(Las Vegas, 6/18/65)
Janice hit balls.
She chipped off her porch. Said porch as golf range—tee/putting strip/net.
It was hot. Janice wore a middy blouse and shorts. Littell watched her concentrate. Littell watched her hit.
Janice teed balls. Janice hit shots. Janice stretched the net. She swiveled. Her blouse gapped. Her beating scars flexed.
She said, “I saw Wayne Senior at the DI. He was making a phone call.”
Littell smiled. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you hate him, and you’re curious about the men I’ve slept with.”
Littell sipped coffee. “I hope I haven’t been prying.”
“That’s impossible with me. You know how I love to divulge.”
“I do know. It’s something that separates—”
“Me from Jane, I know.”
Littell smiled. “Tell me what you heard.”
Janice teed a ball. “He was in the casino, and he was using one of those courtesy phones. He didn’t see me behind him.”
“And?”
“And he was talking to a man named Chuck. He was talking about the bad reception from Vietnam, and he was cracking jokes about Bogalusa and ‘Bombalusa.’ ”
Littell stirred his coffee. “That’s it?”
“That and the way he was gloating, with that Indiana drawl of his.”
Hold it. Stop right—
Littell stirred his coffee. Littell thought it through. Bogalusa was East Louisiana. Bogalusa was Klan kountry.
Vote drives—right now—fronted by SCLC. BLACK RABBIT on go. Wayne Senior as FATHER RABBIT.
Hold it. Stop right—
You’re CRUSADER RABBIT. Bayard Rustin’s PINK. You taped PINK. PINK told you about Bogalusa. You told Mr. Hoover.
Mr. Hoover knows. Mr. Hoover never calls. Mr. Hoover pledges memos. Mr. Hoover sends none.
Janice built a martini. “Is there room for two in that trance of yours, or should I leave you alone?”
Littell coughed. “Do you have any idea who Chuck is?”
“Well, I’d say he’s that little man who flew a plane to Wayne Senior’s Christmas party, and showed up with your caveman friend Pete.”
Hold it. Stop right—
Chuck Rogers: Pilot/killer/racist nut/Dallas shooter. Vietnam and Pete’s gig—covert CIA.
FATHER RABBIT runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT is Army. WILD RABBIT serves “overseas.” Mr. Hoover talked rabbits. Mr. Hoover talked dates. WILD RABBIT to leave the Army—5/65. WILD RABBIT to go Klan then.
“Ward, am I going to have to do a striptease to pull you out of that trance?”
He worried it. He tested it. He dreamed RABBITS. He carried it with him. He brought it home. He slept with it.
BOMBalusa. BOMBingham: September ’63. A bomb blows at 16th Street Baptist Church. Four Negro girls die.
He woke up. He made coffee. He built rationales:
Don’t call Mr. Hoover. Don’t raise an alarm. Don’t call Pete. Don’t mention Chuck. Don’t breach need-to-know. Don’t call Bayard. Don’t probe Bogalusa. Don’t sound his alarm.
Don’t call BLUE RABBIT. Don’t call WHITE RABBIT. Don’t rouse the Holly boys. They hate Negroes. They love Mr. Hoover.
Wayne Senior’s FATHER RABBIT. FATHER knows Chuck. FATHER runs WILD RABBIT. WILD RABBIT runs a klavern. The Feds fund it and impose rules:
“Operational guidelines.” “Violence to sustain informant credibility.” BOMBingham/BOMBalusa/BOMB—
Littell grabbed the phone. Littell called Barb. Littell ran a riff:
Laos. Pete’s dope clique. Is Chuck Rogers in?
Barb said, “Yes.”
Littell hung up. Littell called the switchboard. Littell braced an operator: Get me U.S. Customs—the passport office—New Orleans.
The operator ran it. Littell got the number. Littell dialed direct.
A man picked up. “Customs, Agent Bryce.”
“My name’s Ward Littell. I’m ex-FBI, with reserve credentials. I was hoping you’d do me a favor.”
“Well, sure, if I can.”
Littell grabbed a pen. “I need you to check your recently collated entries for flights from Laos and Vietnam. I’m looking for commercial or military landings at Customs-manned facilities in your jurisdiction, and I need the names on the passport-check lists.”
Bryce coughed. “Can you hold? I doubt if we’ve had more than three or four of those, tops.”
Littell said, “I’ll hold.”
Bryce hit a button. The connection fuzzed. Static hit the line. Littell held. Littell checked his watch. Littell counted rabbits.
BLUE RABBIT/WILD RABBIT/RED RABBIT. Three minutes/forty-two sec—
Bryce picked up. “Sir? We’ve only got one. I—”
“Can you give—”
“One ordnance flight. Saigon to the Air National Guard facility near Houston. The crew plus one passenger, a man named Charles Rogers.”