Sam scared him. Sam waxed profane. Bobby/cocksucker/rue the fucking day.

Littell prepped his tape-rig. Littell memory-laned.

Chicago, 1960-the Phantom loves Bobby. Chicago, 1965-Bobby lives on tape.

79

(Las Vegas, 7/20/65)

Tiger teemed.

Scribes pressed Sonny-give us quotes-rag that punk Cassius X. Sonny ignored them. Sonny quaffed Chivas. Sonny pawed mink coats.

Donkey Dom stole them. Donkey Dom sold them. Donkey Dom namedropped. I pop fur shops/I bone Rock Hudson/I poke Sal Mineo.

His bun boy sulked. His bun boy griped hypocritical. His bun boy pimped drag queens full-time.

Wayne watched. Barb watched.

Dom shagged calls. His bun boy buzzed drivers. They juked the noon rush. Sonny bought mink mittens. Sonny bought mink jockstraps. Sonny bought mink earmuffs.

A scribe said, "Are those furs hot?"

Sonny said, "Your mama's hot. I'm your daddy."

A scribe said, "Why don't you join the civil-rights movement?"

Sonny said, "Cause I ain't got no dog-proof ass."

The scribes yukked. Wayne yukked. Barb walked out to the lot. She popped pills. She chased them. She chugged flat 7-Up.

Wayne walked out. Wayne braced her in close.

"Pete's rotating back. You start flying the second he's gone."

Barb stepped back. "Think about what _you_ do, and tell me you disapprove then."

Wayne stepped close. "Look who we sell to."

"Look at _me_. Do I look like one of the junkie whores you've created?"

"I'm looking. I'm seeing lines you didn't have a year ago."

Barb laughed. "I've earned them. I've got fifteen years in the Life."

Wayne stepped back. "You're dodging me."

"No. I'm just saying I've been around longer, and I know how things work better than you."

"Tell Pete that. He won't buy it, but tell him anyway."

Barb stepped close. "You're hooked, not me. You're hooked on the Life, and you still don't know how it works."

Wayne stepped close. They bumped knees. Wayne smelled Barb's soap.

"You're just pissed that there's no place in it for you."

Barb stepped back. "You're going to do things that you won't be able to live with."

"Maybe I have already."

"It gets worse. And you'll do worse things, just to prove you can take it."

o o o

Test run:

Four collections. Four junkie deadbeats. Sonny's collection debut.

Said junkies annexed a church basement. Said junkies had squatters' rights. Their pastor skin-popped Demerol. Said junkies geezed up in church.

Wayne drove. Sonny cleaned his nails with a switchblade. Sonny sipped scotch. West LV sizzled. Folks soaked in kiddie pools. Folks lived in air-cooled cars.

Wayne said, "I killed a colored guy in Saigon."

Sonny said, "I killed a white guy in St. Louis."

There's the church. It's dilapidated. It's sandblasted. It's neon-signed. Dig the prayer hands and crosses. Dig the Jesus rolling dice.

They parked. They walked back to the basement door. They picked the lock. They walked in.

They saw four junkies. They're crapped out on car seats-scavenged off old Cadillacs. They saw spoons and matchbooks. They saw spikes and tube ties. They saw bindles and white dregs.

There's a hi-fi. There's some LPs. It's all gospel wax.

The junkies reposed-one per seat-the land of Naugahyde Nod. They saw Sonny. They saw Wayne. They snickered. They giggled. They sighed.

Wayne said, "Go."

Sonny whistled. Sonny stomped. Sonny stormed Naugahyde Nod.

"You motherfuckers have got ten seconds to quit fucking with this house of worship and pay up what you owe."

One junkie giggled. One junkie scratched. One junkie chuckled. One junkie yawned.

Wayne turned on the hi-fi. Wayne flipped a disc. Wayne laid the needle down. It was loud shit. It was ecstatic-Crawdaddy's Christian Chorale.

Wayne said, "Go."

Sonny kicked the car seats. Sonny dumped the junkies. Sonny threw the junkies down. They squirmed. They squealed. They evacuated Naugahyde Nod.

