The cold six thousand

78

(Chicago, 7/19/65)

Sam kvetched.

Per the jail food. Per the jail lice. Per his jail hemorrhoids.

Sam talked loud. The attorney room buzzed. The lice had feet. The lice had wings. The lice had fangs like Godzilla.

Littell stretched. His chair squeaked. The seat itched-lice like Godzilla.

Sam said, "I found a bug in my corn flakes this morning. He had a wingspan like a P-38. I attribute all this shit to the cocksucker who impaneled this cocksucking grand jury, that well-known cocksucker Robert E Kennedy."

Littell tapped his pen. "You'll be out in ten months. The jury term expires."

Sam scratched his arms. "I'll be dead in six months. You can't go up against lice that big and survive."

Littell laughed. Sam scratched his legs.

"It's all Bobby's fault. If the cocksucker ever runs for President, he will rue the fucking day, and that is no shit, Dick Tracy."

Littell shook his head. "He'll never try to hurt you again. He has a different agenda now."

Sam scratched his neck. "Right. He's in bed with the nigger agitators, which don't mean his hard-on for us has subsided."

A bug cruised the table. Sam smashed it.

"One for the home team. Breed no more, you cocksucker."

Littell cleared his throat. "We're on schedule in Vegas. We've got the board votes and the legislators. Mr. Hughes should get his money sometime next year."

Sam scratched his feet. "Too bad Jimmy won't be around to see it."

"I may be able to keep him out until after we get in."

Sam sneezed. "So he celebrates en route to Leavenworth. We keester Howard Hughes, and Jimmy packs his pj's for the pen."

"That's about it, yes."

Sam sneezed. "I don't like that look in your eyes. It says, 'I got some momentous shit for you, even though _you_ called _me_ in.'"

Littell cleaned his glasses. "I've talked to the others. They have an idea that they think you should consider."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Then _tell_ me. You've got this tendency to coax things and lay out these big preambles."

Littell leaned in. "They think you're through in Chicago. They think you're a sitting duck for the Feds and the State AG. They think you should move to Mexico and run your personal operations from there. They think you should start making Latin-American connections, to aid us in our foreign casino strategy, which will begin sometime after we sell Mr. Hughes the hotels."

Sam scratched his neck. Sam scratched his arms. Sam scratched his balls. A bug leaped. Sam caught it. Sam smashed it.

"Okay, I'll play. I know when over's over, and I know the future when I see it."

Littell smiled. Sam rocked his chair back.

"You still got that look. You should unload before I start itching again."

Littell squared his necktie. "I want to oversee the buyouts for the pension-book plan, assist in the foreign casino negotiations, and retire. I'm going to ask Carlos formally, but I wanted to get your blessing first."

Sam smiled. Sam stood up. Sam played street mime. He sprayed holy water. He gave Holy Communion. He ran the Stations of the Cross.

"You've got it. _If_ you help us out on one last thing."

"Tell me. I'll do it."

Sam straddled his chair. "We got hurt on the '60 election. I bought Jack West Virginia and Illinois, and he sicced his cocksucking kid brother on us. Now, Johnson's okay, but he's soft on the niggers, and he might not run in '68. The thing is, we're prepared to be very generous to the right candidate, if he pardons Jimmy and helps us out on some other fronts, and we want _you_ to work it out."

Littell inhaled. Littell exhaled. Littell went dead faint.

"Jesus Christ."

Sam scratched his hands. "We want Mr. Hughes to put up 25% of our contribution. We want our guy to agree to a hands-off policy on the Teamsters. We want him to slow down any Fed shit aimed at the Outfit. We want no foreign-policy grief aimed at the countries where we plant our casinos, right- or left-wing."

Littell inhaled. Littell exhaled. Littell went faint-faint.

"When?"

"The '68 primaries. Around that time. You know, the conventions."

A bug jumped. Sam caught it. Sam smashed it.

"Breed no more, you fuck."

o o o

Charts: Profit flow/overhead/debits.

Littell read charts. Littell studied charts. Littell took notes. He worked on the terrace. The view distracted him. He loved Lake Michigan.

The Drake Hotel-two-bedroom suite-on Sam Giancana.

Littell read charts. Fund-book stats jumped. Money lent/money invested/money repaid.

Business targets. Fund-financed. Potential takeover prey. Let's extort said businesses. Let's build foreign casinos. Let's buy a President. Let's shape policy. Let's reverse 1960. Let's spread our bets. Let's cover all odds. Let's subvert left-wing nations.

That was odd-the Outfit leaned right-the Outfit bribed right per said leaning.

Chicago broiled. Wind scoured the lake. Littell ditched his charts. Littell studied briefs.

Appeal briefs-let's keep Jimmy out. Stock briefs-let's get Drac in. It was shit work. It was repetitive. It was post-dead.

He got up. He stretched. He watched Lake Shore Drive. He saw car lights as streamers.

He went by his banks yesterday. He withdrew tithe money. He cut tithe checks. He mailed them. He worried a phone call.

He called Bayard Rustin. He lied off Bogalusa. He did it to protect himself. He did it to protect Pete and Wayne.

He'd read the papers. He saw the news. The church blew "accidental." No one linked Chuck. No one linked WILD RABBIT.

He called Bayard. He dittoed the news. He said a gas main blew. He cited fake sources. Bayard expressed gratitude. Bayard expressed belief. _He_ lied. _He_ lied deftly. _He_ acted late.

The church blew. His late fees accrued-fees for _his_ dead and maimed.

He saw the maimed. Some Feds saw him. Said Feds might inform Mr. Hoover. He got drunk. He killed Chuck. He got sober. He still wanted it. He still tasted it. Liquor signs glowed.

He killed Chuck. He slept twelve hours. He woke up to this: End it. Leave the Life. Cut and run when you can.

Sam said yes. Sam gave his blessing. Sam had stipulations. Carlos might say yes. Carlos might have stipulations.

Tithes/stipulations/election years.

He served Mr. Hoover. They colluded. It spawned BLACK RABBIT. It spawned WILD RABBIT. It spawned dead and maimed. He killed Chuck. Pete braced WILD RABBIT. It was catch-up penance. It was wholly insufficient.

The lake glowed. Cruise boats cruised. He saw bow lights. He saw dance bands. He saw women.

Jane was war now. Jane outflanked him. Jane _knew_ him before he _knew_ her. She knew he stole. She knew he bagged money. She knew he played covert tapes.

She went through his papers. He caught her at it. They retreated. They quashed talk. They quashed confrontations.

Jane had plans. He _knew_ it. She might want to hurt him. She might want to use him. She might want to know him more.

It scared him. It moved him. It made him want her more.

A boat drew close. A band played. A blue dress twirled. Janice wore dresses like that.

She was still bawdy. It was still good. She still served up stories and sex.

She dished Wayne Senior. The details scared him. Wayne Senior was FATHER RABBIT. Janice dished him. Janice loathed him. Janice still felt his hold.

The boat cruised by. The blue dress vanished. Littell called the Sands. Janice was out. Littell called the DI. Littell checked his messages.

One message: Call Lyle Holly-he's at the Riv. Shit-WHITE RABBIT wants you.

Littell got the number. Littell put the call off. Littell prepped a tape. Littell grabbed a spool.

Sam scared him. Sam waxed profane. Bobby/cocksucker/rue the fucking day.

Littell prepped his tape-rig. Littell memory-laned.

Chicago, 1960-the Phantom loves Bobby. Chicago, 1965-Bobby lives on tape.