Pete gripped his glass. Pete snapped the rim. Ice chips spritzed and spewed. He grabbed a napkin. He blotted blood. He stanched cut residue.

Stanton leaned in. "I cut Mesplиde loose. I'm selling Tiger Kamp to Mr. Kao, and I'm leaving for the States tomorrow. I'm going to disband the Mississippi end of the team and make one last Cuban run to pacify Fuentes and Arredondo."

Pete squeezed his napkin. Scotch burned the cuts. Glass shards worked through.

Stanton said, "We did what we could for the Cause. There's some consolation there."

o o o

Cab stakeout 2. 6:00 a.m./the Montrachet cab line/heat and cab fumes.

Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete ran logic through: Stanton's disbanding/Stanton's regrouping/Stanton's kutting kadre kosts and konnektions.

Pete yawned. Pete got zero sleep. Pete prowled bars past 2:00. Pete found Mesplиde. He was pissed and drunk. He was fried on his frog ass boocoo.

Stanton sacked him. Mesplиde raged-_le cochon_/_le putain du monde_.

Pete gauged Mesplиde. Mesplиde gauged sincere. Mesplиde gauged non-Stantonite. Pete rigged a test. Pete rigged a tour.

They drove by the dope cribs. They saw cabs pull up. They saw GIs walk out. They saw GIs bop zombified.

Mesplиde was shocked. Mesplиde vibed _trиs_ sincere and _trиs_ horrified. _On va tuer le cochon. Le cochon va mourir_.

Pete said yes. Pete amended. Pete said Die Tough.

It was hot. It was a.m.-sticky. The dash fan puffed. Pete hunkered low. Pete watched the door. Pete chewed Turns.

6:18. 6:22. 6:29. Fuck, this could go on-

There's Stanton.

With a suitcase. Errands first? _Then_ the airport?

Stanton got a cab. The cab pulled out. The cab pulled out slow. Pete nudged his driver-tail that cab fast.

The driver gunned it. A cab cut him off. The driver swung around fast. Tu Do was busy. Gun trucks goosed traffic chop-chop.

Stanton's cab cut south. Pete's cab bird-dogged it. Pete's cab stuck two car lengths back. A rickshaw cut in. A coolie lugged cargo-tail cover boocoo.

Traffic slowed. They drove south. They bopped toward the docks.

Pete's cab goosed the rickshaw. The driver rode his horn. The coolie flipped him off. Pete sighted in. Pete watched Stanton's cab antenna. It wiggles/it weaves/it tracks good.

They hit the docks. Pete saw warehouse blocks. Pete saw Ioooong buildings laid out. Stanton's cab braked. Stanton's cab stopped. Stanton got out.

The rickshaw passed him. Pete's cab passed him. Pete ducked and looked back. Stanton grabbed his suitcase. Stanton walked. Stanton unlocked a warehouse.

He did it mock-cool. He looked around. He stepped in. He pulled the door shut.

Stanton's cab waited. Pete's cab U-turned. Pete's cab parked down the block. Pete swiveled the fan. Pete ate hot air and watched.

Time the visit. Do it now. Run your time clock.

Pete checked his watch dial. The second hand swept. Six minutes/nine/eleven.

Stanton walked out. Stanton still had his suitcase. Stanton locked the door up.

He shagged his cab. He stretched and yawned. The cab took off northbound-toward Tan Son Nhut.

Pete paid his driver. Pete got out and walked. The cab peeled off.

The warehouse stretched. It ran two football fields plus. One story/ one steel door. Side walkways adjacent. Mesh-covered windows inset.

Pete pushed the buzzer. Chimes ricocheted. No footsteps/no voices/no peephole slid back. Two walkways. Side windows. No witnesses out.

Pete cut south. Pete hit the near walkway. Pete took his coat off.

He found a window. He flexed his hands. He peeled the mesh back. His bad hand tore. Glass specks got reimbedded.

