"I was hoping it would. Young men like you get all sorts of dubious overtures, but this is certainly not one of them."

Paul dumped his overcoat. Paul untied his scarf.

"Senator Kennedy gets the overtures, not me."

Littell smiled. "That's not what I meant, son."

"I got your meaning, but I chose to ignore it."

Littell sprawled. Littell drummed the table.

"You look like Andrew Goodman, that poor boy who died in Mississippi.', "I knew Andy at the COFO School. I almost went down myself."

"I'm glad you didn't."

"Are you from there?"

"I'm from De Kalb. It's a smidge between Scooba and Electric Mills."

Paul sipped tea. "You're some sort of lobbyist, right? You knew you couldn't get to the senator, so you thought you'd find yourself an ambitious young aide."

Littell bowed--courtly/tres South.

"I know that ambitious young men will risk looking foolish and go out on a snowy night on the off-chance that something is real."

Paul smiled. "And you're 'real.'"

"My documents are wholly real, and one thorough reading will convince you and Senator Kennedy of their authenticity."

Paul lit a cigarette. "And yours?"

"I claim no authenticity, and would prefer that my documents speak for themselves."

"And your documents pertain to?"

"My documents pertain to misdeeds perpetrated by members of organized crime. I will supplant the initial batch with subsequent parcels and deliver them to you in discreet bunches, so that you and/or Senator Kennedy can investigate the allegations at your leisure and your discretion. My only requirement is that there be no public disclosure pertaining to any information I give you until late 1968 or early 1969."

Paul twirled his ashtray. "Do you think Senator Kennedy will be President or President-elect then?"

Littell smiled. "From your mouth to God's ears, although I was thinking more of where I'll be then."

Wall vents popped. The heat came on. Littell broke a sweat.

"Do you think he'll run?"

Paul said, "I don't know."

"Does he remain committed to the fight against organized crime?"

"Yes. It's very much on his mind, but he feels uncomfortable going public with it."

Littell popped sweat. His tweeds broiled. His faux beard slipped. He splayed his hands. He cupped his chin. It played effete. It stopped the slip.

"You can depend on my loyalty, but I would prefer to remain anonymous in all our transactions."

Paul stuck his hand out. Littell passed the notes.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/8/67. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript (OPERATION BLACK RABBIT Addendum.) Marked: "Recorded at the Director's Request"/"Classified Confidential 1-A: Director's Eyes Only." Speaking: Director, BLUE RABBIT.

DIR: Good afternoon.

BR: Good afternoon, Sir.

DIR: I read your memo. You attribute the failure of a Stage-2 operation to faulty condensor plugs.

BR: It was a technical failure, Sir. I would not blame Fred Otash or BIG RABBIT.

DIR: The blameworthy one is thus Fred Threntine, the reptilian "Bug Man to the Stars," a lowly minion of Otash and BIG RABBIT.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: I gain no succor from foisting blame on a hired hand. I gain only dyspeptic fury.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: Give me some good news to allay my agitation.

BR: Otash was very good on the post-op. He leaned on Mineo and warned him to keep quiet. I would strongly suggest that PINK RABBIT will not risk personal ridicule or bad publicity for the SCLC by going public with word on the shakedown.

DIR: I was looking forward to the film. Bayard and Sal, O bird thou never wert.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: Let's discuss CRUSADER RABBIT.

BR: He did a superb job on the installations, Sir.

DIR: Did you have him spot-tailed?

BR: On three occasions, Sir. He's tail-savvy, but my men managed to sustain surveillance.

DIR: Expand your answers. I have a lunch date in the year 2010.

BR: CRUSADER RABBIT was not spotted doing anything remotely suspicious.

DIR: Besides installing illegal bug-mounts at our behest.

BR: Including Bobby Kennedy's place in Santa Barbara, Sir.

DIR: Thrillingly ironic. CRUSADER bugs his savior and my bete noire. Unwitting complicity of a high order.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: How long will it take to recruit men to man the listening posts?

BR: A while, Sir. We've got sixteen locations.

DIR: To continue. Update me on WILD RABBIT.

BR: He's doing well, Sir. You've seen the results. We keep getting mail-fraud indict-- DIR: I know what we keep getting. I know that we do not come close to getting anything remotely resembling satisfaction in the matter of one Martin Luther King, aka RED RABBIT, aka the Minstrel Antichrist. Our attempts to dislodge him and subsume his prestige have consumed tens of thousands of man-hours and have garnered nil results. He has turned us into dung beetles and rare, indigenous African birds who peck through elephant shit, and I am woefully sick and tired of waiting for him to discredit himself.

BR: Yes, Sir.

DIR: You're a rock, Dwight. I can always count on you to say "Yes, Sir."

BR: I would like to seek more radical means to nullify RED RABBIT. Do I have your permission to bring in a trusted friend and explore the possibilities?

DIR: Yes.

BR: Thank you, Sir.

DIR: Good day, Dwight.

BR: Good day, Sir.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 1 / 14/67. Telephone call transcript. Taped by: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: "FBI-Scrambled" /"Stage-1 Covert" / "Destroy Without Reading in the Event of My Death," Speaking: BLUE RABBIT, FATHER RABBIT.

BR: Senior, how are you? How's the connection?

FR: I'm hearing some clicks.

BR: That's my scrambler. The beeps mean we're tap-proof.

FR: We should be talking in person.

BR: I'm down in Mississippi. I can't get away, FR: You're sure it's-- BR: It's fine. Jesus, don't go cuntish on me.

FR: I won't. It's just that-- BR: It's just that you think he's got superhuman powers, and he doesn't. He can't read minds and he can't tap scrambled frequencies.

FR: Well, still BR: Still, shit. He's not God, so quit acting like he is.

FR: He's something similar.

BR: I'll buy that.

FR: Did he-- BR: He said yes.

FR: Do you think he knows what we're planning?

BR: No, but he'll be glad to see it happen, and if he thinks it's us, he'll make sure the investigation obfuscates.

FR: That's good news.

BR: No shit, Sherlock.

FR: People hate him. King, I mean.

BR: Those that don't love him, yeah.

FR: What about the bug-- BR: We're A-OK on that front. I talked him into letting me wire sixteen spots. He'll read the transcripts, hear the hate building and get his rocks off.

FR: There's a scapegoat aspect here.

BR: That is correct. Guinea hoods hate coloreds and civil-rights fucks, and they love to talk about it. Hoover hears the hate, the whole thing starts feeling inevitable, pow, then it happens. The whole Mob-hate thing serves to muddy the waters and gets him thinking that it's too big to mess with.

FR: Like Jack Kennedy.

BR: Exactly. It's coming, it's inevitable, it's accomplished and it's good for business. The nation mourns and hates the clown we give them.

FR: You know the metaphysic.

BR: We all went to school on Jack.

FR: How long will it take to get the bugs in place?

BR: About six weeks. You want the punch line? I had Ward Littell do the mounts.

FR: Dwight, Jesus.

BR: I had my reasons. One, he's the best bug man around. Two, we may need him somewhere down the line. Three, I needed to throw him a bone to keep him in the game.

FR: Shitfire. Any game with Littell in it is a game to fix from the get-go.