The Cold Six Thousand (57 page)

Hot air settled in. Waiters pulled fan cords.

“How many scalps did he take?”

“Four.”

“Do you think he enjoyed it?”

Pete smiled. “With Wayne you never know.”

Stanton smiled. “Will you allow me some sort of concession before you go?”

Pete stood up. The ceiling loomed. Pete dodged fan blades.

“Your shit’s operational. It’s just not as passionate as my shit.”

They flew up. MACV ran Hueys—milk flights from Tan Son Nhut.

They sat on the back slats. Some admin pogues flew along. Dig it—let’s catch this show in Da Nang.

Wayne yawned. Wayne just rotated in. Wayne was travel-fucked.

The flight overbooked. The kiddie brass partied. They made noise. They matched coins. They twirled their .45s.

The rotors whipped. The doors shook. The radio screeched. Pete and Wayne huddled. Pete and Wayne talked loud.

Agreed: Bob Relyea bites. Agreed: He’s Wayne Senior’s punk rabbit. Agreed: He shags good guns. Agreed: D. Bruvick’s sly and yellow.

Carlos warned Bruvick. Carlos said don’t call Arden—don’t rat our Cuban runs. Bruvick fudged and tried to call. Wayne interdicted.

Agreed: Let’s oust him. Agreed: Let’s find a new boat man.

They agreed. Pete hedged somewhat. Pete said Carlos wants Bruvick. Bruvick’s his inside man. Carlos distrusts everyone. Carlos plants informants.

Ergo: Bruvick makes Cuban runs. Bruvick calls Carlos. Bruvick informs on
us
.

Wayne
got
it. Wayne digressed. Bruvick’s ex Arden—now with Ward Littell. She’s a spy. She watches Ward. She reports to Carlos.

Right—you got it—and that’s
all
you get.

Wayne said okay. Pete riffed on Carlos—the Graduate Course.

He runs people. He eats people. He’s tight with John Stanton. He’s greedy. He’ll press John—feed me dope points. John will bow.
We’ll
bow too. We owe Carlos that. Carlos braced the other Boys. They waived Outfit laws. They let us white-dust West Vegas.

Agreed: We owe Big Carlos. Agreed: We owe Blueblood John.

The flight bumped. The gun doors shook. The pogues ate Dramamine.

Agreed: Tiger ops—overhead stratospheric—the lab/Tiger Kamp/Tiger South. Bribes to ARVNs/bribes to Can Lao boss-man “Mr. Kao”/ bribes to Tran Lao Dinh.

Transport bribes. Nellis AFB bribes. Cop bribes: Sheriff’s and LVPD. Ops costs: in-country and out. Ops costs transcontinental.

We ship white horse—big poundage—we dust West LV. Profits soar. Jigs love white horse. Profits dip non sequitur. Because of the fucking Watts Riot—live on fucking TV.

Jigs see the riot. Jigs exult. Monkey see/monkey do. They roam West LV. They chuck some spears. They burn some shacks. We suspend kadre business. We retrieve Tiger Kabs. Cops quell the riot. Jigs go to jail. Profits de-escalate.

Agreed: Biz is down now—we’re in bear-market turf. Agreed: We’ll expand—and we’ll re-escalate. We’ll hire more pushers—expendable jigs—we’ll bull-market reintegrate.

The Huey cruised low. They saw firefights. They saw villages sacked. Wayne talked expansion—let’s re-dust West Vegas. Let’s pre-dust black L.A.

Pete laughed—the Boys won’t vouch it—you fucking
know
that.

Know
shit
. Durfee might be there. I fucking know
that
.

Da Nang: Hot sun and hot sea winds. Spritzy sea spray.

Their gun contact no-showed. Pete got pissed. Wayne pitched diversion: Let’s hit that USO show.

They rickshawed in. Their coolie pulled weight. Their coolie ran chop-chop.
They raced some shavetails. Said shavetails were bombed. The rickshaw race rocked.

Pete ate Dramamine. Wayne ate salt pills. They hit access roads. They hit the naval base. They hit the bleacher setup.

The coolies saw it. The coolies braked hard. Four wheels brodied. Four wheels slid and locked.

Dead heat.

Pete laughed. Wayne laughed. The shavetails went green and upchucked.

The show was free. A crowd filed in. Pete and Wayne lined up. It was hot-plate hot.

The stage was ground-level. The bleachers ran sixty rows up. Onstage: Hip Herbie & Ho—low-rent topical yuks.

Ho was a puppet. Hip Herbie held him. Hip Herbie held a hand mike. Hip Herbie ventriloquized. Hip Herbie moved his lips. Hip Herbie vibed hophead or souse.

They found seats. They got cramped arm- and legroom. They sat ten bleacher rows up.

Stage speakers tossed sound. Ho tossed a tantrum: “GIs scare me! Me most scared! You kill Cong ricky-tick!”

It was hot. The sun torched down. Pete got queased up. The crowd yukked halfhearted. Ho wore red devil horns. Ho wore red diapers.

Hip Herbie said, “What have you got against Uncle Sam, anyway?”

Ho said, “I come to U.S.! They no let me in Disneyland!”

The crowd yukked distracted. Ho blathered: “I get revenge! I plant land mines! I kill Donald Duck!”

The crowd yukked nonplussed. A stage geek signaled Hip Herbie—wrap this shit up.

Ho raged: “Me try sit-ins! Me try pray-ins! Me shoot Donald Duck!”

The stage geek cued a sound geek. A sax vamped low. Hip Herbie got the bum’s rush.

He bowed. Ho leaked sawdust. A curtain dropped. The crowd clapped lackluster—fuck that puppet and lush.

The sax scaled up sequential. The curtain rose. Pete saw loooooong legs furl up.

No. It can’t be. Please, yes. Slow now, in sync: The curtain and sax—both scaling up.

There—not no, it’s yes.

Pete saw her legs. Pete saw
her
. Pete caught her kiss standing up. Wayne smiled. The Bondsmen clicked in. Barb launched Viet rock.

Whistles/wolf calls/cheers—

Barb danced. Barb shimmied. Barb kicked a shoe off. The shoe sailed high. Guys grabbed and reached. Pete reached higher up.

It’s close. It’s—

His chest popped. His wind died. His left arm blew up.

It’s close. It’s high-heeled and spangled. It’s green and—

His left arm died. His left wrist torqued. His left hand blew up.

He grabbed right. He caught the shoe. He kissed it. He fell down. He squeezed the shoe. Barb blurred white white.

(Washington, D.C., 9/4/65)

R
iot. Revolt. Insurrection.

NBC ran replays. TV pundits assessed.

Littell watched.

Negroes threw Molotovs. Negroes threw bricks. Negroes sacked liquor stores. Chief Parker blamed hoodlums. Bobby urged reforms. Dr. King urged dissent.

Dr. King digressed. Dr. King stressed other riots. Dr. King stressed Vegas West.

Replays: Negroes throw Molotovs/Negroes throw bricks/Negroes sack liquor stores.

Littell watched replays. Littell replayed vintage Drac:

“We’ve got to sedate those animals, Ward. We don’t want them
that
agitated
that
close to my hotels.”

Don’t say it: “Pete’s selling sedation, sir, but it doesn’t appear to be working right now.”

Ditto Pete. Barb called him last week. Barb said Pete had a heart attack.

It was bad. Pete was stable now. The old Pete was fucked. Barb came on strong. Barb begged him:

Pull strings. Brace Carlos. Make Pete retire. Bring him home. Make him stay. Do this for me.

Littell said he’d try. Littell called Da Nang. Littell talked to Pete. Pete was hoarse. Pete was tired. Pete sounded weak.

Littell called Carlos. Carlos said it’s up to Pete.

Littell killed the TV. Littell eyed his news pic. He’d clipped it. He’d saved it. He’d laminated it.

The Washington
Post:
“KING ATTENDS AIDE’S FUNERAL.”
Aide Lyle Holly—dead per suicide—FBI plant WHITE RABBIT.

King’s RED RABBIT. Bayard Rustin’s PINK. Brother Dwight Holly’s BLUE. They all stand close. RED and PINK mourn. BLUE RABBIT smirks.

He clipped the shot. He studied it. He built some rage. He watched riot footage. He watched replays. He built more rage.

He traveled for work. He left Vegas. He drove to L.A. He saw a tail. He ignored it. He built more rage.

He knew:

Mr. Hoover doubts you. BLUE RABBIT doubts you. Said doubts plague BLACK RABBIT. WHITE RABBIT dies. You view the prelude. You spark apprehension. Mr. Hoover calls. You dissemble. He probes.

Call it a spot tail. You’ve seen none since. Logic meets rage.

You
were
spot-tailed pre–BLACK RABBIT. Mr. Hoover told you. Mr. Hoover pulled said tails. Mr. Hoover reinstated them—post–Lyle suicide.

Ergo:

He did not suspect you
then
. He does suspect you
now
.

He worked. He traveled—Vegas to L.A. He saw no tails en route. He saw Janice in Vegas. He saw Jane in L.A. He saw no tails at either venue.

Jane scared him. Jane
knew
him. Mr. Hoover knew about Jane. Agents planted her fake transcript. Agents gave her Tulane.

He checked for tails. He checked daily. He saw none. He replayed riot footage. He replayed Dr. King’s words. He replayed Lyle’s file near-verbatim.

He built a plan. He decreed escalation. He flew to D.C. He did some Teamster work. He stopped by the SCLC. He logged no tails en route.

He talked to Bayard Rustin. Bayard took a call. He excused himself. He found Lyle’s old cubbyhole. He worked fast. He deployed his briefcase. He went through boxed items. He stole Lyle’s typewriter. He stole Lyle’s memo stack.

