Janice rubbed her appendix scar. Janice tossed her hair.

Her breasts swayed. Her hair tousled. She raised steam. She dripped sweat. She smiled. She licked a finger. She wrote "Junior" on the mirror.

55.

(Dallas, 9/21/64)

Jim Koethe was queer.

He bolstered his crotch. He prowled fag bars. He brought boys home. Home was Oak Cliff--bumfuck Big D. Home was the Oak View Apartments.

Three floors. Outside walkways. All courtyard and streetside views.

Pete hogged a bus bench. Pete watched the pad. Pete carried a treat bag. 1:16 a.m.--fruit alert.

Koethe had a date. Koethe poked his dates for two hours. Pete knew Koethe. Pete knew Koethe's routine.

Wayne read the Dallas papers. Wayne passed a clip on. It pertained to Koethe's "book." It pertained to Koethe's pal Maynard Moore. Pete flew to Dallas. Pete tailed Koethe. Pete played scribe. Pete called Koethe's editor.

The guy ragged Koethe. Koethe was a jack-off. Koethe was Mr. Pipe Dream. Sure--they went to Ruby's crib. Sure--they talked to his roommate. But--the talk was all bullshit. The talk was all jive.

Conspiracy--shit. Read the Warren Report.

The guy was convincing--but--Jim Koethe knew Maynard Moore.

A bus pulled up--some late-night express. Pete waved it on.

He killed four days. He tailed Koethe. He grooved Koethe's routine. Koethe loved the Holiday. Koethe loved Vic's Parisian. Koethe loved Gene's Music Room. Koethe sipped sidecars. Koethe prowled the johns. Koethe buzz-bombed young flesh.

Oak Cliff was the shits. Oak Cliff was a ghost zone. Betty Mac/Ruby's pad/the Oswald-Tippit tiff.

Koethe's date walked out. Koethe's date walked bowlegged. He swished by the bench. He checked Pete out. He went uugh and swished away.

Pete put his gloves on. Pete grabbed his treat bag. Koethe lived in 306--one light extant.

Pete took the side stairs. Pete walked up slow. Pete checked the walkways. No outdoor noise/no indoor noise/no visible wits.

He walked over. He braced the door. He tapped the knob. He popped the lock-catch. He opened the door. He walked in. He saw a dark room. He caught sounds and shadows.

Shower noise--down a side hall--off a doorway. Steam and light at that spot.

Pete stood still. Pete strained his eyes. Pete got indoor sight. He saw a living room--office. He saw file drawers. He saw a kitchenette.

Down the hall: A bathroom and bedroom.

Pete dropped his treat bag. Pete crouched. Pete walked down the hall. The shower stopped. Steam whooshed out. Jim Koethe walked through it, He wore a towel. He turned right. He walked into Pete.

They bumped. Koethe went EEK! Koethe went butch. Koethe snapped to some martial-arts pose.

His towel fell. His equipment dangled. He wore a dick extender. He wore cock rings.

Pete laughed. Pete came in low.

Koethe kicked. Koethe missed. Koethe stumbled and tripped. Pete kicked him. Pete nailed his nards good.

Koethe jackknifed. Koethe re-posed. Koethe tried some karate shit. He flailed. He threw fists. He positioned.

Pete judo-chopped him. Pete nail-raked his face.

Koethe screamed. Pete grabbed his neck. Pete held it and snapped it. Pete felt his hyoid bone shear.

Koethe gurgled. Koethe spasmed. Koethe choked on bile. Pete picked him up. Pete re-snapped his neck. Pete threw him in the shower.

He stood there. He caught his breath. He got a Godzilla-rate headache. He popped the medicine chest. He found some Bayer's. He popped half a tin.

He prowled the pad. He dumped his treat bag. He dropped treats on rugs and chairs: Dildoes/reefers/bun-boy boox/Judy Garland LPs.

His headache dimmed--Godzilla to King Kong. He found some gin. He dosed it more--King Kong to Rodan.

He searched the pad. He tossed the pad. He faked a B&E. He trashed the bedroom. He trashed the kitchen. He searched the file sleeves. He found clips. He found notes. He found a folder marked "Book."

Sixteen pages/typed text. Conspiracy--shit.

Pete skimmed the file. The story wandered. The gist cohered.

Wendell Durfee was a "dumb pimp." He was "too dumb to kill Maynard Moore." Moore had a temp job. Moore had a partner: Wayne Tedrow Junior/LVPD.

Koethe knew Sergeant A. V. Brown. Sergeant Brown said: "There was bad blood between Moore & Junior. They got in a ruckus at the Adolphus Hotel. Moore allegedly failed to show up for a meeting with Junior. I think Junior killed him, but I've got no proof."

Koethe knew a Fed man. Koethe quoted said Fed: "Tedrow Senior ran snitch-Klan informants. Maynard Moore reported to him, so I think it's a hell of a coincidence that Moore and Tedrow Junior got assigned together that weekend."

Koethe riffed: Moore knew J. D. Tippit. They were "Klanned-up." Moore knew Jack Ruby. Moore dug on the Carousel Club.

Koethe riffed off Ruby. Koethe quoted a "Secret Source": "Jack brought some people by this safe house where the hit team was holed up. It might've been North Texas or Oklahoma, and it might've been some kind of motel or a hunting lodge. I think it was Jack and two women and maybe Hank Killiam. I think they saw some things they shouldn't."

Koethe riffed. Koethe listed Jack Ruby KAs. Starred names: Jack Zangetty/Betty McDonald/Hank Killiam. Koethe listed footnotes--newspaper-sourced: Jack Zangetty disappears--Xmas '63. Jack washes out of Lake Lugert. Betty McDonald/suicide--2/ 13/64. Hank Killiam/suicide--3/ 17/64.

Jim Koethe--verbatim: "Who was the other woman at the safe house?"

Koethe riffs. Koethe thinks the "hit team" disbanded. "They had to leave Dallas. They might have crossed the Mexican border." Koethe secures a "Border-Patrol Source." Said source secures a passport-stop list.

The dates: 11/23--12/2/63.

Koethe works the list. Koethe taps "Secret Sources." Koethe runs 89 names. Koethe nails "a major suspect."

Jean Philippe Mesplede/white male/age 41. Born: Lyon, France. Ex--French Army/ex--OAS trigger.

Mesplede has "right-wing ties." Mesplede has "ties to Cuban exile groups." Mesplede's current address: 1214 Ciudad Juarez/Mexico City.

The pro shooter was French. Chuck Rogers said so. Chuck said he walked over the border.

Pete skimmed pages. The text decohered. Koethe's logic went south.

Let's link Oswald and Ruby. Let's link Oswald and Moore. Let's link Lady Bird Johnson. Let's link Karyn Kupcinet.

Pete skimmed pages. Shit decohered. Let's link Dorothy Kilgallen. Let's link Lenny Bruce. Let's link Mort Sah!.

Pete skimmed pages. Shit recohered--FUCK-- There's a mug shot. It's file exhibit A. It's Kansas City PD sourced--3/8/56.

It's Arden-Jane. Arden Elaine Bruvick then. Felony bounce--"Receipt of Stolen Goods."

One mug shot. Attached notes. "Confidential" tips: Jack Ruby's bookkeeper splits Dallas. Her name is Arden Smith. She went to the safe house. She saw things she shouldn't. She split Big D. for good.

Koethe worked the name "Arden." Koethe logged tips and tapped sources. This guy knew that guy. That guy knew this. A guy glommed a mug shot. Some guys glommed some tales.

Such as: Arden went through men. Arden had a husband. Said hubby was a Teamster. Said hubby ran the K.C. local.

Said hubby had accounting skills. Said hubby went to school in Mississippi. Said hubby was anti-Hoffa. Said hubby stole some Teamster funds.

Arden was bent. Arden trucked with whores. Arden was tight with two sisters: Pat and Pam Clunes.

The Arden notes stopped. The "Book" notes stopped. The file deadended. Pete felt dizzy. Pete took his pulse--1-fucking-63.

He bagged the file. He checked the drawers. He checked bookshelves and cabinets. No duplicates/no stash of loose clips.

He retossed the crib. He grid-searched it. He re-retossed it. He detossed it quick.

He trashed. He tidied. He worked fast. He worked fastidious.

He tossed the medicine chest. He restacked the shelves. He debuilt and rebuilt the toilet. He tapped the walls. He pulled up rugs. He laid them back straight. He slit-checked the chairs. He slit-checked the sofa. He slitchecked the bed.

No slits. No stash holes. No duplicates extant. No stash of loose clips.

He popped some Bayer's. He chased them with gin. He dredged up some guts. Queers overkilled queers. It was standard cop wisdom. All cops knew it.

He got a knife. He stabbed Jim Koethe ninety-four times.

South--80 miles per hour plus.

He took I-35. He cut through shit suburbs. He smelled like blood and gin. He smelled like Jim Koethe's shampoo.

He passed rest stops. He passed campgrounds. He saw kids' swings and bar-b-que pits. A car laid back--ten car lengths--it spooked him.

He ran tail riffs. He ran no-tail riffs. 4:00 a.m.--one highway/two cars.

His headache rehit. It built and mushroomed. King Kong greets Rodan.

He saw a camp sign. He pulled down a ramp. He saw a grill pit and tables. He nosed up. He killed his lights. He worked in the dark.

He dumped Koethe's file. He filled the pit. He siphoned gas and doused it. He lit a match and got a big whooooosh.

The flames built. The flames leveled off. The heat torqued his headache. It was monster. It was Godzilla-plus. It was the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Pete ran to his car. Pete swerved up the ramp. Pete hit the highway. Let's ditch Big D. Let's sedate forever. Let's eat secobarbital. Let's geez hair-o-wine.

That car laid back. It's a spaceship. The driver's King Kong. He's got Xray eyes. He knows you killed Koethe and Betty.

Pete got dizzy. The windshield vaporized. It's a porthole/it's a sieve. The road dropped. It's an inkwell. It's the Black Lagoon.

The Creature bit his head. Pete puked on the wheel.

There's a ramp. It's dropping. There's a sign: HUBBARD, TEX, POP 4001.

Japs. Slice cords. Betty Mac. Slant eyes/crossbars/capris.

It came. It went. Roads dropped. Roads resurfaced. Ink blots and lagoons.

He came. He went. He felt Frankensteined. Sutures and staples. Green walls and white sheets.

Behold the Body Snatchers. Behold Doc Frankenstein: You're lucky. A man found you. It's been five days now. God must love you--you cracked up near St. Ann's.

Doc had acne scars. Doc had halitosis. Doc had a drawl.

It's been six days. We cut a fat pad from your head--it was benign. I bet you had some darn bad headaches.

Don't worry now--that man in the car called your wife.

They brought him back.

Frankenstein came. Frankenstein went. Nuns fluttered and fussed. Don't hurt me--I'm Protestant French.