Chester rolled. Chester crapped out. Chester blew money.

Barb watched him. "There's these secrets that people know."

"Not everyone."

Barb unrolled her napkin. Barb twirled her spoon.

"To start, there's a certain city in Texas. Then there's the plans the Outfit has for Mr. Hughes."

Wayne smiled. "Tell me some secrets I don't know."

"For instance?"

"Come on. Pete has half the rooms in Vegas bugged."

Barb twirled her knife. "All right. Donkey Dom's shacked at the Cavern. He's four nights in with Sal Mineo, and they haven't left the suite. Bellboys are bringing them poppers and K-Y. Pete's wondering how long it can last."

Wayne laughed. Wayne checked the floor. Chester rolled. Chester made his point. Chester made money.

Barb smiled. Barb walked. Barb hit the john. Ghouls swarmed Chester. Chester-Hughes magnetized.

Chester sponged love. Chester bowed magnanimous. Chester posed for pix.

Barb walked back. Barb walked unsteady. She sat down. Her lids dipped. Her eyes went smack-back.

She smiled. She twirled her knife. Wayne slapped her. She gripped the knife. She stabbed down. She missed Wayne's hands.

Wayne slapped her. Barb stabbed down. The blade hit the table. It stuck. It twanged. The knife held.

Barb touched her cheek. Barb rubbed her eyes. Barb shot some tears.

Wayne grabbed her hands. Wayne bent her arms. Wayne jerked her head low.

"You're strung out. You're sticking shit up your nose and fucking over Pete every time you do it. You think you're high and mighty because you hate the war and Pete's business, but it's just a bullshit excuse, because you're a no-talent lounge chick with a dope habit and limited fucking--"

Barb jerked her hands. Barb grabbed the knife. Wayne slapped her. She dropped the knife. She rubbed her cheek. She wiped her eyes.

Wayne touched her hair. "I love you. I'm not going to let you fuck yourself over without a fight."

Barb stood up. Barb wiped her eyes. Barb walked off smack-back unsteady.

Floorshow: Chester performed. Crowds cliqued up--all drunks and geeks. Chester posed. Chester huckstered Las Vegas. Chester ran airplane crash riffs.

Newsmen bopped by. Newsmen yukked. Fuck you--you're that kidsshow freak.

Wayne watched. Wayne scoped the floor.

He sipped bourbon. He sulked. He sniffed Barb's napkin. He smelled her hand cream. He smelled her bath oil.

Chester signed autographs. Chester riffed on Jane Russell's breasts. Chester eyed little kids.

Wayne sipped bourbon. His thoughts raced. He saw Janice walk by. She still limped. She still strutted. Her gray streak still glowed.

She walked the floor. She fed baby slots. She blew money. She nailed a jackpot. She scooped coins. She tithed a slot-machine bum.

The bum groveled. The bum gave thanks. The bum wore mismatched shoes. The bum braced a baby slot. The bum yanked the arm. The bum blew his dole.

He shrugged. He regrouped. He panhandled. He hit up Chester. Chester said, "Fuck you."

Janice limped. Janice strolled. Janice left Wayne's view. She's out the back door now--dig that golf-course view.

She's heading to Ward's suite. It's a late-night rendezvous.

Wayne sniffed the napkin. Wayne smelled Barb. Wayne got a Janice jolt. His thoughts raced. He vibed rendezvous.

He drove straight out. The road dipped. He drove eighty-proof. He walked straight in. He grabbed a jug off the bar. He walked straight through.

There's the deck. There's Wayne Senior. He's close to old now. He's sixty-plus. He's old as brand-new.

He's got the same grin. He's got the same chair. He's got the same view.

"You drink from the bottle now. Two years away gets me that."

Wayne grabbed a footstool. "You make it sound like it's the only thing I've learned."

"Not hardly. I get reports, so I know there's more."

Wayne smiled. "You've been putting out feelers."

"You've been rejecting them."

