A breeze kicked dust clouds up. The access road hazed over. A big sedan turned off the Interstate and barreled in blind.

Pete stood aside. The car brodied to a stop. Fat Anton Gretzler got out.

Pete walked over to him. Gretzler said, “Mr. Peterson?”

“That’s me. Mr. Gretzler?”

Fats stuck his hand out. Pete ignored it

“Is something wrong? You said you wanted to see a lot.”

Pete steered Fat Boy down to a marsh glade. Gretzler caught on quick: Don’t resist. Gator eyes poked out of the water.

Pete said, “Look at my car. Do I look like some union schmuck in the market for a do-it-yourself house?”

“Well… no.”

“Then don’t you think you’re doing Jimmy raw by showing me these piece-of-shit pads?”

“Well…”

“Jimmy told me he’s got a nice block of houses around here just about ready to go. You’re supposed to wait and show them to the Teamsters.”

“Well… I thought I-”

“Jimmy says you’re an impetuous guy. He says he shouldn’t have made you a partner in this thing. He says you’ve told people he borrowed money from the Teamsters’ Pension Fund and skimmed some off the top. He’s says you’ve been talking up the Fund like you’re a made guy.”

Gretzler squirmed. Pete grabbed his wrist and snapped it- bones sheared and poked out through his skin. Gretzler tried to scream and choked up mute.

“Has the McClellan Committee subpoenaed you?”

Gretzler made “yes” nods, frantic.

“Have you talked to Robert Kennedy or his investigators?”

Gretzler made “no” nods, shit-your-pants scared.

Pete checked the highway. No cars in view, no witnesses-

Gretzler said, “PLEASE.”

Pete blew his brains out halfway through a rosary.

2

K e m p e r B o y d