Fred Otash wrote. Fred had no Arden dope. Fred had no dope on D. Bruvick. Queries out/will continue/will update as told.

Barb wrote. Barb wrote vignettes. Her thoughts jumped. Her handwriting jerked.

I'm up. I'm down. I sleep odd hours.

"Not our odd hours. Not where we met & made love going & coming to bed."

She saw Ward. "He's hot for Wayne's stepmom." The cat missed him. "He sleeps on your pillow now."

She hung out at Tiger. "Milt kills me. He auditions all his shticks.

"Donkey Dom drives me to work. He wonders why he can't keep boyfriends, esp. considering his 'equipment.' I said, 'Maybe it's because you're a male prostitute."

The cat bit a maid. The cat clawed a couch. The cat bit her drummer.

"I miss you . . . I miss you . . . I get crazy when you're gone because you're the only one who knows what I do & so I go up & down & get a little crazy pretending I'm talking to you & wondering where I'll be in 5 yrs., when my regulars trade me in for a newer model & I'm not so useful. Have you ever thought about that?"

Pete read the letter. Pete smeared the ink. He smelled Barb. He felt Barb. "Up & down" fucked him up.

The camp soared. Pete jeeped through. Pete toured.

Kall it one kamp now. Straight acres--marked by fence posts and huts.

Forested borders. Clay underbrush. Bulb rows/furrows/walkways. Refinery huts and guard huts. Slave jails and ops huts.

Magic beasts roamed the forest. White tigers prowled boocoo.

Pete dug cats. Pete dug tigers. Pete dug nifty names. Pete konkokted "Tiger Kamp."

Flash sketched for kicks. Flash dug on tigers. Flash tigerized the huts. Flash painted tiger fangs and tiger stripes.

Pete cruised the walkways. Pete cruised the bulb rows. Pete watched.

Slaves raked. Slaves tilled. Slaves pulled rickshaws. Shackle lines--twelve slaves per--slaves fueled by meth.

Slaves worked. Slaves paused too long. Guards popped rubber rounds.

Laurent waved. Flash waved. Mesplede waved. Laurent urged speed--di thi di--Mesplede flexed his tattoos.

Pete counted stalks. Pete multiplied: bulbs per stalk/yield per bulb/ sap-to-M-base. Stalks blew by. Pete blew the count. Pete mismultiplied.

He hit Ops North. The Congs took his jeep. He walked in. He saw Chuck and Bob. He saw their canned smorgasbord: Chili and kraut. Franks and beans. Tokay/I-Bird/white port.

Chuck said, "We're losing Bob."

Pete grabbed a chair. "Why?"

"It's not like we're losing him altogether, it's more like he's relocating to help out a kindred soul."

Bob sipped I-Bird. "Chuck set me up with Wayne's daddy, unbefucking-knownst to Wayne, of course. His people offered me a chance to take over a snitch-Klan in Mississippi when the Army cuts me loose."

Chuck sipped Tokay. "The Feds are bankrolling his klavern. That means official sanction and discretionary leeway as to how much rowdy shit he can pull."

Pete cracked his knuckles. "It's bullshit. You'd give up our thing for the chance to torch a few churches?"

Chuck noshed beans. "Pete's got these gaps in his political education. He don't think much past Cuba."

Bob belched. "I like the discretionary part and the leadership part. I get to recruit my own Kluxers, pull my own shit and get me some mailfraud indictments that can't be traced back to me."

Chuck snarfed franks. "How far can you go?"

"That's the $64,000 Question, so I gotta assume that 'discretionary' means according to the guidelines my handler sets up, along with shit he don't know about. Wayne Senior said I'm supposed to start with a show of force, you know, to establish my rep, which suits me just fine."

Pete lit a cigarette. "Don't let Wayne know that you're in touch with his father, and don't talk that Klan shit in front of him. He's off the deep end on niggers, and that kind of talk scares him."

Chuck laughed. "Why? He's a coon killer."

Pete laughed. "He's afraid he'll start liking your crazy shit too much."

Chuck snarfed chili. "Statements like that are politically suspect. I think you been spending too much time with Victor Charlie."

Rain hit. Bob shut the window.

"Here's why all this don't mean goodbye to the kadre. One, Mississippi runs down to the Gulf Coast. Two, you got lots of Cubans down there. Three, I could work liaison with Chuck, funnel our profits into guns, and shoot them down to the Gulf."

Pete said, "I like it. If you can get a hands-off policy going with the cops and Feds down there."

Thunder hit. Chuck cracked the window. Pete looked out. Slaves whooped. Slaves danced. Slaves did the Methedrine Mambo.

Chuck said, "This fucking 'cleanup' intrigues me. You got troops coming in, and Stanton says Khanh wants Saigon to look like Disneyland for all the fucking journalists and hots hots."

Slaves shook their chains. Slaves did the Shackle Shimmy-Shake.

Bob said, "I want to build up a roll for Mississippi. Maybe I can sell some surplus shit to the troops coming in."

Pete turned around. "No one sells to our troops. I'll kill anyone who does."

Chuck laughed. "Pete's got that World War II thing. Semper fi, Boss."

Bob laughed. "He dinky dau. He get too sentimental."

Pete pulled his piece. Pete dumped three rounds. Pete spun the chamber. Chuck laughed. Bob made the jack-off sign.

Pete aimed. Pete pulled the trigger. He shot Bob three times. The hammer clicked three times. He hit three blank chambers.

Bob screamed. Bob puked. Bob hurled franks and beans.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 11/30/64. 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 afternoon, Mr. Littell.

WJL: Good afternoon, Sir.

JEH: Let's discuss Southeast Asia.

WJL: I'm afraid I'm not informed on the topic, Sir.

JEH: I was informed that Pierre Bondurant and Wayne Tedrow Junior have gone on covert contract status with a stellar spy agency. Little birdies tell me things, and I would be remiss not to share them with you.

WJL: I was aware of that, Sir.

JEH: They are stationed in Vietnam, no less.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Would you care to expand your answers?

WJL: I'd rather not be too specific. I think you know enough about Pete's past dealings and Wayne Junior's chemistry background to be able to extrapolate.

JEH: I am extrapolating at warp speed. I must conclude that our Italian friends have revised their fatuously conceived "CleanTown Policy" in Las Vegas.

WJL: Yes, but the distribution will be rigorously localized.

JEH: I see a salutary convergence. The distribution will accommodate Count Dracula's prejudices and facilitate our Italian friends' desire to bilk him.

WJL: It's an astute observation, Sir.

JEH: Our friends must bristle at the thought of Jimmy Hoffa's forthcoming doom.

WJL: They know he's finished, Sir. They know the appeals process will terminate within two years.

JEH: The attendant irony has not escaped me. A gaudy homicide served to neutralize the Dark Prince, yet the Dark Prince toppled his bete noire in the end.

WJL: I have often considered that irony, Sir.

JEH: The Prince is now a senator-elect. Have you considered how he'll fare?

WJL: I haven't given it much thought.

JEH: A barefaced lie, Mr. Littell, and wholly unworthy of you.

WJL: I'll concede, Sir.

JEH: Do you think he will sponsor anti-organized crime legislation?

WJL: I would hope not.

JEH: Do you think he will attack organized crime from the Senate floor?

WJL: I would hope not.

JEH: Do you think he learned an enduring lesson from that gaudy homicide?

WJL: I would hope so.

JEH: I will not comment on your complex relationship with Robert F. Kennedy.

WJL: Your comments to date are most eloquent, Sir.

JEH: Let's jump from the frying pan to the fire. I'm meeting with Martin Lucifer King tomorrow.

WJL: The purpose of the meeting, Sir?

JEH: Lucifer requested it. He wants to discuss my attacks in the press. Lyle Holly has informed me that Lucifer has correctly added two and two and has determined that I've run black-bag operations against him, which must vex him as well.

WJL: How did he learn? Do you suspect a leak?

JEH: No. I publicly referred to information that Lucifer disseminated in private and betrayed bug and tap placements in that manner. Those references were, of course, deliberate.

WJL: I concluded that, Sir.

JEH: Lucifer, Rustin and the others now shut their mouths in hotel rooms. Lucifer has confined his sexual antics to beds outside my electronic range.

WJL: You're implying a larger design here, Sir.

JEH: You are correct. I am going to drastically upscale my operations against Lucifer and the SCLC. You are to stop donating organized-crime money to the organization, but to continue to meet with Bayard Rustin. You will continue to portray yourself as an ardent supporter whose Mob pilfering source has run dry. You will wear wires to your meetings with Rustin. You will wheedle him into suggesting meetings. You will exploit his homosexuality and susceptibility to sincere and politically unstable men.

WJL: Yes, Sir.

JEH: This endeavor will be Stage-1 Covert. I have dubbed it OPERATION BLACK RABBIT. The title bows to the sex drive, prowess and heedlessly puerile demeanor of our long-eared friends. You will receive copies of most memoranda, because you are a deft extrapolator of complex data. Code names have been assigned to the key personnel. You will use them in place of real names. They derive from the rabbit motif and hint at the inherent psyches of the subjects.

WJL: You've whetted my appetite, Sir.

JEH: Martin Luther King will be RED RABBIT. Bayard Rustin will be PINK RABBIT. Lyle Holly will be WHITE RABBIT. You will be most appropriately known as CRUSADER RABBIT.

WJL: It's a witty touch, Sir.

JEH: I want you to learn what King has planned in the south. Your data will supplant Lyle llolly's. I'm going to launch a WhiteHate Cointelpro in Louisiana, Alabama and Mississippi, and I want information to complement that incursion.