Wayne Senior coughed. "Will you entertain an offer?"

"I'll listen."

"Dwight Holly's going to be running some very sophisticated civilrights ops. You'd be a perfect backup man."

Wayne smiled. "Dwight hates me. You know that."

"Dwight's a smart hater. He knows how you hate, and I'm sure he knows how useful you could be."

Wayne cracked his thumbs. "I only hate the bad ones. I'm not some Klan fuck who gets his rocks off bombing churches."

Wayne Senior stood up. "You could run high-level ops. You know how the world works and how to keep things stable. You could get all this risky business out of your system, hitch your star to the right people and do some very exciting things."

Wayne shut his eyes. Wayne ran signs: Hate/Love/Work.

"You're waxing pensive, son. You've got your daddy's nose for opportunity."

Wayne said, "Don't press me. You'll fuck it all up."

95.

(Las Vegas, 11/28/66)

The cat prowled. The bed was his turf.

He clawed the headboard. He clawed the sheets. He clawed Pete's pillow. Pete woke up. Pete kissed Barb. Pete saw this big bruise.

He sacked out early. Barb sacked out late. He missed her coming in.

He touched her hair. He kissed the bruise. The doorbell rang--Barb slept through it.

Shit--7:40 a.m.

Pete got up. Pete put a robe on. Pete walked out and popped the door. Shit--it's Fred Turentine.

Frizzy-haired Freddy--tucked-up and frazzled. In his robe. In fuzzy slippers. In fucking shock.

With a tape rig. With a tape. With the jit-jit-jit-jitters.

Pete pulled him inside. Pete grabbed his gear. Pete shut the door. Fred got his sea legs. Fred quashed his shit-shakes and jitters.

"I was at the listening post. I was running last night's tapes off the swinger suites. I heard this grief with Dom and Sal Mineo."

Hold on. What's-- Pete cleared chair space. Pete laid the gear out. Pete plugged the rig in. Pete looped the tape.

He hit the volume. He hit Play. He heard static hiss. He heard timed beeps--no voice to activate.

There--Sal's voice/the on-click/we activate.

"Dom . . . hey . . . you hump, that's my wall--"

Dom: ". . . not what you . . . just looking . . . that phone numb--"

Sal: "You hump. You fucking sissy cocksucker."

Dom: "You're the cocksucker. You suck my big braciol' every chance you get, you fucking has-been cock--"

Crash sounds/breath sounds/clatters. Kitchen noise/drawer noise/ glass shatters.

Clatters. Knife pings. "Sal no no no." Yelps/gurgles/choked breath.

Silence. Timed beeps. Static. Sobs. Drag sounds. Clatters.

Sal: "Please please please. God please please please."

Sobs. Heaves. Breath and prayers--this papal shit: "O my God I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. I detest all my sins because I dread the loss of--"

Pete got prickles. His balls contracted. His neck hair stood up. He hit Stop. He grabbed his pass keys. He grabbed his piece.

He walked outside. He checked the lot. He scoped the bungalow suites. 8:00 a.m./cars parked/all quiet.

Sal flew to Vegas. Dom drove to their tryst. Dom always drove to his shack jobs.

Dom's T-Bird: Gone.

Pete walked over. Easy now--there's the fuck pad. Easy now--jiggle the door.

He did it. The lock held stiff. He pulled his keys. He unlocked the door. He walked in. He saw: Pink carpets--deep shag--blood-spritzed. Pizza boxes. Beer cans. Pizza crusts on plates. Dumped chairs. Dumped tables. White walls with red marks scrubbed pink.

Pete shut the door. Pete hit the kitchen. Pete checked the sink.

Ajax. Sponge. Clogged drain meat. Organ meat--hair-clotted--wop skintone meat.

Queers killed butch. Queers killed operatic. Queers killed buon gusto.

Pete checked the bathroom.

No shower curtain/knives in the toilet/knives in the sink. Floor dots--loose bristles--bath mats scrubbed pink.

A thumbprint on a wall. Print-points still visible. Print whorls scrubbed red into pink.

Pete walked the suite. Pete nailed the damage. Pete got the gist. Pete locked up. Pete walked back. Pete unlocked his suite.

There's Fred T.

He's slugging Jack Daniel's. He's noshing corn chips. He's fine now. He's deshocked. He's blitzed.

Fred laughed. Fred dribbled Black Jack. Fred spewed corn chips.

"I see potential in this. Sal's an Academy Award nominee."

Pete pulled drawers. Pete grabbed his Polaroid. Pete snatched film and loaded it in.

Fred said, "I hope he saved Dom's pecker. I could use a transplant."

Barb was up. Pete heard her. Pete heard her fluff sheets.

Fred said, "I never liked Dom. He had the arrogance that always complements a big dick."

Pete grabbed him. Pete pinned his wrists.

"Talk to Barb. Keep her here while I take some pictures."

"Pete . . . Jesus . . . come on . . . I'm on your side."

Pete torqued his wrists. "Keep your mouth shut while I work this. I don't want any shit coming back to the Cavern."

"Pete, Pete, Pete. You know me. You know I am the Pharaoh's own fucking sphinx."

Pete let him go. Pete walked out. Pete jogged through the lot. Pete rehit the suite.

He unlocked it. He stepped in. He shot pix. Polaroids--twelve color prints.

He got the thumbprint. He got the bloodstains. He got the meat. He got the pink rugs. He got the knives. He got the spritz.

Pete shot twelve photos. The camera developed them. The camera made sounds. The camera cranked wet prints.

He grid-searched. He reloaded. He shot more pix: Dom's thumb--drain-trapped--stuck between grates. A dildo/a hash pipe/hash dregs.

He dried the prints. He spread them out on a sofa. He grabbed the phone. He dialed L.A. direct.

Three rings--be there-- "This is Otash."

"It's Pete, Freddy."

Otash laughed. "I thought you were pissed at me. The Littell thing, remember?"

Pete coughed. His chest bipped. His pulse raced.

"I'm the forgiving type."

Otash yukked. "You're a lying frog fuck, but I'll let it go for old times' sake."

Pete coughed. His chest bipped. His pulse raced.

"Do you know Sal Mineo?"

"Yeah, I know Sal. I pulled him out of some grief with some high-school quiff."

"He's in the shit again, It's a two-man job, and I'll explain when I see you."

Otash whistled. "He's in Vegas?"

"I think he's driving back to L.A."

"Money?"

"We'll muscle him and work something out."

"When?"

"I'll catch a noon flight."

"My office, then. And bring some coin in case Sal craps out."

Pete hung up. The door jiggled. Lock tumblers clicked. Barb walked in. Pete said, "Shit."

Barb looked around. Barb saw things. Barb caught the drift. She toed a rug stain. She bent down. She pinched fiber tufts. She sniffed her fingers. She made a face. She said, "Shit."

Pete watched her. Barb rubbed her cheek. She looked around. She saw the wall stains. She saw the pix.

She studied them. She eyeball-cruised all twenty-four. She looked at Pete.

"Sal or Dom? Fred wouldn't say."

Pete stood up. His pulse raced. He grabbed a chair. He steadied in. He checked out Barb's cheek.

"What happened to your face?"

Barb winced. "Wayne did a good job of getting my attention."

Pete gripped the chair. Pete dug his hands in. Pete ripped fabric free.

Barb said, "I asked for it. I've asked for it from you, but Wayne cares about me in a different way, and he sees things you don't."

Pete threw the chair. It hit a wall. It gouged pink bloodstains.