"I guess the time wasn't right."

Wayne Senior smiled. "Howard Hughes and my son the same evening. Be still, my heart."

The stool sat low. Wayne looked straight up.

"Don't labor it. It's just a coincidence."

"No, it's a confluence. Bondurant precipitates Hughes. Hughes means that Ward Littell will be begging favors soon."

Wayne heard gunshots due north. Call it cop familiar. Broke gambler blows town. Broke gambler unwinds.

"Ward doesn't beg. You should know that."

"You're leading me, son. You're trying to get me to praise your exlawyer."

Wayne shook his head. "I'm just trying to steer the conversation."

Wayne Senior toed the footstool. Wayne Senior toed Wayne's knee.

"Shitfire. What's a father-son reunion without a few blunt questions?"

Wayne stood up. Wayne stretched. Wayne kicked the stool.

"How's the hate business?"

"Shitfire. You're more of a hater than I ever was."

"Come on, answer the question."

"All right. I've relinquished my hate-tract business, in order to serve the cause of changing times at a higher level."

Wayne smiled. "I see Mr. Hoover's hand."

"You see twenty-twenty, which tells me the years have not dulled your--"

"Come on, tell me."

Wayne Senior twirled his cane. "I've been working with your old chums Bob Relyea and Dwight Holly. We've derailed some of the most outlandish overhaters in the whole of Dixie."

Wayne slugged bourbon. Wayne sucked dregs. Wayne killed the jug.

"Keep going. I like the 'overhaters' part."

Wayne Senior smiled. "You should. There's hating smart and hating dumb, and you've never learned the difference."

Wayne smiled. "Maybe I've been waiting for you to explain it."

Wayne Senior lit a cigarette--gold-filigreed.

"I fully believe that coloreds should be allowed to vote and have equal rights, which will serve to increase their collective intelligence and inure them to demagogues like Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy. Your pharmaceutical endeavor gives them the sedation that most of them want and insulates them from the fatuous rhetoric of our era. My policemen friends tell me that colored crime in white Las Vegas has not increased appreciably since your operation began, and your operation serves to isolate coloreds on their side of town, where they would much rather be anyway."

Wayne stretched. Wayne looked north. Wayne checked the Strip view.

Wayne Senior blew smoke rings. "You're looking pensive. I was gearing up for a smart answer."

"I'm all out."

"I got you at the right time, then."

"In a sense, yeah."

"Tell me about Vietnam."

Wayne shrugged. "It's futile bullshit."

"Yes, but you love it."

Wayne grabbed the cane. Wayne twirled it. Wayne did dips. Wayne did spins. Wayne did curlicues.

Wayne Senior snatched it. "Look at me, son. Look at me while I say this one thing."

Look: you've got his face. Look: you've got his eyes.

Wayne Senior dropped the cane. Wayne Senior grabbed his hands. Wayne Senior squeezed them way tight.

"I'm sorry for Dallas, son. It's the one thing in this life I am truly sorry for."

Look--he means it--those eyes getting wet.

Wayne smiled. "There's times when I think I was born there."

"Are you grateful?"

Wayne torqued his hands free. Wayne shook some blood in. Wayne cracked his thumbs.

"Don't press me. Don't make me regret coming out."

Wayne Senior stubbed his cigarette. The ashtray jumped. His hand shook.

"Have you killed Wendell Durfee?"

"I haven't found him."

"Do you know--"

"I think he's in L.A."

"I know some LAPD men. They could issue a covert APB."

Wayne shook his head. "This is mine. Don't press me."

Gunshots popped--ten o'clock/northwest.

Wayne said, "I'm sorry for Janice."

Wayne Senior laughed. Wayne Senior howled. Wayne Senior roared shitfire.

"My son fucks my wife and tells me he's sorry. Excuse me for laughing and saying I don't care, but I always loved him more."

Look--wet eyes and laugh lines--he means it.

A breeze stirred. Cold air whipped. Wayne prickled.