Pete popped the clip. Pete popped the shells. They bipped and flew.

Peavy smirked. "Want to audition? Kept man or geisha boy, you call it."

Pete said, "Not tonight."

Peavy laughed. "Hey, he speaks."

The desk phone rang. Peavy ignored it. He wiggled his feet. He toecrawled. He nuzzled Pete's thighs.

Pete lit a cigarette. "'The film racket is implemented by Tijuana policemen, who employ and frequently coerce underaged girls.'"

Peavy wiggled his toes. "Shit, you had my hopes up. You know that song? 'Someday he'll come along, the man I love.'"

Pete turned out his pockets. Pete pulled out two hundred G's--new Knotes all.

He dropped said money. He grabbed Peavy's feet. He dropped them desk-adjacent.

"We need your Gaming and Liquor Board votes, and you get to keep a 5% interest."

Peavy pulled a comb. Peavy puffed his spitcurl.

"I know shakedowns and legal forceouts intimately, so go to the next step and say you'll blow up my cabs."

Pete shook his head. "If I go to the next step, you lose the 5%."

Peavy flipped Pete off. Pete yukked. Pete showed him three pix.

Rose Paolucci: in church. Rose Paolucci: blowing a bull mastiff. Rose Paolucci with her uncle--John Rosselli.

Peavy smirked--tee-hee-hee--Peavy focused in.

He went pale. He popped sweat. He tossed his dinner. He doused the switchboard. He soaked the phone. He grabbed the money wet.

Pete snagged the Rolodex. Pete grabbed Milt Chargin's card.

They met at Sills' Tip-Top. They talked shit. They noshed pancakes.

Milt was hip. I'm a comic. I gig local. Call me Mort Sahl unchained.

Milt knew Fred Otash. Milt knew Pete's rep. Milt dug the scandal-rag days. Milt knew Moe D. Milt knew Freddy Turentine. Freddy bugged fag pads for Whisper.

Pete leveled. Pete said I bought Monarch. Pete said I need your help now.

Milt was glad. Monarch was a fruit bowl. Monarch was a fruit cocktail. You need some fruits. The fruit biz rocks. You don't need a froufrou aesthetic.

Pete quizzed Milt. Milt leveled.

He eschewed the fruit scene. He eschewed the smut scene. He eschewed the froufrou aesthetic. He said he'd stay on. He made some suggestions.

Peavy owns the Cavern. That homo hut hops. Let's junket the fruits to and fro. Let's be careful. Let's be cool. Let's live with some froufrou aesthetics.

They talked shit. They discussed Peavy's gigs. Some to eschew/some to enhance/some to revise.

Pete quizzed Milt. Pete said strut your stuff--play Mr. Vegas insider.

"I'm on the Strip, and I want to get laid for a hundred. Where do I go?"

"Try Louis at the Flamingo. He runs a fuck pad on the premises. You get an around-the-world for a C-note."

"Suppose I want dark stuff?"

"You call Al at the chambermaids' union. It's good trim, if you don't mind shtupping in a mop closet."

"Who do I avoid?"

"Larry, at the Castaways. He runs drag queens in the guise of real women. The rule of thumb is, 'Don't trust what won't disrobe.'"

"Suppose I want a three-way with two lezzies?"

"Go to the Rugburn Room. It's a dyke den by day. Talk to Greta, the barkeep. She'll set you up with two femmes for fifty. She'll take pictures and give you the prints and negatives for an extra twenty. You know, souvenirs."

"Sonny Tufts. What's the story on him?"

"He bites showgirls on the thighs. The girls get rabies shots when they hear he's in town."

"John Ireland?"

"Whip-out man with an eighteen-inch schlong. He goes to nudist retreats and plies his trade. He creates lots of excitement."

"Lenny Bruce?"

"Junkie and snitch for the L.A. County Sheriff's."

"Sammy Davis Jr.?"

"Switch-hitter. He digs tall blonds of both persuasions."

"Natalie Wood?"

"Lez. Currently shacked with a WAC major named Biff."

"Dick Contino?"

"Muff-diver and gamble-o-holic. In hock to the Chicago Cartel."

"The best lounge show in Vegas?"

"Barb & the Bail Bondsmen. You think I don't know which side I butter my bread on?"

"Name me one Mormon fat cat. You know, the 'Mr. Big' type."

"How about Wayne Tedrow Senior? He's a dreck merchant with oodles of gelt. His kid killed three shvoogs and walked on the beef."

"Sonny Liston?"

"Drunk, hophead, whore chaser. Pal of the aforementioned shvoog-killer Wayne Tedrow Junior. Jesus, don't get me going on Sonny."

"Bob Mitchum?"

"Grasshopper."

"Steve Cochran?"

"Rival to John Ireland's crown."

"Jayne Mansfield?"

"Shtupping the world."

"Which local cab company handles the men in the State Legislature?"

"Rapid Cab. The State guys have an account."

"What about the top guys at Nellis?"

"Ditto on Rapid. They've got some good fucking accounts."

"Are they Outfit-connected?"

"No, they're just schmucks who play by the rules."

Pete smiled. Pete bowed. Pete displayed ten grand. Milt spilled his coffee. Milt burned his hands. Milt said, "Craaaaazy."

Pete said, "That's your signing bonus. You're my new intelligence man."

DOCUMENT INSERT: 7/14/64. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: "Recorded at the Director's Request" / "Classified Confidential 1-A: Director's Eyes Only." Speaking: Director Hoover, Ward J. Littell.

JEH: Good morning, Mr. Littell.

WJL: Good morning, Sir.

JEH: Describe your southern excursion. I receive updates from my field agents, but I would appreciate a contrasting perspective.

WJL: Mr. Rustin was happy to receive my donation. He appeared to be pleased about the Civil Rights Bill and praised the Bureau's presence in Mississippi.

JEH: Did you correct him and say "forced presence"?

WJL: I did, Sir. I stayed in character and credited President Johnson.

JEH: Lyndon Johnson needs wretched people to love him. He is quite uncliscerning and promiscuous in his need. He reminds me of King Jack and his lack of discernment with women.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I do not share Mr. Johnson's need. I have a pet dog who fulfills my desire for unconsidered affection.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Mr. Johnson and the Dark Prince are determined to make martyrs of those missing youths. The ill-revered Reverend King must feel the same way.

WJL: I'm sure he does, Sir. I'm sure he sees the boys as Christian symbols.

JEH: I do not. I cast the State of Mississippi in the martyr's role. Their sovereignty has been abrogated in the name of dubious "Rights," and Lyndon Johnson has made me a reluctant accomplice.

WJL: I'm sure you'll find ways to make up for it, Sir.

JEH: I will, indeed. You will help me, and you will perform your own acts of penance in an unfathomable and politically suspect manner.

WJL: You know me very well, Sir.

JEH: Yes, and I can decipher your inflections and determine when you wish to change the subject.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I'm listening, Mr. Littell. Ask any question or make any statement you wish.

WJL: Thank you, Sir. My first question pertains to Lyle and Dwight Holly.

JEH: Ask your questions. I find preambles boring and taxing.

WJL: Does Lyle share his SCLC intelligence with Dwight?

JEH: I do not know.

WJL: Is Dwight formally investigating Wayne Tedrow, Senior and/or Junior?

JEH: No, although I'm sure he's keeping tabs on them in his uniquely persistent manner, an activity which I would be loath to discourage.

WJL: I may be co-opting several of Wayne Senior's Mormons.