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PB
37

Lockhart put his feet up on the dashboard. His fiber-fill Santa Claus suit had him sweating.

“You won’t let me bomb churches or kill niggers. Now, what about enforcing the Klan Moral Kode?”

Pete played in-Dougie Frank was good for yuks. “What’s that?”

“Well, you get word Joe Redneck’s sister Sally has eyes for Leroy with the rumored 12-inch hog leg, and you catch them at it. You heat up your KKK branding iron and mark Sally as a race mixer.”

“What about Leroy?”

“You ask him where he got his, and do they make them that size in white.”

Pete laughed. Dougie Frank blew his nose out the window.

“I’m serious, Pete. I’m the Imperial Wizard of the South Florida Royal Knights of the Ku Klux Klan, and so far all I’ve done is hand out CIA bonus money and start up a softball team to play your goddamn crypto-jigaboo exiles.”

Pete swerved around a stray dog. The truck hit a pothole; the gift-wrapped turkeys in the back bounced and slid.

“Don’t tell me your FBI operator let you do lynchings.”

“No, he didn’t. But he also didn’t say, ‘Dougie Frank, don’t kill no niggers while you’re on the U.S. Government payroll, now.’ You see the difference? You’re tellin’ me I can’t do it, and you mean it.”

Pete saw shacks up ahead-good turkey drop-off spots. Santo Junior said to lube the locals-he had excess poultry stock off a hijack and figured free Christmas birds would promote goodwill.

“Do your job. This is big stuff we’re involved in, so treat it seriously.”

Lockhart said, “I am. I am doing my job and keeping my mouth shut about Chuck Rogers flying white powder airlines into the Fort Blessington airstrip, yessir. What I’m also sayin’ is my boys need some recreation.”

Pete swung around a turn. “I’ll talk to Jimmy Hoffa. Maybe he can take your guys out shark shooting.”

“What I had in mind was enforcing Moral Kode Bylaw Number Sixty-nine.”

“What’s that?”

“That’s where you catch Leroy’s brothers Tyrone and Rufus knockin’ on Sally’s door.”

“What do you do?”

“Tar and feather Sally.”

“What about Tyrone and Rufus?”

“You make them pull down their pants to see if it runs in the family.”

Pete laughed. Dougie Frank scratched his snowy-white beard. “How come I’m the one who had to dress up like Santa Claus?”

“I couldn’t find a red suit my size.”

“You could have dressed up one of the Cubans.”

“Come on. A spic Santa Claus?”

“I think this job is degrading.”

Pete pulled into a ratty dirt playground. Some colored kids saw Santa and went gaga.

Dougie Frank got out and lobbed turkeys at them. The kids ran up and tugged at his beard.

o o o

The local whites got turkeys. The local jigs got turkeys. The Blessington cops got turkeys and hijack Jim Beam.

The trainees got turkey dinners and Trojan prophylactics. Santo Junior sent down a Christmas treat: a busload of Tampa whores. Forty-four men and forty-four hookers made for squeaks off forty-four bunks.

Pete sent the girls home at midnight. Lockhart burned a Yuletide cross out in the boonies. Pete got an urge to hit Cuba and kill Commies.

He called Fulo in Miami. Fulo dug, the idea. Fulo said, I’ll round up some guys and drive down.

Chuck Rogers flew a load of dope in. Pete gassed up the lead speedboat.

Lockhart cruised by with some moonshine. Pete and Chuck traded chugs. Nobody smoked-the shit might ignite.

They sat on the dock. Floodlights lit up the whole campsite.

A trainee screamed in his sleep. Embers blew down off the cross. Pete remembered Xmas ‘45: The L.A. Sheriff’s signed him on fresh out of the Marine Corps.

Fulo’s car dipsy-doodled across the runway. Chuck stacked Tonuny guns and ammo by the dock moorings.

Dougie Frank said, “Can I go?”

Pete said, “Sure.”

Delsol, Obregуn and Fulo piled out of the Chevy. They walked sway-bellied-blitzed by too much beer and turkey.

They waddled over to the dock. Tomбs Obregуn wore shades-at 2:00 a.m. Shades and long sleeves-on a half-assed balmy night.

A dog barked out in the sticks. Chuck Rogers mimicked hound yelps like this late-nite cracker deejay he grooved on. Everybody traded holiday back slaps.

Pete slapped Obregуn’s shades off. The fuck had dope-pinned eyes-floodlight glare nailed them clean.

Obregуn froze. Rogers threw a choke hold on him.

Nobody talked. Nobody had to-the picture spread rбpidamente.

Obregуn squirmed. Fulo jerked his sleeves up. Skin-pop tracks ran down his arms, red and ugly.

Everybody looked at Delsol-Obregуn’s fucking cousin. The picture spread: Let him do it.

Chuck let Obregуn go. Pete handed his gun to Delsol.

Obregуn trembled and almost teetered off the dock. Delsol shot him six times in the chest.

He spun into the water. Steam hissed out his exit wounds.

Fulo dove in and scalped him.

Delsol looked away.