

Wayne laughed. Wayne chewed his nails. Wayne tore a nail back.

The Pete thing hurt. Pete bruised his balls. Pete trimmed his balls back. He was wrong. Pete was right. He knew it.

He called Wayne Senior. They talked. Wayne Senior pledged Work. "Good work"/"in time"/"soon." He might take it. He might not. He owed Pete rotations: Saigon/Mississippi/the funnel.