(New Orleans, 4/4/70)
U-turns and wrong turns. Mis-marked cul-de-sacs. The road map was ten years outdated.
Signs sent him down exits and back to cloverleafs. He dodged road debris and loafing hard hats. It was hot. Things looked florid. The world moved slow as he ran breathless.
Dwight cut down an access road. Finally-signs to the Town amp; Country.
He was full-fucked shot. He stayed alone with it. Karen was back east and Joan vanished. It was full-time overtime. He saw the crime-scene pix. They looked bogus. LAPD bought or went along with Marsh Bowen’s version. Dipshit sent him a note.
“Dwight-I saw Marsh with Scotty B., two nights before the shootings. They looked friendly. It surprised me, so I thought you should know.”
The road was potholed. Wetlands pressed up on both sides. Dwight pulled into a clearing. The motel was L-shaped and sandblasted pink. Three golf carts sat outside the office.
Dwight parked beside them. The office door was open. A golf ball dribbled out and rolled down the steps. It was a stop frame. It ran heat-sapped slow. Everything he saw looked scary.
He locked up the car and walked over. His suit wilted. He saw Santo, Sam and Carlos in golf duds.
The office was knotty pine. The Boys sat in beanbag chairs and poured liqueurs from cut-glass decanters. Carlos pointed to a chair and the door. Dwight complied. Santo slapped a wall unit and roused cold air.
Sam said, “Dwight’s too thin.”
Santo said, “This is not a man bearing glad tidings.”
Carlos said, “We’ve got good news. Let’s hope his bad news don’t intervene.”
Dwight sank into his chair. Air swooshed out of it. He felt weightless.
Santo sipped anisette. “Dwight H. at a loss for words. What’s this I’m seeing?”
Sam sipped Galliano. “He’s been eating crow. He’s lost weight on the all-crow diet.”
Carlos sipped XO. “He’s a man who’s suffered a loss. Wayne T. torched the building sites and robbed us blind for God knows what reason. He’s coming to grips with all the grief caused by that Mormon cocksucker.”
Dwight said, “I know you have plans. I only need a few minutes of your time.”
Santo sipped anisette. “You’re right in that regard. Time is a commodity we are currently short of.”
Sam sipped Galliano. “I’m writing a book about Wayne. It’s called Death of a Coon Hunter.”
Carlos sipped XO. “Some Reds fried Tiger Krew. I’m betting they went out shooting.”
Santo switched to Drambuie. “They were too zealous for my taste. Tell it like it is. They were right-wing nuts.”
Sam switched to schnapps. “Dipshit is the last man standing. He was off peeping windows when the Krew got barbecued.”
Carlos sipped XO. “Why mourn recent history? Balaguer’s back in the fold and picking our pockets anew. This time we won’t hire nigger-lovers or neo-Nazi mercs with sidebar agendas.”
Santo sipped Drambuie. “White stiffs love to lose money in lush tropical locales. It’s the Age of Aquarius, baby.”
Sam said, “Let the sun shine in.”
Carlos said, “Right on, brother. Let it all hang out.”
Dwight shook his head. “No foreign casinos. That’s straight from President Nixon. The D.R. was a goddamn big fuckup. It’s not going to happen again. The president is emphatic. You’ll find him cooperative in every other way, but your casino plan is dead as of now.”
They stared at him. They did double takes. It went stop frame and triple time.
Carlos threw his glass at him. It hit the wall and cracked. Santo and Sam threw their glasses. They fell short of the chair. Too-sweet booze splashed him.
Dwight got up and walked out. His legs caved. He fell into the car. He saw a bed and a lawn at the end of a tunnel.
(Los Angeles, 4/5/70)
The lot.
Old home week.
Back in the fold.
Dipshit, pariguayo. You killed the guy who killed JFK. You offed umpteen Reds and had boocoo adventures. You’re twenty-five. You’ve got gray-flecked hair and lines on your face. Your back is all sliced up.
Crutch sat in his sled. The old crew circulated. Clyde and Buzz Duber, Phil Irwin and Chick Weiss. Bobby Gallard and Fred Otash.
He got more are-you-all-rights and you-don’t-look-so-goods. Fred O. evil-eyed him. Freddy was in on the King-Bobby hits. Freddy knew he knew. It was all stale bread now.
Biz circulated. Chick sent Bobby and Phil out on a rope job. That producer at the Ravenswood was priapic. Wife #3 craved Splitsville while hubby craved Greek meat.
