"EX4-2881."

"Please hold. I'll connect you."

The line buzzed-long-distance coming-static popped and clicked. Littell looked around. Littell saw Lyle. Lyle's at a crap table. Lyle's stacking chips.

The shooter rolls. Lyle slaps his forehead. Lyle says, "Oh, shit."

Static clicked. The call clicked in. Mr. Hoover said, "Yes?"

Littell said, "It's me."

"Yes? And the purpose of this unsolicited contact?"

"White Rabbit suggested a meeting. He arrived at the Desert Inn drunk. He's running up a casino debt with SCLC money."

The line fuzzed. Littell cleared the cord. Littell slapped the receiver. There's Lyle. Lyle's at the cage. Lyle's ecstatic. Lyle's got more chips.

Reds-high stacks-maybe ten G's.

The line fuzzed. The line popped. The line cleared.

Mr. Hoover said, "Cut off his credit and get him out of Las Vegas immediately."

The line fuzzed. The call faded. Littell heard hang-up clicks. There's Lyle. Lyle's at a crap table. Lyle's in a crowd. Lyle's stacking chips.

Sammy Davis bows. Sammy Davis prays. Sammy Davis rolls the dice. The crowd cheers. Lyle cheers. Sammy Davis genuflects.

Littell walked over. Littell pushed his way in.

Lyle crowded Sammy. Lyle played Sammy's foil. Sammy goofed on the white freak. He winked at a blonde. He flicked lice off his coat. He went ick.

Red chips down-pass-line bets-all Lyle's money. Good money-Lyle's up twenty G's.

Sammy gets the dice. Sammy holds them out. Lyle blows wet kisses. Sammy goofs on Lyle-he's a Rat Pack reject-the crowd genuflects.

Sammy rolls. Sammy hits 7. Lyle hits forty G's. The crowd cheers. Lyle hugs Sammy. Sammy grabs the dice.

Lyle blows on them. Lyle drools on them. Lyle genuflects. Sammy pulls a handkerchief. Sammy makes entertainment. Sammy wipes said dice.

Sammy rolls. Sammy hits 7. Lyle hits eighty G's. The crowd cheers. Lyle hugs Sammy. Lyle snuffs his cigarette.

Sammy grabs the dice. Lyle shoves up close. Sammy steps way back. The blonde horns in. Sammy grabs her. Sammy rubs the dice on her dress.

The crowd laughs. Lyle says something. Littell caught "coon" or "kike."

Sammy rolls. Sammy makes 9. Sammy craps dead out. Sammy shrugs-life's a crapshoot, baby. The crowd claps and laughs.

The dealer raked in-all Lyle's chips-big ten grand stacks.

Lyle killed his drink. Lyle dropped his glass. Lyle sucked cracked ice. The crowd dispersed. Sammy walked. The blonde chased his back.

Lyle walked. Lyle staggered. Lyle lurched. Lyle navigated. Lyle tried handholds. Lyle grabbed at slot-machine racks.

He lurched. He made the cage. Littell cut in sidelong. Littell mimed _cut him off_. Lyle bumped the window. The cashier shook his head. Lyle kicked a slot machine rack.

Littell grabbed him. Littell steered him. Littell walked him half-slack. Lyle went limp. Lyle tried to talk. Lyle blathered mumbo-jumbo.

They crossed the floor. They got outside. They made the parking lot. Hot skies-blowtorch time-dry Vegas heat.

Lyle passed out. Littell hauled him-dead weight.

He picked his coat pockets. He checked his billfold. He got his address and car stats: Merc coupe/'61/CAL-HH-492.

Littell looked around. Littell saw the car. Littell lugged Lyle Holly slack. Lyle was small-one-forty tops-slack weight but light.

He made the car. He rolled down the windows. He rolled Lyle in and made him comfy. He pushed the seat back.

o o o

L.A.-five hours tops.

Lyle would sleep in his car. Lyle would rouse. Lyle would rouse in the DI lot. Lyle gambled compulsive. Lyle knew the drill:

First they vet you. Then you lose. Then they check your money.

