BR: It's redundant. The mail teams dust the incomings. Everything's been wiped by the time he sees it.

FR: Shitfire. My boy's a chemist. He sprays the pages with some goop called ninbydrin and brings up partial prints all the time. He said he's working out his technique, and one of these days he'll be able to bring up completes.

BR: Okay. He's good. You've convinced me.

FR: And he's careful.

BR: He'd better be. We do not want it known that outside eyes saw that mail.

FR: I told you. He's care-

BR: What about prospects?

FR: None so far. All he's got are a bunch of lunatics who sound like they're one step ahead of the net.

BR: Bob's got a prospect. We might not need Wayne's help on that end.

FR: Bob should have told me. Shitfire, I'm his runner.

BR: You're his Daddy Rabbit. There's things he won't tell you for just that reason.

FR: All right. You tell me.

BR: The guy escaped from the Missouri State Pen in April. Bob knew him when he worked as a guard there. They were jungled up in Bob's right-wing foolishness.

FR: That's all you've got?

BR: Bob's pouching me a memo. I'll forward it to you.

FR: Shit, Dwight. You know I've got a veto on this.

BR: Yeah, you do, and we won't use the guy unless we both agree that he's perfect.

FR: Come on. You owe me more-

BR: He's on the lam. He was afraid to stay at Bob's compound, so he split to Canada. Bob's got a line on him. If we agree that he's the guy, I'll send Fred Otash up to work him.

FR: Hands-on? I thought we'd bring in some cutouts.

BR: I made Freddy lose 60 pounds. He was tall and heavy, now he's tall and thin.

FR: He looks different.

BR: Completely. He's Lebanese, he speaks Spanish, we can pass him off as some kind of beaner. Bob said the prospect is malleable. Freddy eats up that kind of guy.

FR: You like the guy.

BR: He's a strong prospect. Read the memo and let me know what you think.

FR: Shit. This is taking time.

BR: All good things do.

FR: Someone might beat us to it.

BR: If they do, they do.

FR: What's Mr. Hoover been-

BR: He's afraid that Marty and Bobby will team up. It's all he talks about. BLACK RABBIT's been up in the air since the shakedown flopped. Hoover knows I'm "exploring more radical means," but he hasn't asked me a single question about it since I made the proposal.

FR: That means he knows what you're planning.

BR: Maybe, maybe not. Second-guessing the old poof gets us nowhere.

FR: Dwight, Jesus.

BR: Come on. Remember what I told you? He can't read minds and he can't patch scrambled calls.

FR: Still.

BR: What about Durfee? Have your LAPD guys turned up anything?

FR: Nothing. They've got covert bulletins out, but they haven't got a single goddamn bite.

BR: First we've got to find him. Then we've got to rig it so Wayne doesn't know that we're handing him up.

FR: That's easy. We stiff a call through Sonny Liston, who's allegedly got people out looking for Durfee, not that that impresses-

BR: I want that wedge. I'm not bringing Wayne any closer without one.

FR: I owe him Durfee. I have a debt to repay to him, and Durfee will settle it.

BR: I'll put my sources on him. Between yours and mine, we might hit.

FR: Let's try. I owe Wayne that.

BR: I'm glad I never had any kids. They end up killing unarmed Negroes and pushing heroin.

FR: The Gospel According to Dwight Chalfont Holly.

BR: Enough. Let's discuss ops money.

FR: I'm in for two hundred cold. You know that.

BR: Otash wants fifty cold.

FR: I'm sure he's worth it.

BR: Bob's putting in a hundred.

FR: Shitfire. He hasn't got that kind of money.

BR: Are you sitting down?

FR: Yes. Why-

BR: I was down in New Hebron. I saw Bob dipping the numbers off some flamethrowers he was getting ready to route to the Gulf. They had triple-zero prefixes, which I just happened to know designates CIA-disbursement lots. I asked Bob about it. He lied, which was the wrong thing to do under the circumstances.

FR: You're talking Swahili, Dwight. I've got no idea where this is going.

BR: I leaned on Bob. He gave it up.

FR: Gave what up?

BR: His Cuban gun-running gig is nothing but a shuck. Carlos Marcello and that CIA guy John Stanton cooked it up. The guns have been going to Castro sources inside Cuba, with Marcello's best wishes. The Outfit's been sucking up to Castro, so he'll help them implement some plan they've got to plant casinos in Latin American countries. Castro's got juice with leftist insurgents in the countries the Outfit's looking at, and he's sending them the guns that Bob and the other guys smuggle in. That way, if the lefties implement takeovers in their countries, they'll let the Outfit in. If they don't take over, the Outfit will grease the right-wing guys still in power.

FR: I'm seeing visions, Dwight. I'm seeing all the Latter-day Saints.

BR: It gets better.

FR: It couldn't. And you don't need to warn me not to tell Wayne, because we both know this would drive the boy insane.

BR: The Outfit's covered on both ends. Castro's sacrificed Xnumber of Militia troops to the venture, because Bondurant, Wayne and their guys have been boating in and taking scalps with impunity. Castro's making money, it's worth a few Soldiers of the Revolution in the long run, it all goes to fuel the Commie agenda in Latin America.

FR: Dwight, I'm flabber-

BR: Stanton and the other CIA guys involved have been kicking back Bondurant's dope profits to an Agency source. He's been supplying Bob with CIA disbursement weaponry, which fucking Bob has been passing off as ordnance stolen from armory heists and Army pilferings. Stanton and Marcello have diverted millions in profit overflow, and they've paid Bob and these guys Laurent Guery and Flash Elorde percentage cuts to work the scam from the beginning. Only Bondurant, your son, and some guy named Mesplede think the whole thing is for real. They're the stupes and the true believers.

FR: My lord. All the Saints and the Angel Moroni.

BR: Bob's socked away a hundred cold. He'll kick it into our operation, if we let him shoot or play back-up to our fall guy.

FR: I wouldn't deny him. Not after a story like that.

BR: He's in, then. He kept all that covert for years, so I think we can trust him.

FR: We've got to keep this quiet. If Bondurant or my son find out, it all hits the-

BR: I've got Bob's balls. He won't talk to anyone else.

FR: Dwight, I should.

BR: Yeah, go. Have a drink and talk to your saints.

FR: Visions, Dwight. I mean it.

BR: I almost went into civil law. Can you believe it?

_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 8/12/67. Pouch communiquй. To: FATHER RABBIT. From: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: "Eyes Only"/"Read and Burn."