(Las Vegas, 8/29/68)
It was her. He knew it would be. He got the picture just to see her again.
It was a Nevada DMV photo. Mary Beth Hazzard sat posed for her driver’s license shot. She was born 6/4/24. She was ten years, one month and fourteen days older than him.
Wayne sat in his car, outside the DMV. He’d bribed a clerk for a copy of the woman’s driver file. License since 6/4/40. No moving violations. “Must wear corrective lenses to drive.”
He read that newspaper piece. He saw her at the funeral. The widow Hazzard. The missing son. I got your husband-
She ran the Hotel Workers’ Union. The union was fighting the Hotel Owners’ Council. The issue was segregation. Dracula owned a score of union-targeted hotels. Picketing was going down at a dozen locations. The LVPD was monitoring it.
Wayne looked at the picture. He couldn’t peel his eyes back. He liked the shape of her face and the flow of her hair.
(Las Vegas, 8/30/68)
The feed lines worked. The 307 to 308 wiring laid firm. Crutch bored a tiny spy hole through the wall yesterday. Sight and sound access, confirmed.
The console faced the connecting wall. Crutch settled in with his headphones. Fred T. was back in L.A. This gig was his solo.
The Frogman called him last night. Their talk calmed him down. Fuentes and Arredondo were rogue and Deep Red. The Chicago PD would short-shift their inquiry. The Frogman praised his balls and described a plan he was hatching.
Sabotage runs. Island hops with flamethrowers and C-4 explosives. Raids on Castro militia camps. Propaganda-leaflet runs. A heroin biz to finance the operation.
Froggy laid out the vile deeds of Fuentes and Arredondo. They were Red lice nesting in putain Fidel’s beard. Crutch started grooving on his Commo kills. He went to a seamstress and got little 2’s embroidered in his tartan bow tie.
The 308 door opened. Click/thump-that’s the sound. Crutch checked the spy hole. On time: Fred Otash and Wayne Tedrow.
They sat down. They chitchatted. They sat away from the lamp feed. Their voices were dim,
Click/thump-the door again. This time: a tall, gray-suited man. Crutch heard garbles and read lips. Fred O. and Wayne called the man Dwight.
The console-to-spy-hole cord was stretched taut. Crutch pulled up a chair and got adjusted. Note: re-spackle the spy hole tomorrow.
The doorbell rang. Fred O. opened up. Sacre Frog-there’s Jean-Philippe Mesplede.
Confluence. Clyde Duber’s word. It’s who you know and who you blow and how you’re all linked.
Wayne introduced Fred O. to the Frogman. They spewed some staticky talk. Fred O. introduced Dwight to the Frogman and spieled his last name as Holly.
Confluence. Dwight Holly knew Clyde. Dwight Holly tapped Clyde to tail Marsh Bowen in Chicago.
Crutch got situated. His headphones fit tight and the spy hole was there at eye level. The 308 crew pulled chairs up close to the lamp feed. Fred O. bopped to the wet bar and came back with highballs and chips. Dwight Holly declined the drink. The other guys dug in. Crutch got a vibe: this had nothing to do with his case.
Clock it-3:18 p.m. Roll the tape, live.
The guys settled in. Sentence fragments overlapped. Dwight and the Frogman lit cigarettes. Fred O. looked plump and sassy, back to his normal bulk. Wayne looked raggedy-ass and too thin.
Fred O. said, “Enough bullshit,” pitch-perfect headphone sound.
Dwight Holly said, “There’ll be six men. They always stay after hours. It’s always them and just them, and I don’t think they’ll vary the routine on the night we go in.”
Wayne said, “When?”
Fred O. said, “We’re set on my end. I’ve got the plant guns, Dwight’s got the dope. I think we can be in and out in five minutes.”
Dwight Holly said, “Four. The takedown will be easy. They’ll be blitzed and they’ll be surprised. It’s all about rigging the forensic. St. Louis PD has a shit crime lab, but I still want the wound spill and trajectories to make some kind of sense.”
Crutch started sweating. His earphones wetted up and produced crackle hiss. “Six men,” “plant guns,” “wound spill”-
Mesplede said, “ ‘Grapevine.’ That is an American colloquialism, correct? It means ‘a source of information.’ So, it is idiomatic. And in that manner, it becomes the name of a hoodlum’s meeting place.”
Fred O. yukked. Ditto Dwight. Wayne flinched. Crutch caught it late.
June 20. THAT NIGHT. Talk fragments-grapevine/Tommy/plant-Joan and Gretchen/Celia.
The headphones pooled sweat. Crutch whipped them off, wiped them dry and put them back on. He got four-way garbles, fuzz, bips, pops, line hiss. Sweat-clogged feeder lines, shit.
More bips and line hiss. Food noise-Fred O. and the Frogman snarfed chips. Crutch took the headphones off, shook them dry and put them back on. He pressed up to the spy hole. He squinted. He tried to read lips and gestures and sync them to hiss. He got squeaks, he got crackle, he got words here and there in the mix.
He heard “Memphis.” He saw Wayne twitch. He heard “patsy,” “King,” “Ray.” Dwight Holly and Wayne shared queasy looks. He heard food noise. He squinted harder. He breathed harder. He fogged up the spy hole. He lost a full minute to bip-bip-bips.
He heard “witness.”
He heard “grapevine” again.