(Houston, 6/21/65)

Gulf heat: Low clouds and thick air. Air as bug propellant.

And bug catalyst. And bug haven. And bug launching pad. Bug heat--80 at 2:12 a.m.

The freeway was dead. Bugs bipped off the car. Pete drove. Wayne read maps.

Chez Chuck was on Driscoll. Chez Chuck was close. Chez Chuck was near Rice U.

Wayne yawned. Pete yawned. They yawned contrapuntal. They flew eighteen hours--Saigon to Houston--they plowed six time zones.

They flew transport. They sat on crates. They ate canned corn exclusive. Stanton set a car up-a '61 Ford--there at Fort Sam.

Bum wheels altogether. No muffler. No fucking Air King.

Stanton knew some of it. Pete said so. Pete said he withheld the key shit. Maybe Chuck's here. Maybe Chuck's not. Maybe Chuck's in Bogalusa.

With Bob Relyea--kadre-ex--kurrent Klan klown. Bob ran a snitchKlan. Wayne Senior ran Bob. That meant he could WATCH.

They ditched the freeway. They took side streets. They ran their high beams. Houston was the shits--brick cribs and bug lights abundant.

Stanton shot them filework: stats per Chez Chuck. Chuck's dad and mom were Fred and Edwina. They had a '53 Olds.

Texas plates: DXL-841.

They hit Kirby Street. They hit Richmond. They turned hard right. There--Driscoll--1 780/1800/1808.

1815 was glazed brick. No palace/no slum. Two floors and no lights extant.

Pete parked. Wayne grabbed two flashlights. They got out. They circled the house. They flashed the windows. They flashed the doors.

Bugs stirred. Owls stirred. Wasps bombed a nest.

Wayne flashed the back porch. Pete flashed a hedge. Wayne caught a glint--light on steel--Pete threw his beam down.

Wayne reached in. Wayne grabbed and pulled. Wayne sliced two fingers up.

There-- One Texas license plate--stuffed in a hedge. Bingo on DXL-841.

Pete said, "He changed plates on the Olds."

Wayne sucked his fingers. "Let's go in. We might find something."

Pete flashed the back door. Wayne walked up and looked. Okay: One lock/flat bolt/wide keyhole.

Pete cupped his light. Wayne pulled his picks and jabbed at the hole. Two missed. One hit. One slid in deep.

He twisted it. He turned it. He popped the bolt. They popped the door and walked in.

They flashed the floor. They flashed a stairwell. Wayne smelled mold. Wayne smelled baked beans.

They turned left. They hit a hall. They hit a kitchen. Wayne felt trapped heat. Moonlight sieved through venetian blinds.

Pete pulled the blinds. Wayne hit the lights. There: Sink water--dark pink--carving knives afloat. Baked beans and fruit flies on mold. Hair in a colander. Dots on the floor. Dots by the fridge.

Pete opened it. Wayne smelled it. They saw it: The severed legs. The diced hips. Mom's head in the vegetable bin.

74.

(Bogalusa, 6/21/65)

Phone work: Room 6--the Glow Motel--direct calls out. Outside noise as direct counterpoint.

Shouts. Rebel yells. Nigger! Nigger! Nigger! We Shall Overcome!

We're in BOMBalusa now. We remember BOMBingham.

He slept with the riddle. He lived with it. He ran.

To: Marches and pray-ins and cross burns. To: Beatings and hecklings and shouts.

He assumed a Fed presence. He laid cover tracks. He called Carlos. He set up a meet. He flew through New Orleans.

BLUE RABBIT might be here. Add BLUE's Brother WHITE. Add Hoover confidants. Add local Feds.

He laid tracks. I was close. It was close. I had to see. I'm CRUSADER RABBIT I'm a fool for civil rights.

Littell checked his phone book. Littell ran motels. He called the Texas DMV this morning. He got Chuck Rogers' stats.

Houston/Driscoll Street/one Oldsmobile. Texas plates: DXL-841.

He got the stats. He got the room. He called motels. Forty-two local--dull phone-book stats.

He played Fed. He dropped his stats. He checked registrations. He made 19 calls. He got all nos. He hit Clerk 20.

"You the second police type who called 'bout that Olds. Only this other guy didn't give me no DXL number, he said it'd have hot Texas plates."

He brainstormed the response. He ran RABBITS. FATHER RABBIT's Wayne Senior. FATHER knows Chuck. FATHER runs WILD RABBIT WILD RABBIT's close. WILD RABBIT's Klan.

There's BLUE RABBIT He's Fed. Who else wants Chuck?

He called motels. He hit 28. He got nil results. The outside noise got bad--these loud Nigger! shouts.

Littell worked. Littell called motels. Littell got nil results. Motel 29. Motel 30. Motel 3 1-2-3.

Motel 34: "You're the second guy askin' about that Rogers an' that car, but I ain't seen him or it."

The Moonbeam Motel/the Lark Motel/the Anchor Motel--nil results. The Dixie/the Bayou/the Rebel's Rest: "Office. May I help you?"

"This is Special Agent Brown, FBI."

The guy laughed. "You come to curtail these agitators?"

"No, sir. It's about something else."

"That's too bad, because--"

"I'm looking for a white man driving a 1953 Oldsmobile with Texas license plates."

The man laughed. "Then you're one lucky member of the Federal Bureau of Integration, 'cause he checked into room 5 yesterday."

"What? Repeat th--"

"I got it right here. Charles Jones, Houston, Texas. '53 Olds sedan, PDL-902. By my lights, he's a mean motherhumper. Probably gargles with antifreeze and flosses with razor blades."

Traffic crawled. The disruption ratched it up.

Sidewalk marches. Hecklers. TV crews out. Signs and countersigns. Shriekers with good lungs. Nonparticipants out for yuks.

Freedom Now!/Jim Crow Must Go!/Nigger Go Home! We shaaaall overcome! in re-run shouts.

Littell drove his rental car. Traffic slogged. Littell parked and walked. Egg crews roamed. White kids chucked eggs. They chucked at Negroes. They nailed perceived Feds.

Littell walked. Littell dodged eggs. Eggs hit marchers. Eggs hit picket signs.

Egg crews walked. Egg trucks roamed. Egg men trucked ammo. Eggs flew. Eggs hit doors. Eggs hit awnings and cars.

The marchers wore slickers. The slickers dripped yolk. The slickers dripped cracked shells. Cops stood around. Cops dodged eggs. Cops sucked Nehi and Coke.

Littell walked. Eggs creased him. Littell looked all-Fed.

He cut left. He walked two blocks. He passed two egg huts. Egg crews formed. Egg crews armed. Egg trucks loaded up.

He saw it--right there--the Rebel's Rest.

One floor. Ten rooms. All street-view units. Rebel flag and rebel sign--neon Johnny Reb.

Parking slots/outdoor walkway/the office detached.

Littell palmed a credit card. Littell cut straight over. Littell saw room 5.

He knocked. He got no answer. No car in front/no people/no Olds 88.

He faced the street. He braced the door. He worked backwards. There now--by touch: The jamb. The bolt. Wedge the card and slide it through fast.

He did it. The door popped. He fell backwards inside. He locked the door behind him. He hit the lights. He checked the room out.

One bed. One bathroom. One closet. One overnight bag on the floor.

He tossed the bag. He saw clothes and a razor. He saw hate tracts. He checked the closet. He checked the shelf. He saw a box of fuses--half full.

He saw a Mossberg pump. He saw a .45. He saw a .357 mag.

He grabbed the pump. He dumped the shells. He grabbed the .45. He popped the hot round. He popped the clip.

He grabbed the mag. He popped the cylinder. He dumped the shells. He pulled the rug up.

He hid the ammo. He shut the closet door. He killed the room lights. He sat down. He pulled his piece. He cocked the hammer.

He leaned on the bed. He faced the door. He counted rabbits fullout.

He dozed. He cramped up. He heard chants outside. Two words--say two blocks out.

"Freedom" and "nigger"--two words overlapped.

The sun arced--light cut through window shades--shades going black.

Littell dozed. Littell stirred. Littell heard siren bursts. Short bursts--per stalled traffic.

He got up. He walked outside. Tenants mingled. Tenants rebel-yelled.

A man laughed. A man went "Ka-pow!"

A man said, "A nigger church just went ka-blooey."

Littell ran.