FR: Make it good news.

BR: We're close, Senior. I've got this feeling.

FR: From your mouth to God's ears.

107.

(Mexico City, 3/26/68)

Show-and-tell: Sam G.'s villa / the rumpus room / drinks with umbrellas.

A valet toiled. Said valet dished hors d'oeuvres. Said valet built gin slings.

Littell ran charts. Littell ran easel graphs. Sam watched. Moe watched. Carlos twirled his umbrella. Santo and Johnny yawned.

Littell jabbed a pointer. "We're getting our prices. Mr. Hughes should have all his hotels by the end of the year."

Sam yawned. Moe stretched. Carlos ate quesadillas.

Littell said, "There's a garbage-hauling business in Reno that I think we should take over first. It's nonunion, which helps. All told, we're on schedule in every area except one."

Moe laughed. "That is vintage Ward. Lay out this big preamble and stop short of the point."

Sam said, "Ward's a cock tease."

Santo said, "Ward dropped out of the seminary. They teach you to string things out there."

Littell smiled. "Mr. Hughes is insisting that we enforce a 'Negro sedation policy' at his hotels. He knows that it's unrealistic, but he's dug in."

Moe said, "The shvartzes need sedation. They're creating too much social unrest."

Sam said, "You don't rape and pillage when you're sedated."

Carlos said, "The sedation concept is stale bread. We're closing down Pete's business."

Littell coughed. "Why? I thought Pete's thing was solvent."

Sam looked at Carlos. Carlos shook his head.

"Solvent is as solvent does. It got us what we wanted, so we're cutting it loose."

Looks passed: Johnny to Santo/Santo to Sam.

Sam coughed. "We're covered in Costa Rica, Nicaragua, Panama, and the D.R. These guys I greased did not need a road map."

Santo coughed. "The U.S. dollar is the international language. You say 'casino gambling' and it paints a big picture."

Johnny coughed. "The U.S. dollar buys influence on both sides of the political line."

Santo coughed. "We've got our bearded pal to thank for that."

Moe looked at Santo. Sam looked at Santo. Santo went oops. The Boys regrouped. The Boys sipped drinks. The Boys snagged hors d'oeuvres.

Littell flipped graph sheets. Littell gauged the gaffe.

They screwed Pete. They screwed Pete per his Cuban deal--somehow. Guns to Castro? Not rightists? Perhaps. They greased leftists--said "Influence"--Pete's usefulness lapsed. Maybe/somehow/perhaps.

I won't tell Pete/they know it/they trust me/they own me.

Sam coughed. Sam cued the valet. Said valet split rapidamente.

Carlos said, "We're still waiting to see if LBJ runs again, but we're 99% committed to Nixon."

Santo said, "Nixon's the one."

Sam said, "LBJ can't change Justice Department policy like a new man can."

Johnny said, "Humphrey's too soft on the spooks. I can't see him or LBJ granting that pardon to Jimmy."

Santo said, "Nixon's the guy. He's a shoo-in for the nomination."

Carlos said, "You sit down with him in late June, Ward. Then you can retire."

Santo smiled. "I know someone else who's going to retire."

Sam smiled. "Yeah, per that little box of goodies we got in the mail."

Looks passed: Carlos to Santo/Moe D. to Sam. Santo flushed. Sam went oops.

The plane soared. Air Mexico--Vegas nonstop.

The summit soared. The Boys vouched his plans--no rebuttals/no controversy. The Boys made gaffes. They were niggling for him. They were troubling for Pete.

They dropped the dope biz. That implied trouble. That implied a pissed Pete. No more Cuban runs or Viet ops--probably.

The plane banked. Littell saw clouds. White puffs laced with grimey debris.

He called Janice. They talked last night. She was scared. Her cramps were worse. She saw a doctor. He ran some tests.

He cited trauma. It went long untreated. It was Wayne Senior's work. It masked her symptoms. It masked internal damage. It was cancer possibly.

She talked scared. She talked strong. She ran litanies: I'm young/it's not that/it can't be. He calmed her down. He said goodnight. He prayed for her. He said rosaries.

The plane leveled off. Littell shut his eyes. Littell saw Bobby.

