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BR: It’s redundant. The mail teams dust the incomings. Everything’s been wiped by the time he sees it.

FR: Shitfire. My boy’s a chemist. He sprays the pages with some goop called ninhydrin and brings up partial prints all the time. He said he’s working out his technique, and one of these days he’ll be able to bring up completes.

BR: Okay. He’s good. You’ve convinced me.

FR: And he’s careful.

BR: He’d better be. We do not want it known that outside eyes saw that mail.

FR: I told you. He’s care—

BR: What about prospects?

FR: None so far. All he’s got are a bunch of lunatics who sound like they’re one step ahead of the net.

BR: Bob’s got a prospect. We might not need Wayne’s help on that end.

FR: Bob should have told me. Shitfire, I’m his runner.

BR: You’re his Daddy Rabbit. There’s things he won’t tell you for just that reason.

FR: All right. You tell me.

BR: The guy escaped from the Missouri State Pen in April. Bob knew him when he worked as a guard there. They were jungled up in Bob’s right-wing foolishness.

FR: That’s all you’ve got?

BR: Bob’s pouching me a memo. I’ll forward it to you.

FR: Shit, Dwight. You know I’ve got a veto on this.

BR: Yeah, you do, and we won’t use the guy unless we both agree that he’s perfect.

FR: Come on. You owe me more—

BR: He’s on the lam. He was afraid to stay at Bob’s compound, so he split to Canada. Bob’s got a line on him. If we agree that he’s the guy, I’ll send Fred Otash up to work him.

FR: Hands-on? I thought we’d bring in some cutouts.

BR: I made Freddy lose 60 pounds. He was tall and heavy, now he’s tall and thin.

FR: He looks different.

BR: Completely. He’s Lebanese, he speaks Spanish, we can pass him off as some kind of beaner. Bob said the prospect is malleable. Freddy eats up that kind of guy.

FR: You like the guy.

BR: He’s a strong prospect. Read the memo and let me know what you think.

FR: Shit. This is taking time.

BR: All good things do.

FR: Someone might beat us to it.

BR: If they do, they do.

FR: What’s Mr. Hoover been—

BR: He’s afraid that Marty and Bobby will team up. It’s all he talks about. BLACK RABBIT’s been up in the air since the shakedown flopped. Hoover knows I’m “exploring more radical means,” but he hasn’t asked me a single question about it since I made the proposal.

FR: That means he knows what you’re planning.

BR: Maybe, maybe not. Second-guessing the old poof gets us nowhere.

FR: Dwight, Jesus.

BR: Come on. Remember what I told you? He can’t read minds and he can’t patch scrambled calls.

FR: Still.

BR: What about Durfee? Have your LAPD guys turned up anything?

FR: Nothing. They’ve got covert bulletins out, but they haven’t got a single goddamn bite.

BR: First we’ve got to find him. Then we’ve got to rig it so Wayne doesn’t know that we’re handing him up.

FR: That’s easy. We stiff a call through Sonny Liston, who’s allegedly got people out looking for Durfee, not that that impresses—

BR: I want that wedge. I’m not bringing Wayne any closer without one.

FR: I owe him Durfee. I have a debt to repay to him, and Durfee will settle it.

BR: I’ll put my sources on him. Between yours and mine, we might hit.

FR: Let’s try. I owe Wayne that.

BR: I’m glad I never had any kids. They end up killing unarmed Negroes and pushing heroin.

FR: The Gospel According to Dwight Chalfont Holly.

BR: Enough. Let’s discuss ops money.

FR: I’m in for two hundred cold. You know that.

BR: Otash wants fifty cold.

FR: I’m sure he’s worth it.

BR: Bob’s putting in a hundred.

FR: Shitfire. He hasn’t got that kind of money.

BR: Are you sitting down?

FR: Yes. Why—

BR: I was down in New Hebron. I saw Bob dipping the numbers off some flamethrowers he was getting ready to route to the Gulf. They had triple-zero prefixes, which I just happened to know designates CIA-disbursement lots. I asked Bob about it. He lied, which was the wrong thing to do under the circumstances.

FR: You’re talking Swahili, Dwight. I’ve got no idea where this is going.

BR: