The cold six thousand

56

(Las Vegas, 9/30/64)

Break time-4:00 p.m. sharp.

He put his work down. He made coffee. He sat outside his suite. He played the news. He watched the course. Janice played most days.

She'd see him. She'd wave. She'd yell epigrams. She'd say, "You don't like my husband." She'd say, "You work too hard."

Janice played scratch golf. Janice moved lithe. She'd hit shots. Her skirts would hike. Her calves would bunch and stretch.

Littell watched 6. Littell played the news. LBJ barnstormed Virginia. Bobby barnstormed New York.

Janice played 6. Janice outdrove her friends. She saw him. She waved. She yelled.

She said, "My husband fears you." She said, "You need some rest."

Littell laughed. Littell waved. Janice aced a shot.

Jane feared Vegas. The Boys ran the town. Janice was Vegas direct. He enjoyed his glimpses. He took them to bed. He put Janice's body on Jane.

The news went off. Janice parred 6 and waved. Littell walked inside. Littell wrote appeal briefs.

Jimmy Hoffa was through. The Boys knew it. Carlos soldiered for Jimmy. Carlos dunned donations. Carlos built a Help Jimmy Fund. It was futile. It was hopeless. Their bribe roll had crapped out.

Littell put his brief down. Littell grabbed his bankbooks. Littell ran figures and totaled his tithes.

Glad tidings:

The bagmen aced Wayne Senior. The bagmen stole his skim fees. The bagmen were duplicitous. The bagmen were good. The bagmen were Mormon-rowdy.

He directed them. He ran the skim. He wrote fictive reports. He lied to Drac. He embezzled Drac. He sucked Drac's blood.

The bagmen bagged. The bagmen moved six hundred grand-two weeks' worth of skim. He took his 5%. He fed his Chicago account. He opened accounts in Silver Spring and D.C. He used fake ID. He laundered the cash. He tithed the SCLC.

He wrote tithe checks. Five grand per. He wrote them under pseudonyms. He print-wiped the envelopes.

Drac and the Boys meet Dr. King-We Shall Overcome.

His desk phone rang. He grabbed it.

"Yes?"

Static hiss-long distance. A garbled Pete: "Ward, it's me."

The hiss built. The line buzzed. The hiss leveled flat.

"Where are you?"

"I'm in Mexico City. I'm losing the fucking connection, and I need a favor."

"Name it."

"I need Wayne to cut the apron strings and come to work for me."

Littell said, "With pleasure."

(Las Vegas, 9/30/64)

Janice fucked Clark Kinman. Wayne watched.

She left the lights on. She knew he was there. She rode Kinman. She showed her backside.

Wayne braced the mirror. Wayne sipped Wayne Senior's scotch. It was her sixth show. It was his sixth hide-and-see.

He surveilled the motel. Janice fucked every night. Wayne Senior caught her most times. The gigs were synced. Ditto the arrivals.

Kinman shows at 9:00. Janice shows at 9:10. Wayne Senior shows at 9:40. Kinman comes to fuck. Janice comes to act. Kinman co-stars unasked.

She fucked in the dark for Wayne Senior. She fucked in the light for Wayne.

He thought it out.

She saw him at Nellis. She _knew_ him. She _knew_ he'd break in. He'd log Wayne Senior's routine. He'd seize on his off nights and LOOK.

Janice bent back. Her hair flew. Wayne saw her face topsy-turvy. The speaker popped. Kinman moaned. Kinman said dumb sex things.

Janice bent up. Janice raised her hips. Wayne saw Kinman inside her.

Sol Durslag checked out. The Vegas _Sun_ ran the story. May '55-Wardell Gray/tenor sax. Beaten dead/body dumped/sand dune/DOA. No suspects-case closed.

Janice bent back. Her hair dropped. Wayne saw her eyes upside down.

Kinman moaned per I'm-coming. Kinman said dumb sex things. Janice grabbed a pillow. Janice muzzled him.

His toes curled. His knees contracted. His feet clenched. Janice rolled clear and free.

Kinman dumped the pillow. Kinman smiled and scratched his balls. Kinman tapped his Saint Chris on a chain.

They talked. Their lips moved. The speaker fuzzed sighs.

Kinman kissed his Saint Chris. "I always wear this for protection. Sometimes I think you're likely to kill me."

Janice sat up. Janice faced the mirror-wall.

Kinman said, "Wayne Senior should take better care of you. Shit, I think we've gone sixteen days straight."

Janice winked. Janice said, "You're the best."

"Tell true. Is he good?"

"No, but he's got qualities."

"You mean money."

"Not exactly."

"He's got to have something, or you'd've found yourself a steady before me."

Janice winked. "I've sent out invitations, but nobody knocked on my door."

"Some boys don't know how to read signs."

"Some boys need to look first."

"Shit, if your hubby could see you now."

Janice raised her voice. Janice talked overt slow.

"I had a thing with a musician once. Wayne Senior found out."

"What did he do?"

"He killed him."

"Are you ribbing me?"

"Absolutely not."

Kinman kissed his Saint Chris. "You'll be the ruin of me. Shit, and I thought Junior was the only killer in the family."

Janice got up. Janice walked to the mirror.

She primped. She fogged the glass. She licked a finger. She drew arrows and hearts.

o o o

A dust storm kicked through. Hot winds kicked sand and sagebrush.

Wayne drove to the ranch. Wayne walked to the guest house. Wayne saw a stray car en route.

There's Ward Littell.

He ducked the wind. He blocked Wayne's door. He looked sandblown and storm-fucked.

He said, "Your father sent you to Dallas."

_DOCUMENT INSERT_: 10/1/64. Covert Intelligence Dossier. From: John Stanton. To: Pete Bondurant. Marked: "Hand-Courier Only/Destroy Upon Reading."