Bobby announced. Bobby met the press nine days ago. Bobby said I want it. Bobby voiced policy.

Let's end the war. Let's work for peace. Let's end poverty. Domestic reforms. Peace accords. No stated Mob policy.

Prudent Bobby. Sage Bobby. Sound policy.

Barb called him last week. She saw Bobby announce on TV. They talked. They got misty on Bobby.

Barb met Bobby once. It was spring '62. Peter Lawford threw a party. Barb talked to Bobby. Barb liked Bobby then. Barb loved Bobby now. Pete deployed Shakedown Barb. Barb slept with JFK.

Barb laughed. Barb praised Bobby. Barb said he'd kick Dick Nixon's ass. Barb predicted a victory.

A stew walked by. Said stew pushed a snack cart. Littell grabbed a club soda. Littell grabbed the L.A. Times.

He creased it out. He saw war headlines. He flipped the fold. Columns jumped. He saw "Poor People's March"/"planning stages"/"momentum." He flipped to page 2. He saw Bobby.

There's Bobby caught candid. He's standing by a putting green. He's near some bungalows. The backdrop's lush. The backdrop's familiar.

Littell squinted. Wait now, what's-- He saw the pathway. He saw the door. He saw the "301." It's the bungalow. It's the "Mob meet spot." It's his gig for Dwight Holly.

Littell dropped the paper. Thoughts jumped and garbled. The Boys/that gaffe/"box of goodies."

108.

(Los Angeles, 3/30/68)

Death kit: Four hypos / full loads / premixed: Big "H" and Novocain anesthetic.

One .44 mag. One silencer. One roll of duct tape. One paper-bag carryall. One pack of moist towelettes.

We're here. We're at 5th and Stanford. It's Skid Row. It's Bum Hell.

Wayne lounged. Wayne watched the hotel. Wayne jiggled his sack. He stood outside a blood bank. Bums hobnobbed. Nurses culled donors up.

He's there. He's in the Hiltz Hotel. He's in room 402. It's four floors up.

Wayne watched the front door. Wayne savored. Wayne stalled.

He'd rotated south. He hit Bob's kompound. He found it cleaned out. It vibed raid. It vibed heedless. It vibed state cops. Bob had friends. Bob was Fed-vouched. It vibed dumb state cops.

Wayne flew to Vegas then. Wayne checked the Cavern. Wayne picked messages up: Call Pete. He's in Sparta. Call Sonny.

He called Pete. He got no answer. He called Sonny. Sonny was jazzed. Sonny said, "This nigger called me." Sonny cited said nigger source.

Bam: Sonny's guy saw Wendell. Wendell was nom-de-plumed. Wendell's now Abdallah X.

It was warm. It was eighty at noon. Skid Row was crammed up. Winos/amputees on skateboards/he-shes rouged up.

They jostled Wayne. Wayne felt zero. Wayne felt ate up. His skin buzzed. He rode eggshells. His bloodstream froze up.

He walked over.

He walked through the front door. He passed bums in the lobby. He passed a TV cranked up.

'68 Novas! Buy now! Se habla espanol at Giant Felix Chevrolet!

A wino convulsed. Wayne dodged his legs. Wayne took side stairs up. He lost his feet. He lost his legs. He fought gravity.

He hit the fourth floor landing. He saw the hallway. He saw wood doors inset.

He passed 400. He passed 401. He hit 402. He touched the knob. He turned it. The door popped.

He's right there. He's backlit. You've got window light. There's Wendell in a straight-back chair. There's Wendell with a short-dog.

Wayne stepped inside. Wayne shut the door. Wayne almost threw up. Wendell saw him. Wendell squinted. Wendell grinned all fucked up.

Wayne stood there.

Wendell said, "You looks familiar."

Wayne stood there.

Wendell said, "Give me a hint."

Wayne said, "Dallas." Wayne almost threw up.

Wendell slurped wine. Wendell looked bad. Wendell wore injection welts. Wendell wore needle tracks.

"That's a good hint. Makes me think you a certain husband with a grievance. I've fucking widowered more than a few of them, so that narrows it down somewhat."

Wayne scoped the room. Wayne saw empty short-dogs. Wayne smelled wine upchucked.