Freddy climbed in the van. He adjusted some graph gizmo and spritzed grief straight off.
“That Fed that just walked by keeps checking out the van. I’m parked here at all fucking hours, and all he needs to do is sweep me with a fucking Geiger counter to figure out I’m doing the same fucking thing he is. I can’t park around the fucking block ‘cause I’ll lose the fucking signal. I need a fucking house around here to work from, ‘cause then I can set up some equipment that’s fucking powerful enough to pick up from the Shoftel babe’s pad, but that fucking Fed bagged the last fucking For Rent sign in the fucking neighborhood, and the fucking two hundred a day you and Jimmy are paying me ain’t enough to make up for the fucking risks I’m taking.”
Pete snagged an ice cube and squeezed it into shards. “Are you finished?”
“No. I’ve also got a fucking boil on my fucking ass from sleeping on the fucking floor here.”
Pete popped a few knuckles. “Wrap it up.”
“I need some good money. I need it for fucking hazardous-duty pay, and to upgrade this operation with. Get me some good money and I’ll kick a nice piece of it back to you.”
“I’ll talk to Mr. Hughes and see what I can do.”
o o o
Howard Hughes got his dope from a nigger drag queen named Peaches. Pete found the drop pad cleaned out–the queen next door said Peaches went up on a sodomy bounce.
Pete improvised.
He drove to a supermarket, bought a box of Rice Krispies and pinned the toy badge inside to his shirt front. He called Karen Hiltscher at R&I and glommed some prime information: the fry cook at Scrivner’s Drive-In sold goofballs and might be extortable. She described him: white, skinny, acne scars and Nazi tattoos.
Pete drove to Scrivner’s. The kitchen door was open; the geek was at the deep fryer, dipping spuds.
The geek saw him.
The geek said, “That badge is a fake.”
The geek looked at the freezer–a sure sign that he stored his shit there.
Pete said, “How do you want to do this?”
The geek pulled a knife. Pete kicked him in the balls and deepfried his knife hand. Six seconds only–pill heists didn’t rate total mayhem.
The geek screamed. Street noise leveled out the sound. Pete shoved a sandwich in his mouth to muzzle him.
His dope stash was in the freezer next to the ice cream.
o o o
The hotel manager gave Mr. Hughes a Christmas tree. It was fully flocked and decorated–a bellboy left it outside the bungalow.
Pete carried it into the bedroom and plugged it in. Sparkly lights blinked and twinkled.
Hughes blipped off a Webster Webfoot cartoon. “What is this? And why are you carrying a tape recorder?”
Pete dug through his pockets and tossed pill vials under the tree. “Ho, ho, fucking ho. It’s Christmas ten days early. Codeine and Dilaudid, ho, ho.”
Hughes scrunched himself up on his pillows. “Well… I’m delighted. But aren’t you supposed to be auditioning stringers for Hush-Hush?”
Pete yanked the tree cord and plugged in the tape rig. “Do you still hate Senator John F. Kennedy, Boss?”
“I certainly do. His father screwed me on business deals going back to 1927.”
Pete brushed pine needles off his shirt. “I think we’ve got the means to juke him pretty good in Hush-Hush, if you’ve got the money to keep a certain operation going.”
“I’ve got the money to buy the North American continent, and if you don’t quit leading me on I’ll put you on a slow boat to the Belgian Congo!”
Pete pressed the Play button. Senator Jack and Darleen Shoftel boned and groaned. Howard Hughes clutched his bedsheets, dead ecstatic.
The fuck crescendoed and diminuendoed. Jack K. said, “My goddamn back gave out.”
Darleen said, “It was goooood. Short and sweet’s the best.”
Pete pressed Stop. Howard Hughes twitched and trembled.
“We can have Hush-Hush print this up if we’re careful, Boss. But we’ve got to watch the wording real close.”
“Where… did… you… get that?”
“The girl’s a prostitute. The FBI had her place wired, and Freddy Turentine hooked up on top of it. So we can’t print anything that would tip the Feds off. We can’t print anything that only could have come from the bug.”