A new man spoke. Static fizzed his words. Littell heard his garbled "Hoover and King."

Bobby said, "Hoover's scared. He knows King's got balls like J.C."

38

(Las Vegas, 2/10/64)

Monarch rocked.

The noon rush / mucho calls / ten cabs out. The hut rocked-Eldon Peavy had guests.

Sonny Liston. Four bad-boy jigs. Conrad the Congoites or Marvin the Mau-Maus.

Pete watched.

He dipped his seat. He ran the heat. He did arithmetic. Peavy had twenty cabs. Peavy ran three shifts. Add airport runs and deadheads.

The hut rocked. A driver hawked fur coats. The Mau-Maus mauled them. Sonny fanned a roll. Peavy peeled bills off.

The Congoites capered. They fondled fur. They manhandled mink. They chewed up chinchilla.

Sonny looked bad. The Clay fight boded. Sonny had the odds. Sam G. demurred. Sam liked Clay. Sam said Sonny had habits.

It was cold. Brrr-Vegas winters. Pete shivered and goosed the heat.

Texas was cold. Florida ditto. He just got back from his trip. He didn't find Hank K. He didn't find Wendell Durfee. He traveled alone. He schemed a trifecta.

Plan A: Find and clip Hank. Plan B: Detain Durfee. Plan C: Bring Wayne in to kill him.

No tickee/no washee. No find/go seek.

He got back. He called Ward. He pitched him: I want to buy Monarch Cab. Ward nixed it. Ward said don't bid. Ward said don't extort ownership.

We _need_ Peavy. We need his _votes_. Don't scotch his gaming-board status. Sage fucking advice-Ward Littell-style.

Pete skimmed the radio. Pete watched the hut. Peavy quaffed gin. The Mau-Maus quaffed scotch-and-milk. Sonny dumped capsules. Sonny made lines. Sonny sniffed powder up.

Peavy walked out. Sonny strolled with him. The Congoites conga'd. They slurped milk. They grew white goatees. Spooks called scotch-and-milk "pablum."

A stretch pulled up. The crew piled in. The stretch pulled out. Pete tailed it slow.

The stretch hooked west. The stretch stopped quick. There-the Honey Bunny Casino.

Peavy got out. Peavy walked in. Pete idled back. Pete scoped the window.

Peavy hit the chip cage. Peavy bought play chips. The cage man filled a sack. Peavy walked out. Peavy jumped in the stretch. The stretch pulled out fast.

Pete tailed it. It cut west. It stopped mucho quick. There-Sugar Bear Liquor.

Five whores ran out-darkies all-prom gowns and heels.

They piled in the stretch. They huffed hard. The windows fogged up. The stretch wiggled and bounced.

Said whores _worked_.

The axle scraped. The shocks creaked. The undercarriage shimmied. Two hubcaps popped off and rolled.

Pete laughed. Pete fucking roared.

The whores piled out. The whores giggled and wiped their lips. The whores waved sawbucks.

Pete flashed on the dead whore. Pete smelled the torched trailer.

The stretch pulled out. Pete tailed it. They cut west. They hit West Vegas. They went in _waay_ deep. There-Monroe High School.

The back gate was down. The bleachers were packed. A banner read: Welcome Champ!

Full house:

Colored kids-two hundred strong-this big schoolday treat.

The stretch parked on the football field. Pete idled by the gate. Pete kicked his seat back.

Sonny got out.

He weaved. He waved the chip sack. He faced the kids and swayed blotto. The kids cheered. The kids chanted "Sonny!" Some geek teachers watched.

The kids yelled. The kids banged their seats. The teachers guuulped. Sonny smiled. Sonny swayed. Sonny said, "Pipe down."

The kids cheered. Sonny swayed. Sonny yelled: "Shut up, you punk motherfuckers!"

The kids shut up. The teachers cringed. Sonny dished inspiration.

Study hard. Learn good. Don't rob no liquor stores. Play to win and go to church. Use Sheik-brand rubbers. Watch me whup Cassius Clay. Watch me kick his punk Muslim ass back to Mecca.

