(Washington, D.C., 1/20/69)
We have endured a long night of the American spirit. But as bur eyes catch the dimness of the first rays of dawn, let us not curse the remaining dark. Let us gather the light.”
They had boxed seats for the big speech. They had preferred parade-route passes. They had tickets for six inaugural balls.
The new prez soaked up applause. Froggy said, “He is a bland man. We must circumvent his lack of commitment to the Cuban Cause.”
Crutch touched his lapel pin-a solid gold 15. He took the scalps and kept his lunch down. Froggy bought him the pin. It honored his close-range-killer status. He still had nightmares per that eye socket.
“Our destiny offers, not the cup of despair, but the chalice of opportunity. So let us seize it, not in fear, but in gladness-”
There’s LBJ-exhausted and vicious. There’s Earl Warren, there’s Dick’s frau, Pat, there’s ex-Veep Humphrey. Hey, Baldy-Froggy and I keestered you!
Nixon shut it down to cheers and a standing ovation. Froggy mimicked snores. Senator Charles H. Percy scowled at him.
Everybody stayed standing and milked the moment. Crutch memorized details. LBJ’s heifer daughters. Some stray Kennedys. Hey, fuckers- Froggy shot your Uncle Jack!
Crutch stood there, clapping. People walked by him. He thought of his mother and Dana Lund. He touched his lapel pin. He thought of Joan. He thought of his case and the D.R. upcoming. The Nixster walked past. He’d shaved close this morning. Nixey sat out World War II on some Jap-free atoll. He killed Commies close range. Jack the K. killed Japs on PT-109. It was a shuck. Boats didn’t count. Jack was no close-range killer.
The crowd thinned out. Crutch re-memorized. Mesplede said, “Enjoy your extremely minor role in this, Donald. But remember that our destiny lies south of here.”
“Tell me again, Froggy. I dig the repetition of it.”
“What is that?”
“Tell me how we’re going to make the money to buy the guns to kill the Castro guys.”
“We are going to sell heroin.”
They ball-hopped. D.C. was all limos and floodlit monuments. The air was gunpowdered. Fireworks caused most of it. The rest was coons shooting guns off in coontown.
Yippies in Nixon masks weaved in and out of traffic. Crutch saw a mugging by the Lincoln Monument. They shared a limo with some GOP stiffs and Ronald Reagan. Crutch told Reagan he dug Hellcats of the Navy. Governor Ronnie grooved on Crutch and called him “young fellow.”
The ball-to-ball action was blurry. Crutch saw a million famous faces. Mickey Mantle, Floyd Patterson, some TV-show babes. Mummylike J. Edgar Hoover.
They got a tip on a bash at the Hay-Adams. They flagged down a gypsy cab and spent two hours driving six blocks. The driver was a Jamaican dinge with braided hair and a crocheted beanie. He said he was Pat Nixon’s lover. He had some homegrown ganga. They toked up and listened to a long travelogue. The dinge extolled the fine Dominican gash and warned them about Haiti. Voodoo be real. You got to bring good gre-gre. You put a virgin’s snatch hair in a locket and dangle it on your dick. You swear fealty to Baron Samedi.
They got to the Hay-Adams. The bill was two C-notes. The hotel looked familiar. Crutch got the gist: the dinge drove them in circles.
The lobby was plush. Mesplede saluted General Curtis LeMay. LeMay waved his cigar back. Crutch re-re-memorized. Open doorways/loud music/Lucy Baines Johnson and a stone swish actor doing the dirty-dog Twist.
The bash was in 1014. The doorway was open, the noise was big, the census was mob guys and pols. Crutch looked left and saw Bill Scranton and Carlos Marcello. Crutch looked right and saw Sam Giancana, snaked up with a tall brunette.
She turned their way. It was oh-my-fucking-God Gretchen Farr/Celia Reyes.
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Part III
January 24, 1969-December 4, 1970
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