The office mourned Lyle. They didn’t know Lyle was WHITE RABBIT.

Lyle gambled. Lyle stiffed you. You lost no respect. Lyle betrayed you. Lyle died. Now Lyle resurrects and repents.

Littell made coffee. Littell studied Lyle’s memos. Littell traced the name Lyle D. Holly.

He practiced. He got it. He prepped Lyle’s portable. He rolled in an envelope. He typed all caps:

“TO BE SENT IN THE CASE OF MY DEATH.”

He unrolled the envelope. He rolled in a carbon sheet and paper. He squared off the SCLC letterhead.

Lyle Holly confessed.

To booze binges. To gambling. To passing bad checks. To betrayal—FBI-funded—at J. Edgar Hoover’s behest.

Count 1: Mr. Hoover is crazy. He hates Dr. King. I joined his hate campaign.

Count 2: I joined the SCLC. I hoodwinked Dr. King. I hoodwinked key staff.

Count 3: I rose within the movement. I wrote policy briefs. I logged secrets shared.

Count 4: I leaked secret data. I supplied the Feds. I said tap here. I said bug there.

Addendum 1: A tap and bug list.
Certified
taps and bugs—known to Littell. Said bugs and taps—
likely
known to Lyle Holly.

Count 5: I logged Dr. King’s indiscretions. I told Mr. Hoover. He penned a “suicide note.” It was mailed to Dr. King. It urged him to take his own life.

Count 6: Mr. Hoover’s hate grows. Mr. Hoover’s hate deepens. Mr. Hoover’s campaign will ascend.

Littell stopped. Littell thought it all through. Littell reassessed.

No—don’t snitch BLACK RABBIT. Don’t snitch BLUE RABBIT. Don’t snitch WILD RABBIT’s snitch-Klan. Don’t exceed credibility. Don’t indict yourself. Don’t reveal what Lyle might not know.

Count 7: I have done great harm. I despair for Dr. King. I indulge thoughts of
my
suicide. This letter remains sealed. Staff members will find it. They will send it if I die.

Littell unrolled the document. Littell signed it Lyle D. Holly.

He rolled in an envelope. He typed an address: Chairman/House Judiciary Committee. He rolled out the envelope. He rolled in an envelope. He typed an address: Senator Robert F. Kennedy/Senate Office Building.

It was risky. Bobby ran Justice—’61–’64. Bobby ran Mr. Hoover. Mr. Hoover ran autonomous. Mr. Hoover ran his hate campaign under Bobby’s flag. Bobby might thus feel guilty. Bobby might thus feel shame.

Trust Bobby. Trust the risk. Hit the SCLC. Drop the letters. Get the meter stamp.

Wait—then read the papers. Wait—then watch TV.

Bobby might report the leak.
You
could contact him.
You
could resurrect anonymously.

(Da Nang, 9/10/65)

S
ickbay—pills / drips / IVs. Pete’s world now—Pete the Zonked and Weak.

Wayne pulled a chair up. Pete laid in bed. Barb fluffed his pillow.

“I talked to Ward. He said he’s dying to test his pull with the gaming boards. He thinks he can get you a license for a grind joint.” Pete yawned.

Pete rolled his eyes. That meant Fuck You.

A nurse walked in. She took Pete’s pulse. She checked Pete’s eyes. She ran Pete’s blood pressure. She logged it in.

Wayne checked the board. Wayne saw normal stats. The nurse split. Barb fluffed Pete’s pillow.

“We could run the place together. Ward says it’s a revolutionary concept. You with a legitimate source of income.”

Pete yawned. Pete rolled his eyes. That meant Fuck You. His weight was down. His skin was slack. His bones jutted out.

He fell off that bleacher. Wayne caught him. Pete gripped Barb’s shoe. Barb jumped off the stage. A guy caught her. Two medics showed.

One guy resuscitated. One guy grabbed at the shoe. Pete kicked him. Pete bit him. Pete kept the shoe.

Barb said, “I quit smoking. If you can’t do it, I can’t either.” She looked frazzled. She looked fried.

She looked fragged. Call it a pill run—grief-justified.

Pete said, “I want a cheeseburger and a carton of Camels.”

His voice held—good timbre/good wind.

Wayne laughed. Barb kissed Pete. Pete goosed her and went goo-goo eyed. She blew kisses. She walked out. She pulled the door shut.

Wayne straddled his chair. “Ward will make you buy a place. For Barb’s sake, if nothing else.”

Pete yawned. “She can run it. I’m too busy as it is.”

Wayne smiled. “You’re dying to talk business. If that’s the case, I’m listening.”

Pete cranked the bed up. “You’re running things until I get out of here. That means in-country and stateside.”

“All right.”

“We’ve got a backlog of shit at the lab, so we’re freed up there. I want Mesplède and Tran to run Tiger Kamp. I want you, Laurent, and Flash to handle the conduit and oversee the Cuban runs, and I want you to back Milt up at Tiger Kab.”