(Santo Domingo, 5/3/69)
He couldn’t shake the picture. Shit kept reminding him. He found that golf-course bunker. La Banda left a black guy strapped in. His palms had melted on the electrodes. The restraints burned him bone-deep.
Crutch waited at the airport. Sam G.’s flight was due. The VIP lounge was up and going. The seats were thronelike. They had that ELECTRIC CHAIR look.
The flight was late. Drac Air always ran tardy. The lounge featured Fьhrer art. Oil paintings of the Midget hogged wall space.
Crutch fretted. Wayne was due back soon. He had skim money for the casino build. Wayne laid down that no-dope law. Tiger Krew defied it four times. Four runs to Puerto Rico. Four layoffs to Luc’s guys in Port-au-Prince. Subsequent sales to Haitian hopheads.
Sam’s flight was late. Sam might have Gretchen/Celia in tow. Crutch volunteered for the chauffeur gig. Froggy found that hinky.
His case was popping. He ID’d his murder vie: Maria Rodriguez Fontonette, aka “Tattoo.” He saw that list of massacred Haitians. He memorized the names. It might supply leads. He gave Froggy an update. Froggy scoffed at him. “This is simply your voyeur fixation run amok. Kill more Communists and obsess on fewer women.”
The Drac Air flight descended. Little kids ran up and tossed leis. It was the Midget’s idea. He went to Hawaii once.
A baggage cart whizzed by. It looked like a mobile ELECTRIC CHAIR. The electrodes liquefied the guy’s skin. Rich beaners played golf overhead.
His case was all voodoo. That be baaaad juju. Beware the Zombie Zone.
Sam G. said, “For all his crazy nigger shit, Wayne is a fucking white man. He’s got the stateside funnel running like a charm. We’re pushing skim from our Vegas hotels through this nigger-owned bank in L.A. We’ve got Tiger Kab and the jig clubs for the residual wash. Wayne’s been keestering Hughes and running our Teamster buyout gig like a fucking virtuoso.”
No Gretchen/Celia-that was a bust. The caffeinated Sambo was an equal drag. They toured the Santo Domingo sites. Sam was impressed. The foundations were poured. The first two floors were erected. La Banda bullwhipped the slaves and fed them bennie-laced Kool-Aid. Work proceeded faaaast.
They drove up to Jarabacoa. The Autopista was rife with rickshaws and Haitian refugees. Sammy got spooked. The shines were machete-mauled and wore chicken-head hats. Luc and the Cubans waited in Jarabacoa. Crutch pre-warned them: Don’t mention Big “H” to Big G.
Sam said, “I’m having dinner with Balaguer, and I’m going to have to castigate him about all these evil boogies in plain view of the tourist trade. Batista was excellent in that regard. The downtrodden knew not to fuck with the white visiting class and the light-skinned beaners who ran the show. I am going to make that precise comment to El Jefe.”
Headless hens impaled on cane stalks. Blood-marked trees. D.R. cops with leashed mastiffs. Wetback spooks sprinting.
Sam said, “This needs to be curtailed. If folks want a scary thrill, they can take the Mr. Toad ride at Disneyland.”
A shine in a chicken hat hitchhiking. He’s got zombie eyes. He’s jacking off. He’s got a two-foot dick.
Sam pulled Crutch’s sidearm and fired at him. The shot blew wide and nailed a tree-lynched bird.
Crutch kept it zipped. Sam said, “This country needs a Billy Graham Crusade. You bring the Reverend Graham in to create a sanctified mood, then all the converts backslide at the crap tables. Shit like that can flourish in a properly suppressed climate.”
Jarabacoa was a-go-go. Three floors were up. The slaves worked rapidamente. The Midget’s contractors pushed them. The Cubans dispensed discipline. The whole group swigged Kool-Aid. It created conviviality. Luc brought his three pit bulls. They wore sequined collars and pointy voodoo hats attached with strings.
Crutch slurped Kool-Aid. The buzz hit him quick. The Krew lounged at a picnic table. Luc nuzzled his dogs. Sam pointed to Luc’s emerald ring.
“What is it about emeralds?”
Luc said, “Say what, baby man? Please tell me what you mean.”
Sam yawned. “I mean, there’s people who dig gemstones in general, and people who only dig emeralds, and when they dig emeralds, they dig emeralds in a big way.”
Luc smiled. “I understand this. There is a tradition of emerald worship both in Haiti and the D.R. Emeralds represent ‘Green Fire’ in voodoo text. They shine light on a dark history.”
Sam yawned wide. “My girlfriend Celia’s Dominican. She can talk emerald lore up the ying-yang.”
Crutch volted off “Celia.” Luc bristled weird.
“And what is Celia’s surname? Je m’appelle Celia who?”
Sam said, “Celia Reyes. She’s meeting me at the hotel later, which means I should scram.”
Luc re-bristled. Crutch re-volted. A pit bull went aaaa-oooo!