Hey, man. Weren ‘t you embroiled in some cool shit in the Caribbean?
Not so cool. I should have stayed home.
He cut the villagers loose. They did a big-white-bwana number and ran into the brush. He torched Tiger Kar and walked back to Santo Domingo. He packed up and got the fuck out of Dodge.
The Boys never braced him. He got to L.A. and dismantled the fail-safes. He re-clicked with Clyde and Buzz and went back to tail jobs. Buzz buzz-bombed him with questions. He downplayed everything. Buzz asked him about his case. He said he gave it up.
A rainstorm came on. The guys perched in their cars. He was eight days back. Clyde saw that he was fucked-up and ladled work on him. He deployed that heavy-hung Filipino across all gender lines. He kicked in doors and snapped mucho pictures. Sal Mineo needed gelt and consented to pork a woman. The deal died with Sal’s soft dick. It felt wrong. It should have jazzed him. It scared him, instead.
Everything scared him.
Nothing clicked in safe. He had his pad at the Vivian and his file pad downtown. They felt unsafe. He picked at his mother’s file and his case file. That felt unsafe. He peeped Hancock Park. Julie Smith was married, pregnant and out of the house. Dana Lund had a dimwit boyfriend. She’d aged as much as he had.
Crutch tapped the ignition and ran the radio. He heard a song burst: “Faces come out of the rain.” It spooked him. It was voodoo-derived. The song was aimed at him. It was raining now. He squinted out the windshield and tried to read faces. Zilch-just pedestrians with umbrellas.
He sees signs everywhere. He stays up all night or sleeps too long. He has these kid crying jags-Dipshit, pariguayo. He sees shit involuntarily. They’re Zombie Zone re-takes with L.A. backdrops.
His case was deactivated somewhere in his head. It was there, back burner boiling. Leander James Jackson was Laurent-Jean Jacqueau, but both guys were dead. Gretchen/Celia was somewhere. It hurt to think about Joan.
The rain came down zigzagged. Crutch saw two fender benders. Radio news blah-blah’d: Hanoi Jane Fonda and James Earl Ray.
Crutch doused it. A black chick walked down Beverly. The hex backfired-he thought about Wayne.
You tried to tell me, I didn’t listen, I ratted you out. You’re dead inside days and I’m here. Fucker, you re-hexed me. I can’t keep food down. I’m afraid to be alone and I schiz around people. I went to church this morning. I wanted to revoke the hex. The pastor kicked my peeper ass off the pew.
Pariguayo in English: “party-watcher.”
Clyde took him to a big LAPD bash. Jack Webb served as emcee. Marsh Bowen got the Medal of Valor.
Marsh was a fruit. Who knew and who didn’t? Who did and didn’t care? Marsh posed for pix with Scotty Bennett. They were salt-and-pepper pals now. The “Black-Militant Blastout”?-a righteous Fed snafu. Big Dwight’s operation backfires and the fuzz make hay. Dwight was off somewhere. He called the drop-front a bunch of times and got no answer.
Thunder and lightning cracked. The sky went flamethrower red. Crutch got a fear jolt. He ran to the service bay and stood under the roof.
Two mechanics worked on a ‘62 Olds. Crutch watched them pull the flywheel and re-fit the clutch. A newspaper was creased flat on the workbench. Crutch checked it out.
The Vegas Sun. A piece on Wayne’s funeral. A photo of Mary Beth Hazzard, black-veiled.
She wept. She believed what he told her and grieved nonetheless.
The Stardust was mid-Strip. Wayne’s suite had an easy-shim door. He’d read a book on voodoo. Hex removal was a snap. You touched the victim’s belongings and retrieved your thoughts. He didn’t believe it. It was Lutheran text removed a million heartbeats. He figured he owed Wayne.
The drive took six hours. The rain never let up. Faces came and went with the radio music. He parked underground and elevatored to Wayne’s floor. Nobody answered his door knock. He shimmed the door and got in.
The suite looked the same. The same furniture, the same caustic stink. The place looked preserved.
He walked back to the lab. A file space was built right beside it. Paper stacks, boxes, wall graph. A replay of his file nooks.
The arrows, the connecting lines. The neat handwritten notes.
He followed lines and arrows. Facts, logic, conjecture. It all made perfect sense.
Mary Beth’s missing son. Emeralds. Haiti and Leander James Jackson. The woman with the dark, gray-streaked hair.
Celia, leftist firebrand. A hint of Joan and Dwight Holly in love.
His case and Wayne’s-indivisible.
Dear God, that little red flag.