Sonny stopped. Sonny bowed. Sonny pulled a flask. The kids cheered. The teachers clapped demure.

Sonny waved his sack. Sonny grabbed play chips. Sonny tossed them wide.

The kids snatched them. The kids snared them. Kids bumped kids. Kids reached short. Kids fell on kids below.

Sonny tossed chips-big wads-dollar chips all. Kids reached high. Kids toppled. Kids engaged in fistfights.

Sonny raised his flask. Sonny waved bye-bye. Sonny jumped in the stretch.

The stretch pulled out. Pete U-turned and tailed it. Kids shrieked Champ bye-bye!

The stretch hauled. Pete hauled up close. They tore speed limits. They cut east and south. They hit downtown Vegas.

Traffic snarled. The stretch looped Fremont. The stretch braked and stopped.

There-

A parking lot. An army-navy store-Sid the Surplus Sergeant.

The crew piled out. The crew yukked and huddled. The crew piled in the backdoor. The driver waved-adios, Mau-Maus-the stretch vamoosed.

Pete parked. Pete locked his car. Pete dawdled and ambled up. Pete braced the backdoor.

He ambled in. He cut through a storeroom. He pushed through peacoats on racks. He saw crates/cartons/trench tools. He caught a cosmoline stench.

He hit a hallway. He heard sounds. He followed titters and love grunts-aaooooo!

He ambled. He tracked the noise. He crouched and crept. He saw a cracked door and peeked in.

Stag-flick time. A bedsheet screen and a projector. Lez antics-young girls entwined.

The Mau-Maus tittered. Peavy yawned. The girls ran fourteen tops. Sonny cracked a red devil. Sonny powdered a palm. Sonny sniffed the shit up.

The girls strapped on dildoes. A donkey appeared. El Burro wore _diablo_ horns.

Pete walked outside. Pete found a pay phone. Pete called the Stardust book. He placed a bet-forty grand-Clay over Liston.

o o o

The Deuce rolled low-nickel slots/bingo/shots-and-beer.

The dealers wore sidearms. The bar served jar brew. The cocktail chicks whored. The Deuce pandered low. You had oldsters and wetbacks. You had more spooks than Ramar of the Jungle.

The lounge supplied a floor view. Pete lounged and sipped club soda. Pete watched the floor show.

A geez pulls his air tube. He's ninety-plus. He smokes a Camel. He hacks blood. He sucks oxygen. Two fruits lock eyes. Said fruits strut green shirts. Green shirts are fruit semaphore.

Two jigs lurk. They're snatch-and-run guys. Dig their gym shorts and sneakers. Wayne walks up. Wayne wears a belt sap. Wayne wears handcuffs.

He taps the jigs. They share a look-woe-is-f uckin'-me.

Wayne slaps them. Wayne kicks them. Wayne grabs their conk napes and shoves them. They get the picture. They evict themselves-We Shall _Not_ Overcome.

Pete clapped. Pete whistled. Wayne turned and saw him. He walked up. He swiveled a chair. He nailed a floor view.

Pete said, "I didn't find him. I think he's down in Mexico."

"How hard did you look?"

"Not that hard. I was looking for a guy in Florida, mostly."

Wayne flexed his hands. Knuckle cuts oozed.

"We could teletype the _federales_. They could put out their own APB. We could pay them to hold him for me."

Pete lit a cigarette. "They'd kill him themselves. They'd lure you down there, steal your money, and kill you."

Wayne watched the floor. Pete tracked his eyes. There-one coon/one whore/unruly shit pending-

Wayne stood up. Pete grabbed his belt. Pete yanked him back down.

"Let it go. We're having a conversation."

Wayne shrugged. Wayne looked aggrieved. Wayne looked fucking deprived.

Pete glanced around. "Does your father own this place?"

"No, it's Outfit. Santo Trafficante has points."

Pete blew smoke rings. "I know Santo."

"I'm sure you do. I know who you work for, so I've put that much of Dallas together."