Lyle lost his own coin. Lyle lost the SCLC's. The DI calls fast. The SCLC stops payment. Lyle lives in D.C. Lyle lives in L.A. Casino collectors move. Said collectors hit L.A. first.

Said collectors break laws routinely. Said collectors seize assets. Said collectors kick ass.

Littell drove. His car overheated. Littell drove I-10 west.

He gauged time. He knew booze regimens. He knew pass-outs and wake-ups. He knew pass-out stats.

Three hours-four tops. Lyle wakes up/Where am I?/Oh fuck.

The desert torched. Heat rays jumped. The heat gauge swerved. Littell made Baker. The heat ebbed. Littell made San Berdoo.

He made Redlands. He made Pomona. He made L.A. He drove onehanded. He read street maps. He logged a route.

Lyle lived on North Ivar. It was downscale Hollywood-a cul-de-sac chute.

He ditched the freeway. He took side streets. He looped through Hollywood. There-North Ivar/2200.

Small houses. Sun-scorched awnings. Drab pastel paint. 7:10/summer dusk/quiet.

A cul-de-sac. An end-of-block barrier: a fence and a cliff.

Littell cruised slow. Littell read curb plates. Littell read numbers. Lyle's house-there:

2209. Brown lawn. Peach paint weather-stripped.

He parked two doors down. He got out and popped his trunk. He grabbed a crowbar. He walked up. He looked around. He saw no eyeball wits.

Hardwood door/strong jambs/good fittings.

He worked the crowbar. He tapped the jamb. He leaned hard. He made slack. He wedged his blade in.

He pushed. He shoved. He applied. Wood cracked. Wood splintered. Wood sheared.

He regripped. He rewedged. He snapped the bolt. He popped the door. He stepped inside and shut himself in.

He brushed the walls. He tripped switches. He got lights.

WHITE RABBIT's den:

Dusty and musty. Beaten-down bachelorized.

Living room. Kitchen. Side doors. Gag wall prints-dogs at card games and dogs in black tie. Faux-leather couches. Faux-leather ottomans. Fauxleather chairs.

Littell prowled. Littell checked the kitchen. Littell checked the bedroom and den.

Old fixtures. Cold cuts and liquor. Ratty drawers and cupboards. Undusted shelves.

More prints-dogs at stag nights and dogs ogling chicks.

One desk. One file drawer. Please: No wall panels or safes.

Now: _Trash it first_.

Littell put gloves on. Littell grid-worked. Littell trashed systematic.

He dumped drawers. He scattered clothes. He stripped the bed. He found a German Luger. He found Nazi flags. He found Nazi hats. He bagged them in a pillowcase. They played burglar swag.

He found a Nazi dagger. He found Krugerrands. He found a Jap knife. He bagged them in a loose sheet. They played burglar swag.

He popped the fridge. He dumped the cold cuts. He dumped the booze. He swung the crowbar. He ripped up the couches. He sliced up the chairs.

He dumped the kitchen cabinet. He found a Mauser pistol. He found a Nazi knife. He bagged them in a paper bag. They played burglar swag.

He swung the crowbar. He ripped up floorboards. He tore up wall beams.

Now: the desk and file drawer.

He walked back. He tried them. They were unlocked.

He went through them. He bagged bills. He bagged letters. There: one file extant.

It was folder-sealed. It was doodled up. Lyle drew Nazi maidens and shivs.

It was marked. It was circled: "Marty."

o o o

He drove south. He got out of Hollywood. He found a trash bin. He dumped Lyle's swag.

Don't go home-Jane's there-find a motel.

He cruised south. He found a place on Pico. He booked a one-night room. He locked himself in. He skimmed Lyle's bills. He read Lyle's letters.

Bland: Phone bills/gas bills/second-mortgage strife. Flyers from gun shows/notes from ex-wives.

Slow now-here's "Marty."

He opened the folder. He saw typed notes-sixteen pages singlespaced.

He skimmed through. He got the gist. Dr. King plans. Dr. King plots. Dr. King _schemes_.

The intro-WHITE RABBIT verbatim: