The cold six thousand

THIS.

He tracked logic. He looked for loopholes. He got none.

_And_:

Stanton stopped here. Stanton lugged in his suitcase.

_Why?_

He dropped something off. He picked something up.

_Which?_

Pete walked the walls. Pete tapped the walls. Pete tapped whole cement. No wall panels or hidey holes-shit.

Pete checked the floor. Pete looked for chipped paint. Pete looked for off-color streaks. Pete got whole cement/solid/no streaks.

Pete checked the ceilIng. It was solid cement. No patches/no caulking/no streaks.

No bathroom. No storerooms. No closets. Four walls/one looooong strrrretch/two football fields plus.

_Something_ was _somewhere_. Something was _here_.

Cars/minks/watches. Motorcycles/antiques. It's a day's work. It's needle meets haystack. It's do It anyway.

He walked the rows. He plowed watch piles. He dug through mink. He grabbed. He touched. He fished.

Forty-three piles/sixty boxes-shit.

He walked the rows. He popped antique drawers. He rifled and dipped.

Twenty-three rows-shit.

His stomach growled. Hours flest No food and no fucking sleep.

He checked the motorcycles. He opened saddle bags. He popped gas caps and peeked.

Six hundred bikes-shit.

He checked the cars. He checked row by row. He checked twenty-two times thirty-eight.

He popped hoods. He popped glove compartments. He popped trunks. He checked under rugs. He checked engine mounts. He checked under seats.

Porsches first. Bentieys next-shit.

The space went dark. He worked by touch. Volvos/Jaguars/DB-5s. He got the feeL He worked fast-Braille by necessity

Five models down. One left: Mercedes.

He hit the top row. He braced the first car. He snapped the hood. He touched the valve covers. He touched the air cleaner. He brushed a cylinder ledge.

Wilt-feel the bump-Braille by necess-

He felt the bump. He felt tape. He pulled. Something tore loose. Said something was textured and flat.

Rectangular. Paged. A long book.

He grabbed it. He reached up and popped a wind wing. He tapped the key and headlights. Good kraut autowerk-fog lIghts beamed out.

He got down. He turned pages. He read by fog light. One crosscolumned listing ledger-names/money/dates.

Key dates. Back to late '64. The kadre ops Inception.

Names:

Chuck Rogers. Tran Lao Dinh. Bob Relyea. Laurent Guйry. Flash Elorde. Fuentes/Wenzel/Arredondo.

Payouts/monthly stipends/covert. Odd spic names/cross-columned/ starred with "CM"s.

Kall it: CM for Cuban Militia. Cuban passage paid in full.

Pete scanned columns. Pete scanned dates. Pete scanned names. Names stated/names absent/names unindicted: His name/Wayne's/Mesplиde's.

Money paid out. Loyalty purchased. Kadre kode breach.

Guйry and Stanton ran poly tests. They were all _lies_. Flash snuck into Cuba. It was a _lie_. Cuban dissension-one sustained _lie_. Safe runs to Cuba-one prepaid _lie_. Cuban Militia sold out as fodder-part of the _lie_. Guns sent to Cuba-funneled to where?-key to the _lie_.

Cars.

Watches.

Furs.

Jap motorcycles.

Faggot antiques.

Years gone. One heart attack. THIS.

Pete dropped the ledger. Pete flipped the car key. Pete killed the fog lights.

The dark felt right. The dark scared him. IT WAS ALL A BIG FUCKING LIE.

_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 3/25/68. Telephone call transcript. Taped by: BLUE RABBIT. Marked: "FBI-Scrambled" / "Stage-1 Covert" / "Destroy Without Reading in the Event of My Death." Speaking: BLUE RABBIT, FATHER RABBIT.

BR: It's me, Senior. You hear those clicks?

FR: I know. Scrambler technology.

BR: Are you ready for some good news?

FR: If it relates to D-day, I am.

BR: It's connected. That's for damn sure.

FR: Have we got a date? Have we got a loc-

BR: My men found Wendell Durfee.

FR: Oh, sweet Jesus.

BR: He's in L.A. He's got a room on skid row.

FR: I hear the saints, Dwight. They're singing hymns all for me.

BR: My men make him for some rape-snuffs. You think he developed a taste with Lynette?

FR: How could he? She always struck me as frigid.

BR: RED RABBIT's on the move. I'm looking at D-day for sometime next month.

FR: Shitfire. Let's bring Wayne in, then.

BR: My guys have got Durfee staked out. I'll wait a few days, then have some jig stiff a call through Sonny Liston.

FR: Hymns, Dwight. I mean it. And all in stereo.

BR: You think Wayne's ready for this?

FR: I know he is.

BR: I'll patch you when I've got more news.

FR: Make it good news.

BR: We're close, Senior. I've got this feeling.

FR: From your mouth to God's ears.