Sonny kicked them. Sonny picked them up. Sonny dropped them. Sonny grabbed the car seats. Sonny aimed. Sonny dropped them on their heads.

They squealed. They screeched. They howled and bled.

Sonny slapped them. Sonny picked their pockets. Sonny tossed pocket trash. One guy turned his pockets out. One guy ran pleas.

Sonny picked him up. Sonny dropped him. Sonny kicked him. Sonny bent down. Sonny caught his pleas.

Sonny stood up. Sonny smiled. Sonny signaled Wayne. Crawdaddy crescendoed. Wayne pulled the plug and walked up.

Sonny smiled. "As of spring, Wendell Durfee was running a string of wetback whores in Bakersfield, California."

80

(Bon Secour, 7/22/65)

Boats:

Charter jobs. Teak hulls and big motors. Forty slips / thirty bare / thirty boats out.

Pete strolled dockside. Pete scoped slip 19. There's the _Ebbtide_. It runs fifty feet. Dig those high gunwales.

Nice shit. Mounted poles and cargo space. Spiffy brass fittings.

A guy worked on deck. He was mid-size. He ran mid-forties. He had a bum leg. He had a bad limp.

It was hot. The air dripped. Clouds densified. Mobile Bay-Shitsville-bait shacks and congestion.

Pete strolled deckside. Pete scoped slip 19.

He traced Jane's call. He flew in. He ran checks. "Dave Burgess" owned the _Ebbtide_. "Dave Burgess" chartered out. "Dave Burgess" knew guys in New Orleans. Add 2 and 2. Add D.B. "Dave Burgess" was Danny Bruvick.

The T C Corp owned the _Ebbtide_. Carlos owned T C. Carlos _was_ New Orleans.

He bribed a cop. He checked phone sheets. He ran phone checks. "Burgess" was good. "Burgess" used pay phones-right of f the dock.

"Burgess" called Carlos. "Burgess" called Carlos frequent. "Burgess" called Carlos four times last month.

Pete walked slip 19. "Burgess" scrubbed fishhooks. Pete stepped on deck. "Burgess" looked up.

He tweaked a bit. He perked a bit. His antennae twitched.

That speargun-_watch_.

"Burgess" reached for it. "Burgess" grabbed. "Burgess" nailed the grip. Pete aimed. Pete kicked out. Pete nailed the grip.

The speargun skittered. "Burgess" said, "Shit."

Pete walked up. Pete grabbed the speargun. Pete popped the spear out to sea.

"Burgess" said, "Fuck."

Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece.

"You're thinking 'Jimmy Hoffa sent this guy,' and you're wrong."

"Burgess" sucked a thumbnail. "Burgess" flexed his hand. Pete checked the boat out. The boat enticed. The boat seduced.

_Nice_: Steel hull/grappling posts/fittings. _Nice_: Hardwood from the Philippines.

"Burgess" flexed his wrist. "She's an old rum-runner. She's got all the-"

Pete pulled his shirt up. Pete showed his piece. Pete pointed belowdeck. "Burgess" stood up. "Burgess" sighed. "Burgess" squared his bum leg and limped.

He wore shorts. Dig his scars. Dig his bullet-pocked knee.

He crossed the deck. He passed the wheelhouse. He took back stairs down. Pete tailed him. Pete scoped details.

Two wheel stands/control posts/full instruments. Teak walls/hall space/rear cabins. Rear engines/rear storage/rear cargo traps.

Pete walked ahead. Pete saw an office: two chairs/one desk/one booze shelf.

He pulled "Burgess" in. He grabbed a chair. He pushed "Burgess" down. He tucked "Burgess" in. He poured a libation.

The boat swayed. Pete sloshed Cutty. "Burgess" grabbed it. "Burgess" drained it. "Burgess" liquor-flushed.

Pete poured a refill. Pete poured big. "Burgess" refueled. "Burgess" sucked Cutty up.

Pete cocked his piece. "You're Danny Bruvick. I'm Pete Bondurant, and we've got some friends in common."