(Las Vegas, 10/20/68)
She looked through you and saw you anyway. She made you look back.
He told her his Morty Sidwell story. He stressed the redneck jail, the bailout, the scarred woman. Reginald’s gun charge. Reginald’s books. Her son’s troika: chemistry, left-wing texts, Haitian voodoo herbs.
They perched at the rest stop. They sat in Wayne’s car for more legroom. Mary Beth brought sandwiches and coffee. It was pouring. The rain covered them-nobody shot them cheap looks.
Mary Beth said, “What will you do now?”
“Keep going. Build a file. Learn what I can about this secondary life your son had.”
“You wanted to say ‘secret life.’ ”
“Yes, I did.”
“Because you’ve got one yourself?”
Wayne sipped coffee. The cup burned his hands. Mary Beth got it fires-of-hell hot.
“I was reading you the whole time. The entire story was news to you.”
“We’ve never discussed your occupation. You talked to Howard Hughes and broke the color line, but I don’t know what you do the rest of the time.”
A gust hit them. The car swayed. Mary Beth grabbed the dashboard bar.
Wayne said, “I facilitate things for Mr. Hughes and some gentlemen with similar interests. I spend a fair amount of my time with police officers and political operatives.”
Mary Beth sighed. “ ‘Secret life’ is a euphemism. I’m seeing a secret world here.”
“I can’t tell you much more than that.”
“You deal with people I’d disapprove of. Let’s leave it there.”
Wayne messed with the defroster. It was a jumpy-hands task. The car got too cold or too hot. Mary Beth hit the Off slide and held his hand there.
“Last summer?”
“Yes.”
“Three of our loved ones died. The man who killed my husband was posthumously indicted for killing your father.”
Wayne slid his hand back. Mary Beth pinned it there.
“We never discuss it. You always bring up Reginald. You haven’t allowed me to mourn, and you haven’t done much mourning yourself.”
Wayne coughed. Mary Beth laced their fingers up. His legs fluttered.
“I don’t want us to live with all these dead people. We’ve had too much of that. I’ll be spending some time in southside L.A. soon, and I’ll be putting out some feelers on your son. He’s nineteen, he’s armed, he gets popped at a town on the Nevada-California border. My instincts are telling me LA”
Hailstones hit the car. Wayne jumped. Mary Beth said, “Why are you so afraid of me?”
Dwight said, “Hoover’s slipping. The old girl is in precipitous fucking decline. He’ll be shacking up with Liberace by this time next year.”
Wayne smiled. “You could retire and go into corporate law.”
Dwight smiled. “You could retire and teach basic chem at BYU.”
The Dunes lounge was mock-soothing. The mock-oasis look cohered. Mock sand drifts, mock camels at a chlorinated spring.
Wayne said, “The Dr. Fred job. What’s the status on that?”
Dwight tiki-torched a cigarette. “The same jigs robbed a house in Newport Beach. No fatalities, but the same glove prints and identical fibers at the scene. I think they saw Dr. Fred’s anti-spook shit. Things just escalated from there.”
Wayne sipped club soda. “I could use some help on the L.A. end of my business. The Peoples’ Bank and Black Cat Cab have defaulted their Teamster loans, so we’re taking them over. I think Black Cat would be a good informant hub for you. I was thinking you could get Mr. Hoover to frost potential trouble there.”
Dwight stood up. He was losing weight. His belt gun drooped to one side.
Wayne said, “No racial slurs around me, Dwight. I’d very much appreciate it.”
“Sure, kid. I’m not out to hurt you.”
Home was the Stardust. He had his living suite/chem lab upstairs. He’d need to rig a missing person file space soon. He ate in the downstairs coffee shop most evenings. It brought back Janice and his night-watch cop days.
Wayne worked on a cheeseburger. The coffee shop was integrated now. He coerced Dracula into compliance. Drac was devolving а la Mr. Hoover. Call it dope and longtime lunacy accruing. Farlan Brown confirmed the prognosis. LBJ thwarted Drac’s Vegas designs. Tricky Dick would comply. Farlan passed along gossip: the Count just suborned some key Humphrey aides. It covered him, poll-wise.
The burger was overcooked. The black folks two booths over got rude service.
Mesplede and Crutchfield were tricksterizing in Miami. Sam G.’s lawyers were buying out the defaulting market chain. He called the boss at Black Cat Cab this morning. A buyout chat was set for next week.
A black family walked in. Two white waitresses vanished. The hostess pretended they weren’t there.
Wayne walked up to his suite. The door was ajar. He pulled his ankle piece and eased the door open.
The living room lights were on. Mary Beth was on the couch. She wore a lovely beige dress.
“Ghetto skills and union connections. I bribed a chambermaid.”
Wayne reholstered. Mary Beth said, “Your laboratory smells more toxic than Reginald’s ever did.”
Wayne shut the door and pulled a chair up. Their knees were close. He slid the chair back. Mary Beth moved closer in.
“Why do you carry a gun?”
“I wish I didn’t have to.”
Mary Beth opened her purse. “I got something very strange in the mail today. It was sent anonymously. The oddest thing. It was wrapped in a newspaper clipping about my husband and Pappy Dawkins.”
The names burned for a second. Wayne held on her eyes. Mary Beth pulled out a wad of newspaper and unwrapped it. A green stone was tucked in the middle. It looked like an emerald.
It sparkled and glittered. Wayne stared at it. He leaned in to look closer. Mary Beth put her face up to his.
“We can’t hold hands outside or do public things. I don’t want to know about the bad things you do.”
They were close. He lost her eyes getting closer. She touched his lids and shut them for him. Their noses bumped as she brought him in for the kiss.