Dwight was problematic. Jomo Clarkson suicided in custody. Marsh was terrified and denied that he ratted Jomo out. The snitch-out bored Dwight. The stance was weirdly un-Dwight.
The limo cut down the Malecón. Signs announced the Midget’s food giveaway. A flatbed was parked. Dark- and light-skinned paupers lined up. Two La Bandaites tossed paper bags at them. The bags broke. A mini–race riot ignited. The bags contained meat scraps and dented dog-food cans.
Marsh was scared. Wayne and Dwight agreed: he’s volatile and might double-deal. Let’s have Dipshit rotate stateside and hot-wire his crib.
Haiti sideswiped him. The herb trip recircuited his memory. He saw through the ground and tracked tree roots. He saw magic creatures at play.
Horn blare doubled and tripled. A foot chase stopped traffic flow. Kids with leaflets. Sprints down the street and end-run zigzags. La Banda goons peeled out. One kid group, two goon flanks. Pincer movements, no exit/dead end. The kids ran straight toward a cop line: Policía Nacional guys with plastic shields and clubs.
The pincers pressed. The brownshirts absorbed the kids. Their clubs were spike-pointed. Light blows tore flesh.
The kids tried to run into buildings. Foyer guards saw them and locked their doors up. A kid ran beside the limo. He was shirtless. One eye gushed blood.
Wayne opened his door. The kid tried to hurdle it. He hit the sill and went flying. Wayne grabbed him and threw him in the backseat. The kid resisted. Wayne pinned him and yelled at the driver. The kid caught the gist and yelled in Spanish. Wayne heard numbers and “Calle Bolívar.” The driver U-turned and bombed down an alley.
Wayne popped his suitcase and pulled out a shirt. The kid held his eye socket. Blood poured through his fingers. Wayne tilted his head and reversed the flow.
The limo hit a clear stretch. The driver gunned it and rode his horn. Their antenna flags got them through bottlenecks and red lights. Calle Bolívar popped up. The driver downshifted and brodied to a small house mid-block. The kid was passed out. Wayne picked him up and carried him inside.
The office was small. The furniture was scuffed and mismatched. It looked like a sub-rosa Commie medical source. A nurse and doctor grabbed the kid. They seemed to know him. They ran him straight into a back room and shut the door.
Wayne sat in the waiting room. The satchel cuff gouged his wrist. The phone rang every ten seconds. The walls closed in a little. He thought of Haiti and Mary Beth.
The phone kept ringing. An hour ticked off. The doctor walked out. His gown was bloody. His hands were rubber-gloved.
“I saved the boy’s eye.”
“I’m glad.”
“You are?”
“My name’s Wayne Tedrow.”
“I would guess that you are at the El Embajador.”
“That’s right.”
“You have my thanks. You performed a brave deed.”
He went by the Santo Domingo sites. They were cosmeticized.
Two more floors were up. It was too fast. The workers greeted Jefe Tedrow. They were ringers. They looked like actors from a plucky peasant script. No whips or guns visible. Leg chains haphazardly stashed.
The limo ran him north. The rural sites were identical. The Jarabacoa site included a lunch buffet. The fat and sassy workers dined with the bosses. Wayne shimmied up a tree and scoped the area. Forty yards off: La Banda fucks and the real workers chained.
Wayne dozed en route to the Tiger Krew inlet. The smoked windows provided a shut-out-squalor view. He woke up and saw Dipshit outside the encampment. The punk Commie hunter looked halfway distraught.
The driver slowed. Wayne tapped him and motioned him to stop. Dipshit looked up. Wayne said, “You’re flying back to L.A. with me. Dwight and I want you to hot-wire Marsh Bowen’s place.”
Dipshit nodded. It was half eager, half numb. Wayne tapped the driver. The limo pulled into a clearing. Mesplede and the Cubans were there. The Cubans were interchangeable. He never got their names straight. One litter, four mean cubs.
They saw the limo and waved. Wayne got out and walked up. They were hanging things on a line strung between two tree trunks. Wayne smelled decomposition.
Mesplede walked up. Wayne pushed him aside. There: five scalps, Tiger-paw marked.
The Cubans posed—feet dug in, smirks, bandoliers and gun belts. Mesplede hovered. He wore his scalping knife on a thong.
Wayne said, “No more runs. No political bullshit while you’re working for me. One more infraction and muerto.”
The Cubans readjusted: smirks, thumbs in their belt loops, feet dug in wiiiiide. Mesplede knife-scratched his neck.
Wayne plucked the scalps off the clothesline. Wayne walked merc to merc. Wayne mashed the scalps in their faces.
“Viva Fidel, you fucking lowlifes.”
The suite phone rang at midnight. It jolted him up. He fell asleep with the lights on. Santo Domingo was a window blur. He thought about the gashed-eye kid straight off.
“Hello.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes and no.”
Mary Beth said, “I hope you weren’t dreaming.”
“Well, yes and no.”
“I’d ask you how things are going, but I’m not sure I want to know.”
Wayne rubbed his eyes. “I got a lead on the woman who bailed your son out of jail.”
“Sweetie, I wasn’t talking about Reginald.”
Wayne looked at his briefcase. “I know you weren’t. I told you because it’s about you and me, and not about what I do for a living.”
