Barb smiled. "You're getting ready to snow me. I can tell."

"Here's the good part. The Boys want to scuttle the biz, the funnel, and the whole operation. I'm going along with it."

Barb shook her head. "If that was most of it, you'd be smiling."

"You're right. There's mo-"

"I know there's more, I know it's bad, so tell me."

Pete gulped. Pete swallowed. Pete choked his gum back.

"Part of it went bad. I've got to pick Wayne up in Vegas and make one more Cuban run. I need you to hole up somewhere until it's over and I cut some kind of deal with the Outfit."

Barb said, "No."

Boom-case closed-like that.

Pete gulped. "I'll dump Tiger Kab and the Cavern then. We'll go someplace else."

Barb said, "No."

No drumroll-no pause-no inflection.

Pete gulped. "I can finesse it. There's some risk, sure, but I wouldn't do it if I didn't think the Boys would buy my explanation."

Barb said, "No."

No fanfare-all deadpan-no shit.

Pete gulped. Pete coughed his gum up.

"If I don't pay this off, the word will go out. The wrong guys will think, 'He knew the story and let it all go.' They'll start thinking I'm weak, which will cause us trouble somewhere down the line."

Barb said, "No. Whatever _it_ is is bullshit, and you know it."

No recourse-I _know_ you-that's that. No tears yet-tears pending-eyes wet.

Pete said, "I'll be back when it's over."

o o o

Charter flight: La Crosse to Vegas. Junket geeks/smoky cabin/cramped seats.

The geeks were insurance men. The geeks were Shriners and Moose. They drank. They swapped hats. They cracked jokes.

Pete tried to sleep. Pete fucked with IT.

He'd called Stanton. He called loooong distance. He called Saigon to Bay St. Louis. He brought up the Cuban run. He said I want to go. Please let me say adios.

Stanton said yes.

He mopped up in Saigon. He laid cover tracks. He bought weapons. He fixed the warehouse window. He worked on the QT. He installed new glass/new mesh. He called Mesplиde. He said _I'll_ handle it. He said _I'll_ breach the breach.

He bought three guns: one Walther and two Berettas. He bought three silencers. He bought three inside-the-pants rigs.

Booty. Swag. Cars/furs/watches/antiques. THE BIG FUCKING LIE revealed.

The flight bumped. They ran low-pressure sweeps. The junket geeks pawed the stews. The junket geeks laughed. The junket geeks preached.

Pro-war stuff. All clichйs. We can't pull out. We'll forfeit Asia. We can't look weak.

Pete shut his eyes. Pete _heard_ the geeks. Pete _saw_ home movie flicks.

There's Betty Mac. It's visit twelve million. There's Chuck the Vice Freak. There's Barb. She says, "No"-eyes working on tears.

We stand firm. We bong the Cong. We never surrender. We stomp the peace freaks.

It droned on. It went stereophonic. He tried to sleep. He failed. He fought this exhaustion. He got this idea:

Fuck it all. Fuck it now. Forfeit the kadre kode breach.

o o o

The plane touched down. Pete got off. Pete walked to Air Midwest.

He bought a ticket. He splurged. He booked first-class to Milwaukee/ connector to Sparta/two flights one-way.

He had a layover. He had four hours to kill.

He walked to the gate lounge. He schlepped his gun bag. He sprawled across four seats. He fell. It was soft and dark. He had newspapers as sheets.

o o o

He opened his eyes. He saw ceiling lights. He saw Ward Littell. Ward had his ticket. Ward flicked the edge.

"You were going back. Barb will like that."

Pete sat up. His newspaper sheets fell.

"Jesus, you scared me."

Ward cleaned his glasses. "Barb called. She said you were going south on some insane errand, and could I stop it."

Pete yawned. "And?"

"And I put a few things together and called Carlos."

Pete lit a cigarette. It was 6:10 now. His flight left at 7:00.

"Don't stop there. I want to see where this is going."

Ward coughed. "Part of it is from Carlos, part of it I put together my-"

"Jesus, just tell-"

"Carlos is cutting off your business. It was part of a ruse to get weapons to Castro, so that he could funnel them to rebels in Central America. It all played into my foreign-casino plan, and I never knew anything about it."

Fill-in/paint-by-number/link-the-dots diverse. Stanton and Carlos/the fake funnel/the BIG LIE complete.

"It was a shuck, Ward. The whole thing."

"I know."

"Bob Relyea. What about-"

"He dropped his Klan gig and went off on another operation. Wayne's working with him, and Carlos said that's all he knows."

Pete grabbed the ticket. Ward grabbed it back.

"You flew to Saigon. You put some things together. I'm going off what you told Barb."

Pete grabbed his bag. The guns rubbed and scraped.

"You're leading me. You talked to Barb, you talked to Carlos, you found me. Let's start there."

Ward squared his glasses. "Carlos learned that Stanton, Guйry, and Elorde have been skimming off his portion of the profits. He actually _wants_ you to take them and their Cuban contacts out. He said if you do that and another 'small favor' he'll retire you."

A speaker popped. Flight 49-nonstop to Milwaukee.

"Do you think he means it?"

"Yes. They want to clean this thing up and move on."

Pete checked the gate. The flight crew stood there. Baggage carts rolled.

"Call Barb. Tell her I almost came home."

Ward nodded. Ward crumpled the ticket.

"There's one more thing."

"What's that?"

"Carlos wants you to scalp them."

110

(Memphis, 4/3/68)

Rabbits:

WILD RABBIT. RED RABBIT. DEAD RABBIT soon.

Wayne pulled curbside. Wayne parked. Wayne watched the New Rebel Motel.

The Mustang pulled up. Fred O. walked over. The shooter got out. There's skinny Fred O. He's starved to look different. There's skinny Jim Ray. He's starved off crystal meth.

They laughed. They huddled. Fred O. passed the box. It was long and bulky It contained a 30.06.

Hi-end scope. Geared for soft-point bullets. Contact spread/blunt impact/bad for ballistic IDs.

Jimmy had his rifle. Bob had the same one. Fred O. had rifle 3. It was one-shot test-fired. It was print-smeared by Jimmy.

D-day was tomorrow. Jimmy might shoot. Jimmy might punk out. Bob _will_ shoot instead.

Fred O. ran Jimmy. Fred O. said he'd shoot. Fred O. was sure.

The Plan:

There's a rooming house. It's a wino pad. It's across from the Lorraine Motel. King's at the Lorraine. He's in room 306. It's off a balcony. There's a wino pad vacancy. Fred O. made sure. Fred O. held said flop for a week.

He "checked in." He stayed away. He'll "check out" tomorrow. Jimmy will check in. He'll get that room. It's near a bathroom perch-site.

He might shoot. He might punk out. Thus Bob shoots instead.

There's a brush patch by the wino pad. It supplies cover. It supplies trajectory. The wino pad runs back to Main Street. The Lorraine's on Mulberry.

Jimmy shoots. Jimmy exits-way _off_ Mulberry. He wipes his rifle. He drops the rifle. He drops it in a doorway.

Fred O. lurks near. Fred O. grabs the rifle. Fred O. drops rifle 3. It's print-smeared. It's smeared by Jimmy. It's smeared by transparency.

Jimmy splits. Jimmy drives to the safe house. Wayne's waiting there. It's a cheap apartment. It's furnished.

With booze empties/dope baggies/needles. With white powder/dope fits/crystal meth.

With a suicide note-forged by Fred Otash.