Slaves escape. All pro-Cong. Who let them? I no know!--all six say it--I know no who!

It droned on--you tell me!--no no! Pete watched. Pete chewed gum. Pete read eyes.

Mesplede lit a Gauloise. Pete cued him. Mesplede hit the buttons. Juice flooowed.

Testicle ticklers--black box to balls--nonlethal volts. Gooks tingle. Gooks absorb. Gooks yell boocoo.

Mesplede cut the juice. Mesplede pidgin-gooked: Congs run! Steal Mbase! Tell what you know!

The gooks buzzed. The gooks squirmed. The gooks afterglowed. Talk now! You tell me! Tell what you know! Six gooks jabbered--this gook ensemble--we no know who!

One gook squeals. One gook yips. One gook salivates. Loincloths to ankles/grounded gonads/feed plugs to feet. One gook squirms. One gook prays. One gook urinates.

Pete cued Mesplede. Mesplede hit the buttons. Juice flooowed.

The gooks buckle. The gooks absorb. The gooks gyrate. The gooks scream. The gooks thrash and pop veins.

Pete cogitated. Pete chewed gum. Pete brainstormed eyes shut.

Tran tells Wayne--slaves escape--steal M-base boocoo. They cook it. They dump it. Fuck up our GIs boocoo.

But: You don't dump Big "H." You sell it.

And: Wayne rotates home. Wayne's lab is empty. Rival dope cooks could sneak in. Said cooks could utilize. Said cooks could appropriate.

Surveille the lab--do it soon--before you rotate.

Mesplede coughed. "Has that chewing gum put you in a trance, Pierre?"

Pete opened his eyes. "One of them has to know something. Ask them why the guys ran, and turn up the juice if they shit you."

Mesplede smiled. Mesplede coughed. Mesplede pidgin-gooked. He talked fast. He blurred inflections. He fastballed his words.

Gooks listen. Good absorb. Gooks say: No No No No-- Mesplede hit the buttons. Juice flowed. Near-lethal volts. The gooks screamed. Their nuts flushed. Their nuts swelled.

Mesplede cuts the juice. Gooks absorb pain. Gook 5 talks ricky-tick. Mesplede smiles. Mesplede absorbs. Mesplede translates.

"He said he woke up and saw Tran pull them out of the hut. Tran . . . qu'est-ce . . . forced them to run, and he heard shots a few minutes later."

Pete spit his gum out. "Cut them loose. Give them some extra beans for dinner."

Mesplede said, "I appreciate compassion."

The hills hurt.

He breathed hard. He walked slow. He trailed back. Mesplede walked fast. Two guards flanked him.

They cut through camp. They pushed through brush. They dodged biter snakes. The rain held. Brush slapped them. Pete gobbled breath.

He took pills. They thinned his blood. They scrubbed his veins. They sapped him. They fucked him up. They held him back.

He ran. He caught up. He gobbled breath.

They kicked through mud. The mud had weight. The weight hurt his chest. They walked two miles. They hit downslopes. His chest weight slacked off.

Pete heard grunts and oinks. Pete saw a mud pit. Pete smelled human decomp. Pete saw wild pigs root.

There: Said mud pit. A buffet. Said pigs and boned flesh.

Pete jumped in. The pigs scattered. The mud was deep. The mud had weight. Pete bobbed for flesh.

He rooted. He flailed. He found an arm. He found a leg. He found a head. He shook off mud. He pulled off skin. He peeled off scalp flaps.

He saw a hole. It was bullet-sized. He gripped the jaws. He cracked the skull back.

Good breath. Good strength. Good outpatient stats.

A bullet dropped. Pete caught it. It was butterflied and smashed. It was a soft-point magnum. It was Tran Lao Dinh's brand.

Tran tried charm. Tran tried shit. Tran tried shuck-and-jive. Mesplede hooked him up. Mesplede hooked dual clamps--gonads and head.

The rain held. Monsoon stats--mud 4-ever.

Pete chewed gum. Pete cracked the door. Pete stirred outside air.

"Your shit's not working. Give up the details and tell us who you're in with, and I'll see what John Stanton says."

Tran said, "You know me, boss. I no work with Victor Charles."

Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.

The clamps sparked. His hair sparked. His nuts spasmed. He bit his lips. He bit his tongue. He cracked his false teeth.

Pete said, "That demoralize-the-GIs story you told Wayne was bullshit. Admit it and go from there."

Tran licked his lips. "Victor Charles, boss. You don't underestimate."

Pete hit the switch. Juice flowed. Tran buckled. Tran clenched.

His bladder blew. The clamps sparked. His head twitched. His dentures flew.

Mesplede said, "Il est plus que dinky dau, il est carrement fou."

