BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: You're a rock, Dwight. I can always count on you to say "Yes, Sir."

BR: I would like to seek more radical means to nullify RED RABBIT. Do I have your permission to bring in a trusted friend and explore the possibilities?

DIR: Yes.

BR: Thank you, Sir.

DIR: Good day, Dwight.

BR: Good day, Sir.

_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 1 / 14/67. Telephone call transcript. Taped by: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: "FBI-Scrambled" /"Stage-1 Covert" / "Destroy Without Reading in the Event of My Death," Speaking: BLUE RABBIT, FATHER RABBIT.

BR: Senior, how are you? How's the connection?

FR: I'm hearing some clicks.

BR: That's my scrambler. The beeps mean we're tap-proof.

FR: We should be talking in person.

BR: I'm down in Mississippi. I can't get away,

FR: You're sure it's-

BR: It's fine. Jesus, don't go cuntish on me.

FR: I won't. It's just that-

BR: It's just that you think he's got superhuman powers, and he doesn't. He can't read minds and he can't tap scrambled frequencies.

FR: Well, still

BR: Still, shit. He's not God, so quit acting like he is.

FR: He's something similar.

BR: I'll buy that.

FR: Did he-

BR: He said yes.

FR: Do you think he knows what we're planning?

BR: No, but he'll be glad to see it happen, and if he thinks it's us, he'll make sure the investigation obfuscates.

FR: That's good news.

BR: No shit, Sherlock.

FR: People hate him. King, I mean.

BR: Those that don't love him, yeah.

FR: What about the bug-

BR: We're A-OK on that front. I talked him into letting me wire sixteen spots. He'll read the transcripts, hear the hate building and get his rocks off.

FR: There's a scapegoat aspect here.

BR: That is correct. Guinea hoods hate coloreds and civil-rights fucks, and they love to talk about it. Hoover hears the hate, the whole thing starts feeling inevitable, pow, then it happens. The whole Mob-hate thing serves to muddy the waters and gets him thinking that it's too big to mess with.

FR: Like Jack Kennedy.

BR: Exactly. It's coming, it's inevitable, it's accomplished and it's good for business. The nation mourns and hates the clown we give them.

FR: You know the metaphysic.

BR: We all went to school on Jack.

FR: How long will it take to get the bugs in place?

BR: About six weeks. You want the punch line? I had Ward Littell do the mounts.

FR: Dwight, Jesus.

BR: I had my reasons. One, he's the best bug man around. Two, we may need him somewhere down the line. Three, I needed to throw him a bone to keep him in the game.

FR: Shitfire. Any game with Littell in it is a game to fix from the get-go.

BR: I threw Hoover a bone. He hates Bobby K. almost as much as he hates King, and he shares all his dirt with LBJ. I had Littell bug one of Bobby's hotel suites.

FR: I'm getting chills, Dwight. You keep dropping the "Mister" off "Hoover."

BR: Because I trust scrambler technology.

FR: It's more than that.

BR: Okay, it's because he's slipping. Why mince words? King's the one guy he wanted to break the most, and King's the one guy he can't break. Here's another punch line for you. Lyle liked King. He worked against him and admired him anyway, and I'm starting to feel the same way. That grandiose cocksucker is a jigaboo for the ages.

FR: I've heard everything now.

BR: No, you haven't. Try this. Hoover's a hophead.

FR: Dwight, come-

BR: That Dr. Feelgood guy flies down from New York every day, on the Bureau's time-card. He gives Hoover a pop of liquid methamphetamine mixed with B-complex vitamins and male hormones. The old boy fades about 1:00 p.m. and perks up like a dog in heat around 2:00.

FR: Jesus.

BR: He's not God or Jesus. He's slipping, but he's still good. We've got to be careful around him.

FR: We need to start thinking about a fall guy.

BR: I want to bring in Fred Otash and Bob Relyea to help us look. I've gotten tight with Otash, he's solid, and he's got juice on the coast. Bob's your rabbit, so you know the score there. That hump knows every expendable race-baiter in the south.

FR: I've got an idea. It might help to facilitate things.

BR: I'm listening.

FR: We should do some hate-mail intercepts on King and the SCLC, to see if we can find a guy who's sent them letters. I know the Bureau's doing mail covers, so I think we should bring in a man to go through the covered mail, photograph it and return it to the covering agent, on the sly.

BR: It's a good idea, if we can find a man we can trust.

FR: My son.

BR: Shit. Don't give me that.

FR: I'm serious.

BR: I thought you and the kid were estranged. He was moving dope with Pete Bondurant, and you two were on the outs.

FR: We've reconciled.

BR: Shit.

FR: You know how he hates coloreds. He'd be perfect for the job.

BR: Shit. He's too volatile. You recall that little run-in I had with him?

FR: He's changed, Dwight. He's a brilliant kid, and he'd be perfect for the job.

BR: I'll buy brilliant. I bought him his first chemistry set in 1944.

FR: I remember. You said he'd figure out how to split the atom.

BR: You've reconciled, you trust him, I concede he'd be good. That said, we don't want him to know what we're building up to.

FR: We'll muddy things. We'll have him cull mail on King, plus one liberal and one conservative politician. He'll think I'm just building my intelligence base.

BR: Shit.

FR: He'll be good. He's the right man for-

BR: I want a wedge. I'll bring him in, as long as we've got something on him. I know he's your son, but I'm still going to insist.

FR: Let's see if we can hand him Wendell Durfee. He's allegedly in L.A., which means I could put my LAPD contacts on him covert. You know what Wayne will do if he finds him.

BR: Yeah. And I could make like I still hate him and squeeze him with that.

FR: It might work. Shitfire, it will work.

BR: Durfee's a long shot. He might take time and we might tap out on him.

FR: I know.

BR: We need to bring in our mail guy within the next six weeks.

FR: I'll bring Wayne in. We'll work on Durfee in the meantime.

BR: That fucks up the wedge aspect.

FR: Not in the long run.

BR: What are you saying?

FR: We don't need a wedge for his mail work. We've got to have one in place when I tell him he'll be there for D-Day.

BR: Jesus Christ.

FR: My son doesn't know it, but he's been waiting his whole life for this.

BR: In your words, "Shitfire."

FR: That about says it.

BR: I've got to go. I want to get some coffee and think this all through.

FR: It's going to happen.

BR: You're damn fucking right it is.

_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 1/26/67. Las Vegas _Sun_ headline: