Pete smiled. "Nothing happened in Dallas."

A whore walked by. Wayne drifted. Wayne watched the floor. Pete grabbed his chair. Pete jerked it and centered it. Pete killed the floor view.

"Look at me when I talk to you."

Wayne made fists. His knuckles popped. His knuckles seeped.

Pete said, "Don't use your hands. Use your sap if you have to."

"Like Duane Hint-"

"Can it, all right? I've had dead women up to here."

Wayne coughed. "Durfee's good. That's the part that gets me. He's stayed ahead of everyone since Dallas."

Pete chained cigarettes. "He's not good, he's lucky. He came to Vegas like a dumb bunny, and moves like that will get him dropped."

Wayne shook his head. "He's better than that."

"No, he's not."

"He can give me up for Moore."

"Bullshit. It's his word versus yours and no body."

"He's good. That's the part…"

A spook walked by. Wayne eyeballed him. He saw Wayne and blinked.

Pete coughed. "Who owns Sid the Surplus Sergeant?"

Wayne said, "A clown named Eldon Peavy. He named it after some queer buddy of his who died from the syph."

Pete laughed. "He's showing smut films there. Underaged kids, the whole shot. How big a bust is that on his end?"

Wayne shrugged. "The State Code's soft on possession. He'd have to manufacture and sell the films, or coerce and suborn the kids."

Pete smiled. "Ask me why I care."

"I know why. You want to buy out Monarch and relive your fucking Miami adventures."

Pete laughed. "You've been talking to Ward Littell."

"Sure, client to lawyer. I asked him why you take so much shit from me, but he wouldn't give me an answer."

Pete cracked his knuckles. "Bet on Clay. Your boy Sonny needs more time in the gym."

Wayne flexed his hands. "There's a Sheriff's Vice guy named Farlan Moss. He investigates businessmen for people who want to take over their action. He won't fabricate, but if he gets incriminating evidence, he'll turn it over to you and let you use it any way you like. It's an old Vegas strategy."

Pete grabbed a napkin. Pete wrote it down: "Farlan Moss/CCSD."

Wayne twirled his sap. "You've got this weird thing for me."

"I had a kid brother once. Someday I'll tell you the story."

o o o

The Bondsmen vamped. Barb grabbed the mike. She curtsied. Her gown hiked. Her nylons stretched.

Pete sat ringside. A geek had Wayne's seat. Wayne worked late now. Wayne caught Barb haphazard.

Ward said he talked to Wayne Senior. Senior ragged on Junior. Ward passed it on.

Junior was a hider. Junior was a watcher. Junior lit flames. Junior torched. Junior lived in his head.

Barb blew a kiss. Pete caught it. Pete covered his heart. He made two T's-their private signal-do "Twilight Time."

Barb caught it. Barb cued the Bondsmen. Barb kicked the tune off.

He missed her for days on. They kept diverse hours and slept diverse shifts. They stashed a cot backstage. They made love between shows.

It worked. _They_ worked. It wrecked him. It _scared_ him.

Barb watched the news. Barb tracked the Warren thing. Barb nursed Dallas. Barb nursed her link to Jack.

She never said it. He just _knew_. it wasn't sex. It wasn't love. "Awe" said it all. You killed him. The fix held. You killed him and walked.

He played _his_ version. "Fear" said it all. You've got her. You could lose her-per Dallas.

You sweat Fear. You ooze Fear. You test the Fear logic. You know you walked because:

It was _that_ big. It was _that_ audacious. It was _that_ wrong.

You test the logic. You fret it. You show fear. You scare people. You pass your fear on. The wrong people find you and knock.

Barb worked "Twilight Time." Barb caressed the low notes.

Wendell Durfee knocked. Lynette paid. Dead women scared him. Lynette as Barb. Lynette as "Jane."

He saw Lynette's body. He had to. The picture stuck. He conjured it. He banished ft. He dreamed it and tore the sheets up.

Barb kissed off "Twilight Time." Barb did the Mashed Potato. Barb did the Swim.

The spell died. Her fast tunes deep-sixed it. A waiter schlepped a phone up.

Pete cradled it. "Yeah?"

A man said, "Carlos wants to see you."

"Where?"

"De Ridder, Louisiana."

o o o

He flew to Lake Charles. He cabbed to De Ridder. It was wet. It was hot. The heat spawned bugs.

De Ridder was Shit City. Fort Polk stood close. The town lived off Army handouts.

Chicken-fried-steak joints and rib cribs. Beer bars/tattoo parlors/ nudie-mag stalls.

Carlos limo'd up. Pete met him. The local crackers watched. _Dumb_ crackers-gap-mouthed bug-magnets all.

They drove east. They caught red clay and pine bluffs. They looped the Kisatchee Forest.

Pete raised a screen. Pete cut the driver off. Vents pumped cold air in. Dark tint killed the sun.

Carlos bankrolled a camp-forty Cubans total-would-be killer ops. Carlos said, "Let's see my boys." Carlos said, "Let's talk."

They drove. They talked. They passed Klan klonklaves. Carlos ragged the Klan-they hate Catholics-that means they hate _us_.

Pete nixed him-I'm Huguenot-you fucks fucked my kin.

They talked. They rehashed _la Causa_. Tiger Kab and Pigs. LBJ's big walkoff. Carlos brought a bottle. Pete brought paper cups.

Carlos said, "The Outfit's got zero affection for the Cause. Everyone thinks, 'We shot our wad, we lost the casinos, it's spilled milk under the bridge.'"

They hit a rut. Pete spilled X.O.

"Havana was beautiful. Vegas can't hold a candle."

"Littell's got a foreign-casino plan. Everyone's gaga, as well they fucking should be."

They passed Army trucks. They passed signs. Signs ragged the ACL-_Jew_.

Pete said, "The old crew was good. Laurent Guйry, Flash Elorde."

Carlos nodded. "Good narcotics men and good killers. You never doubted their sincerity."

Pete dabbed his shirt. "John Stanton was a good ops man. You had the Outfit and the Agency together."

"Yeah, like that song. 'For one brief shining moment.'"

Pete crushed his cup. "Stanton's in Indochina?"

"Don't be such a Frenchman. They call it Vietnam now."

Pete lit a cigarette. "There's a cab biz in Vegas. I could turn it into a moneymaker for us. Littell wants me to hold off, because the owner's on the license boards."

Carlos sipped X.O. "Don't work so hard to impress me. You're not Littell, but you're good."

o o o

The troops snapped to. Pete paced the line. Pete came to critique and review.

Forty Cubanos-porkers and stringbeans-jail recruits all.

Guy Banister recruited them. Guy knew a cop in John Birch. The cop fudged his jail sheets. The cop freed prospects. Said prospects were pervs. Said prospects were "musicians"-Cugie Cugat manquйs.

Pete walked the line. Pete checked guns. M-ls and M-14s-dead bugs chambered in.

Barrel dust. Mildew. Moss rot.

Pete got pissed. Pete got a headache. The head geek paced the line behind him.

An Army stupe-Fort Polk trash-some kiddie kommando. He ran a Klan klique. He ran a still. He sold oat mash. He supplied alcoholic Choctaws.

The troops sucked poodle dick. The camp ditto.

Quonset huts and pup tents-fucking Boy Scout stock. A "Target Range"-scarecrows and tree stumps. An "Ammo Dump"-made from Lego logs.

The troops snapped to. The troops shot a salute. They fumbled their rifles. They fired off-sync. Eight bolts jammed up.

They made some noise. They roused some birds. Birdshit disinterred and fell.

Carlos bowed. Carlos tossed the donation bag. The head geek caught it and bowed.

"Mr. Banister and Mr. Hudspeth will be coming in soon. They're transporting some ordnance."