Pete kicked the dentures. They hit the doorway and popped out. They hit the mud monsoon. Tran flashed his gums. Pete saw old scars--Cong torture tattoos.

"I'll double up next time. You don't want that. You won't--"

"Okay okay okay. I kill slaves and sell base to ARVN."

Pete spit his gum out. "That's a start."

Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off--le bird boocoo.

"You French fuck number ten. You carrement fou."

Pete popped more gum. "You're in with somebody. Tell me who."

Tran flipped Pete off. The wop stiff-arm--il bah-fungoo.

"Fuck the frogs. You number ten. You run at Dien Bien Phu."

Pete worked his gum. "Tell me who's running you. We'll have a drink and discuss it."

Tran wiggled. Tran worked his chair back. Tran flipped Pete off--up and rotated--you twirl boocoo.

"You French cochon. You fuck fat men."

Pete worked his gum. Pete blew a bubble. It popped ka-poo.

"Who's running you? You're not in this all by yourself."

Tran worked his chair back. Tran spread his legs. Tran humped his hips boocoo.

"I run your wife. I eat red pussy 'cause you homo--"

Pete hit the switch. Pete locked the switch. Tran buckled. Tran humped his hips. Tran worked his chair back boocoo.

He slid it. He squared it. He made the doorway. Mesplede jumped. Pete tripped.

Tran flipped them off. Tran dumped his chair. Tran went BONZAI! He hit the rain. He hit the mud. He electrified.

87.

(Los Angeles, 9/28/65)

Mormons: Mormon lawyers. Mormon aides. Mormon worker drones. Drac's Mormons--Latter-day Saints.

It was their summit. It was their turf. It was their hotel call. They stormed the Statler. They booked a suite. They brought their own refreshments. Their names blurred. Littell called them all "sir."

He was distracted. Fred O. just called him. Fred O. found the scandalrag files. They're yours for ten G's. I want them/I'll meet you/they're mine.

The summit kicked off. Six Mormons hogged one table. A Mormon prepped a tape rig. A Mormon looped a tape in. A Mormon pressed Play.

Drac speaks: "Good morning, gentlemen. I trust that you have clean air in your conference room, along with appropriate snacks such as Fritos corn chips and Slim Jim beef jerky. As you know, the purpose of this meeting is to establish ballpark price estimates for the hotel-casinos I wish to purchase, and to devise strategies to circumvent recent so-called civil-rights laws, which are in fact civil-wrongs laws, which will prove detrimental to the American free-enterprise system. it is my intention to cunningly and willfully abrogate these laws, retain segregated work crews and discourage Negroes from habituating my casinos, with exceptions to be made for stellar Negroes such as Wilma Rudolph, the so-called fastest woman alive, and the multi-talented Sammy Davis Jr. Before I turn the meeting over to my Las Vegas point man, Ward J. Littell, I should inform you that I have been studying the tax code for the state of California and have determined that it is in fact unconstitutional. It is my intention to avoid paying California state income tax for the upcoming fiscal year of 1966. I may decide to remain mobile until the time that I establish permanent residence in Las Vegas. I may travel by train, avoid undue stays in all fifty states and thus avoid paying state income tax in toto."

The off switch clicked. The tape died. The Mormons stirred. The Mormons checked the credenza.

Salty Fritos. Congealed cheez dip. Tasty Slim Jims.

Littell coughed. Littell dispensed graph sheets. Price projections/per twelve hotels. Gaming projections/per twelve casinos.

Doctored paper. Revised and cooked. Your chef--Moe Dalitz.

The Mormons read. The Mormons skimmed columns. The Mormons cleared their throats. The Mormons took notes.

A Mormon coughed. "The purchase prices are high by 20%."

Moe set the prices. Carlos consulted. Santo T helped.

Littell coughed. "I think the prices are reasonable."

A Mormon said, "We'll need tax returns. We'll need to calibrate off reported profits, not estimates."

A Mormon said, "That part doesn't bother me. We're dealing with organized-crime proprietors, to one degree or another. You have to believe that they report low."

A Mormon said, "We can subpoena their tax returns from the IRS. That way they can't submit fakes."

Wrong. Mr. Hoover will act. Mr. Hoover will quash selectively. Mr. Hoover will pick what you see.

No oldies. No pre-64s. Good '64s/the Boys report high/the Boys baitand-switch.

A Mormon said, "Mr. Hughes is adamant on the Negro issue."

A Mormon said, "Wayne Senior can help us out there. He segregates his work crews, and he knows his way around those new laws."

Littell stabbed his pencil. Littell hit his notepad. Littell broke the tip.

"Your suggestion offends me. It's unsavory and altogether repugnant."

The Mormons stared at him. Littell stared straight back.