(Los Angeles, 5/16/69)
Dwight said, “You’re afraid of something. Your hands are shaking.”
Dipshit slid a wire through a bore slot. His pliers jumped. Marsh Bowen’s pad was bug-tap-amenable. The phones were big and old-fashioned. The wall molding was soft.
“Don’t mess with me. I can’t concentrate.”
Dwight smiled. “It’s a periodic. Wayne will rotate through and check the listening post. He’ll tally the calls.”
The job entailed drill work. Dipshit was good. He laid down a drop cloth and kept his space tight. Marsh was at a BTA gig. They had three hours.
“How many Communists have you killed now?”
“More than you.”
“Are you still peeping?”
“I peeped your mother. She was turning tricks on skid row.”
Dwight laughed and checked out the living room. Marsh employed the Stanislavski Method. The crib was in character. Black-power posters, pix of foxy black chicks with guns.
“I was talking to President Nixon about you.”
Dipshit spackled a drill hole. His hand shook and held firm. He wore a tool belt and magnifier. The loser kid as bug pro.
“Don’t mess with me. We’re running late.”
“You and Bowen are soul brothers. You’re scaredy-cats, but you damn well persist.”
“Bowen’s your coon daddy. Come on, let me work.”
“How many Communists have you killed?”
“Jesus, man.”
Dwight checked his watch. It was midnight. Jig soirees ran to the wee small hours. Reefer and speeches, gasbags and demagogues.
Dipshit finished up. Hot-wired: two lamps, three wall panels, two phones. Dipshit was sweaty and dust-caked. Dwight tossed him a towel.
“How’s tricks in the D.R.? Are you peeping down there?”
Dipshit toweled off. “Quit riding me.”
Dwight walked the pad-final look-see, no loose ends. Marsh breathed the Method. Commie books, ribs in the fridge, no telltale cop or queer shit.
The job was good. No dust sprays, no mounts or wires loose.
Dipshit was nerve-knocked. His breath spurted. His legs fluttered. The tool belt jiggled on his hips.
Dwight said, “Don’t fuck up. Wayne’s looking to kill some fool right-winger.”
“He did not call JFK a cocksucker.”
Dwight did the hands-on-heart thing. “I’m not lying to you.”
Norm’s on Vermont. The 1:00 a.m. clientele: pot-smacked kids noshing budget steak meals.
Karen brought Eleanora. She snoozed in her car seat. Dwight kept staring at her.
“She looks like me.”
“No, she doesn’t. It was a procedure, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”
Dwight yukked and sipped coffee. Karen lit a cigarette. Dwight propped up a menu and shielded Ella from the smoke.
“You like Richard Nixon. I can’t believe what it says about you.”
Dwight smiled. “You love me. What does that say about you?”
Karen twirled her ashtray. “I have some friends in the San Mateo County Jail. They’re being denied habeas.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“How’s Mr. Hoover?”
“A little uptight.”
“Is Marshall Bowen your infiltrator?”
“No comment.”
“Is Joan as good an informant as I am?”
“Time will tell.”
Ella stirred. Dwight rocked the car seat. Karen peeked over the menu. Ella grinned and went back to sleep.
“You’re too thin, Dwight.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
Karen smiled. “Bad dreams?”
“You know the answer to that one.”
“I’ll qualify it, then. ‘Bad dreams born of a guilty conscience?’“
Ella kicked her leg out of the car seat. Dwight tucked it back in.
“I love her, you know.”
“Yes, I know that.”
They laced up their fingers. Dwight said, “Do you love me?” Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”
He dawdled at Norm’s. The geek show was a riot, the drop-front was musty, he wouldn’t sleep anyway.
Cops and peaceniks. Late-night film buffs. Stragglers from the porno book bin next door.
The waitress kept bringing coffee. Dwight smoked in sync with her. Time metastasized.
Wayne walked in and sat down. He was too thin. He had new gray hair.
Dwight said, “You’re the bad penny.”
“You know why I’m here.”
“We’ve been through this. I’ll admit that she works for me, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”
Wayne brushed off the waitress. “I saw a tall red-haired woman with a baby walk out of here an hour ago. I ran her plates and got her name, and I’m assuming that she was here with you.”
Dwight lit a cigarette. “Why did you assume that?”
“Because I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Dwight worried his law-school ring. It rolled across the table. Wayne rolled it back to him.
“I saw a photo of the faculty at a left-wing ‘Freedom School.’ Karen Sifakis and the woman we’re discussing were standing together.”
Karen said she never met Joan in person. She said they were mail-drop comrades. Joan said the same thing.
Dwight shrugged. Wayne said, “Tell me.” Dwight said, “I’m not going to.”
A gaggle of drunks walked in. Two cops at the counter bristled.
“Say her name, Wayne. I want to hear you say it.”
Wayne said, “Joan.”
Dwight did the hands-on-heart thing.