Wayne decided to murder his father. Wayne decided that Janice should beat him dead with a golf club.

Carlos kept a mock-Roman suite at the Sands. A toga-clad geek played centurion and let Wayne in. The suite featured mock-Roman pillars and sack-of-Rome art. Price tags drooped from wall frames.

A buffet was laid out. The geek sat Wayne down at a lacquered table embossed with SPQR. Carlos walked in. He wore nubby silk shorts and a stained tuxedo shirt.

Wayne stood up. Carlos said, “Don’t.” Wayne sat down. The geek spooned food on two plates and vanished. Carlos poured wine from a screw-top bottle.

Wayne said, “It’s a pleasure, sir.”

“Don’t make like I don’t know you. You’re Pete and Ward’s guy, and you worked for me in Saigon. You know more about me than you should, plus all the shit in that file. I know your story, which is some fucking story compared to the other dickhead stories I heard lately.”

Wayne smiled. Carlos pulled two bobbing-head dolls from his pockets. One doll represented RFK. One doll represented Dr. King. Carlos smiled and snapped off their heads.

“Salud, Wayne.”

“Thank you, Carlos.”

“You’re looking for work, right? This ain’t about a handshake and a thank-you envelope.”

Wayne sipped wine. It was present-day liquor-store vintage.

“I want to assume Ward Littell’s role in your organization, along with the position in the Hughes organization that my father has just inherited from Ward. I have the skills and the connections to prove myself valuable, I’m prepared to favor you in all my dealings with Mr. Hughes, and I’m aware of the penalties you dispense for disloyalty.”

Carlos speared an anchovy. His fork slid. Olive oil hit his tux shirt.

“Where’s your father going to be throughout all of this?”

Wayne toppled the RFK doll. A plastic arm fell off. Carlos picked his nose.