He made a fist. He wrapped it up. He made a coat-fabric glove. He punched out the window. Glass blew inward.

He hauled himself up. He squeezed through the frame space. He rolled to the floor. His hand throbbed. He squeezed blood out. He patted the wall. He caught a switch. Lights went on-two football fields plus.

He saw a space. He saw a floor. He saw _merchandise_. He saw swag. He saw rows and rows. He saw piles and piles.

He walked. He touched. He looked. He counted. He inventoried. He saw:

Sixty boxes stuffed with watches-pure gold waist-high. Mink coats dumped like trash-forty-three piles hip-high. Six hundred Jap motorcycles-laid side to side. Antique furniture-twenty-three rows stretched wide.

New cars-parked side by side. Thirty-eight rows/twenty-two cars per/stretched out lengthwise.

Bentleys. Porsches. Aston-Martin DB-5s. Volvos/Jaguars/Mercedes.

Pete walked the rows. Pete ID'd booty. Pete saw export tags attached. Point of shipment: Saigon. Point of entry: U.S.

Kall it easy. Kall it kold. Kall it dead:

Swag. Black-market-purchased. Non-U.S-derived. Swag from Europe/Great Britain/the East.

Stanton ran the gig. His CIA pals helped. They bootjacked kadre money. They laundered it. They glommed luxury shit.

Stanton's disbanding. They ship the goods now. They ship duty-free. The Boys help them. Carlos walks point. They resell near-retail. Carlos takes points. Carlos pays the Stanton guys. Cold millions accrue.

The dope plan. The funnel. Cash for the Cause. Wrong-the Cause was THIS.

Pete walked the warehouse. Pete kicked tires. Pete smelled leather seats. Pete flicked antennas. Pete buffed rosewood. Pete fondled mink.

THIS.

He tracked logic. He looked for loopholes. He got none.

_And_:

Stanton stopped here. Stanton lugged in his suitcase.

_Why?_

He dropped something off. He picked something up.

_Which?_

Pete walked the walls. Pete tapped the walls. Pete tapped whole cement. No wall panels or hidey holes-shit.

Pete checked the floor. Pete looked for chipped paint. Pete looked for off-color streaks. Pete got whole cement/solid/no streaks.

Pete checked the ceilIng. It was solid cement. No patches/no caulking/no streaks.

No bathroom. No storerooms. No closets. Four walls/one looooong strrrretch/two football fields plus.

_Something_ was _somewhere_. Something was _here_.

Cars/minks/watches. Motorcycles/antiques. It's a day's work. It's needle meets haystack. It's do It anyway.

He walked the rows. He plowed watch piles. He dug through mink. He grabbed. He touched. He fished.

Forty-three piles/sixty boxes-shit.

He walked the rows. He popped antique drawers. He rifled and dipped.

Twenty-three rows-shit.

His stomach growled. Hours flest No food and no fucking sleep.

He checked the motorcycles. He opened saddle bags. He popped gas caps and peeked.

Six hundred bikes-shit.

He checked the cars. He checked row by row. He checked twenty-two times thirty-eight.

He popped hoods. He popped glove compartments. He popped trunks. He checked under rugs. He checked engine mounts. He checked under seats.

Porsches first. Bentieys next-shit.

The space went dark. He worked by touch. Volvos/Jaguars/DB-5s. He got the feeL He worked fast-Braille by necessity

Five models down. One left: Mercedes.

He hit the top row. He braced the first car. He snapped the hood. He touched the valve covers. He touched the air cleaner. He brushed a cylinder ledge.

Wilt-feel the bump-Braille by necess-

He felt the bump. He felt tape. He pulled. Something tore loose. Said something was textured and flat.

Rectangular. Paged. A long book.

He grabbed it. He reached up and popped a wind wing. He tapped the key and headlights. Good kraut autowerk-fog lIghts beamed out.

He got down. He turned pages. He read by fog light. One crosscolumned listing ledger-names/money/dates.

Key dates. Back to late '64. The kadre ops Inception.