It happened just this morning. It was the single most shocking event of my life, both eclipsing and enhancing that day six years and one month ago. I have memorized it instant to instant and will extend the process of mindscaping it, so that I never forget.
I woke up later than usual; late fragments of a dream were passing through my head. The backdrop was an amalgam of the clubs on Central Avenue, replete with posing black militants and white hangers-ons. Benny Boles, Joan Klein and the late Jomo were in the mix; I cannot specifically recall anyone else. Music was playing-hard bop-and it faded into police-band radio crackle. I sat up in bed and realized that the pigs were parked in the driveway outside my apartment door.
I put on a robe, walked to the door and opened it. Scotty Bennett was standing there. He was wearing a tan poplin suit, a plaid bow tie and a straw porkpie hat. He handed me a bottle of Seagram’s Crown Royal with a red ribbon tied around the neck. He said precisely this: “Don’t say I never gave you anything but trouble.”
It wasn’t horrifying or intimidating or in any way erotic. Scotty smiled and said, “Let’s talk about the heist. There’s what you know and what I know. Let’s make up and make some money. Let’s get you back on LAPD.”
The doorjamb kept me upright as I went light-headed. Scotty said, “I picked up a tip. Some Commie woman wants to unload three pounds of junk on the BTA. Let’s see if we can make you a hero on that one.”
The word hero was transformative; the most vicious killer pig of his era grew a halo and angel’s wings. Scotty winked at me. I faltered at winking back and stuck out my hand. Scotty hugged me instead.
(Las Vegas, 3/22/70)
The Boys kept calling. Ivar Smith backstopped them. It was all anti-Red rage.
6/14 torched the sites. Prescient-the Midget just okayed four more builds. Wayne took the calls: Carlos, Santo, Sam. Terry Brundage called. Mesplede called. The rage level built. The calls stopped dead two days back.
He played along. He expressed his own faux rage.
Dream State.
Wayne studied his wall graph. The Leander James Jackson box grabbed him. He stared at it. He drew connecting lines. He recalled his trip out.
The roundups were starting. He called Celia. She said his work inspired their work. Safe houses were hiding their people. La Banda would find people to interrogate and maim. There would be a fearful cost. We have to say it-belief works that way.
Airport security was threadbare. The customs crew got pulled for the Red raids. He flew out easy.
Wayne drew lines. The re-click clicked. Memory tug and loss. It clicked to Joan’s redacted file. It was a brain tweak. He got that tug and no more.
He stepped back and reframed the wall. He took in broad data. He saw a tacked-on note slip off to one side. He knew it wasn’t his.
“Dear Mrs. Hazzard.” Dipshit’s indictment. Mary Beth’s response scrawled below.
“I find this fully credible. If you had told me yourself, I might have forgiven you.”
He signed papers at his lawyer’s office. He went by the Hughes Tool Company and cashed out a bank draft. He flew to L.A. and drove to the Peoples’ Bank. Lionel Thornton let him into the vault. He bagged $1.4 million in casino skim, Tiger Kab receipts and after-hours club profits. He filled three briefcases. He called Hughes Charter and booked a Santo Domingo night.
Trees grew upside down. Joan tossed emeralds and seeded clouds. Each raindrop was a mirror.
He saw his childhood in Peru, Indiana. He saw Dwight and Wayne Senior and the Klan in disarray. His mother walked into a raindrop. He learned chemistry at BYU. Molecular charts etched themselves green. Tree roots reversed their growth. They held his eyes and let him look in. He saw Little Rock ‘57 and Dallas ‘63. JFK waved good-bye. Wendell Durfee laughed. He apologized to Reginald Hazzard for not finding him.
The air melted. Moist particles produced snow. Dr. King whispered chemical equations. The world made sense for an instant. Joan rubbed emerald dust on her knife scar and watched it heal. Janice told him not to worry. The planets realigned themselves and explained physics as whim. He heard “belief works that way” and let his eyes rest on the sun.
A cab ran him to Borojol. The driver was spooked. Red alert-you could see it.
The door knocks, the traffic stops, the street roust/shakedowns. The cops on rooftops with binoculars. The cops scanning crowds and mug-shot sheets.
The cab dropped Wayne at the safe house. A window was half-cracked. He smelled blood and disinfectant and heard half a scream.
Joan appeared in the window. They looked at each other. She saw his suitcases and gestured to someone inside. The door opened. Wayne turned that way. A young man grabbed the suitcases and ran back in.
Wayne looked in the window. Joan placed her hand on the glass inside. Wayne placed his hand over hers. The glass was warm. Their eyes held. Joan walked away first.
A cab dropped him at the river. He crossed the bridge into Haiti at dusk. A Tonton man recognized him-Зa va, boss.
Wayne walked into a village. Masked revelers danced through a graveyard. Men sat propped up on tombstones. They were motionless. Le poudre zombi-goblets rolled off their laps.
The revelers wore machetes in scabbards. Their masks were blood-smeared. The air was scent-thick: reptile powder and poultry musk.
Wayne walked into a tavern. Bizango-sect banners created a mood. He attracted a range of looks. He pointed to bottles and created a concoction he’d never tried before. The barman built his drink. A green foam burned his eyes as he drank it. He left much too much money on the bar.
Two graveyards bisected the next tavern stretch. Wayne walked across them and read headstones in French. His ancestors reburied themselves under his feet. He saw a zombified man convulse. He tasted the gunpowder and tree-frog liver in his drink.
Masked revelers followed him. A dog wearing a pointed hat bit him and ran off. He eyeball-tracked constellations. He fluttered his lids and made meteors arc.
The click revealed itself. Thomas Frank Narduno, dead at the Grapevine. Joan’s known associate. A Joan-to-Dwight motive yet to play out.
He entered a tavern and ordered a potion. Six bokurs watched him drink it. Two men offered blessings. Four men waved amulets and hexed him. He left much too much money on the bar.
He walked outside. The sky breathed. He felt the moon’s texture. Craters became emerald mines.
An alleyway appeared. A breeze carried him down it. Leaves stirred and sent rainbows twirling. Three men stepped out of a moonbeam. They wore cross-draw scabbards. They had bird wings where their right arms used to be.
Wayne said, “Peace.”
They pulled their machetes and cut him dead right there.