“Or about the people you work for?”
Wayne sighed. “Babe, please don’t do this. Not on the telephone.”
Mary Beth sighed. “It’ll be worse in person.”
“Then let’s be fucking civil and not do it at all.”
“We should say good night now.”
“Yes, I think we should.”
The line clicked and disconnected. Wayne looked out the window. The sky was neon-free. The Midget told Sam G. he wanted mucho neon. Sam said they’d provide some.
The buzzer rang. Wayne got up and opened the door. It was Celia Reyes. He met her in convention-time Miami. She was Sam’s consort then.
She said, “Hello, Mr. Tedrow.” She wore a white dress and a linen blazer. She extended her hand. He stepped aside and held the door open. Celia sat on the couch.
“I wanted to thank you for my friend Ramón. The doctor said you gave generously of your time.”
Wayne pulled a chair up. “I’m glad he’ll be all right.”
“The doctor said it was quite a sight. You carrying Ramón, with a briefcase attached to your wrist.”
The briefcase sat between them. Wayne pointed to it.
“It was unwieldy, yes.”
Celia smiled. “You’re not questioning my presence here.”
“I half-expected some sort of approach.”
“Why is that?”
“You could make the point that I wanted it.”
“I have a friend. We think you may be sympathetic to our work.”
Wayne smiled. “Yes, that may be true.”
“Would it upset you if I told you that we knew some things about you prior to your actions today?”
“People tend to know things about me. It tends to do me more harm than good.”
“May I inquire about your beliefs?”
Wayne said, “I’m following signs. I’m beginning to think that I may have a purpose that exists beyond my will to comprehend it.”
Celia pointed to the briefcase. “The contents?”
“$400,000.”
“May I have it?”
“Yes.”
“Will there be more?”
“Yes.”
Celia picked up the briefcase and walked to the door. Wayne opened it. A shadow flicked down the hallway. A smoke ring evaporated. Wayne knew it was her.
“Celia said you were quite gracious.”
“She caught me at the right moment.”
/> “I won’t press you about that.”
“You could. I’d be candid. I’d press you on a few topics and hope you’d be candid in return.”
“You can ask me anything. I’ll give you answers or I won’t.”
“I was going to ask you about your relationship with Dwight Holly and about a young man you knew at the Freedom School and almost certainly rescued from harm a year later.”
“I’m not telling you.”
“That’s a direct answer.”
“I told you it would be.”
“Yes, you did.”
“I hope my bluntness won’t terminate our working together.”
“I won’t permit it. I’m a very blunt ex-policeman, and I tend to get the answers I want.”
“You haven’t asked me what Celia and I know about you, which is a more pressing question to ask.”
“I’ll assume you know everything, and let it go at that.”
“I’ve enjoyed talking to you, Mr. Tedrow.”
“Thank you for calling, Miss Klein.”
Wayne woke up over Texas. Airplane scotch and voodoo herbs put him out from takeoff.
Dipshit was reading Playboy. The little hump looked haggard and scared.
Deep-gouged bluffs loomed below them. Trees stuck out sideways. Storm clouds made them vanish.
Wayne thought, This Is All Magic.
Wayne thought, I’ve Gone Red.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/13/69. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request/Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.
JEH: Good morning, Dwight.
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: Your telex implied that you have bad news. “Tell it like it is,” as President Nixon often states in his fawning efforts to sound au courant with longhairs and insurrection-seeking Negroes.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: There’s also “Can you dig it?” and “Are you cool with it?” which are new favorites of the white radio personalities who have taken up the chant that I am too old for this job.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: “Right on, brother” is an expression that is considered “in the groove” these days. I addressed Vice President Agnew in that manner last week. He gave me a clenched-fist salute. I was deeply gratified. It was akin to receiving the French Legion of Honor.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: You’re stalling, Dwight.
DH: Chief Reddin called me, Sir. He told me that he had taken Marsh Bowen off roster. He’s been fired from LAPD, so LAPD is in no way accountable for his actions. The firing was clandestine, which protects us at least so—
JEH: OPERATION BAAAAAAD BROTHER must not be derailed or in any way diverted. Bowen must not know that he’s been fired. Why did this occur? Tell it like it is.
DH: I think Scotty Bennett went to Reddin and offered a rationale for the firing. I believe that Bennett’s personal animus precipitated this action.
JEH: Bennett has favored us in at least one regard. He did not expose the late Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson and his late crime partner as the killers of the late hate merchant Dr. Fred Hiltz, which has spared the Bureau a great deal of ape-inspired scrutiny.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson has fucked Pat Nixon on numerous occasions. A confidential informant in the Hollywood community informed me of this fact. They were under the influence of the drug Quaaludes, commonly known as “ludes.”
DH: Yes, Sir. I was think—
JEH: There will be Bureau raids on Black Panther offices in Denver, Chicago and Salt Lake City during the first week of June. I am grateful for it, but it lacks the illuminating pizzazz of our operation, which is a fully formed explication of Negro criminality and indigenous moral sloth. I want the BTA and/or the MMLF to sell heroin. The public has been numbed to death and charmed to sleep by the Panthers. They need evil apes they can sink their teeth into. I assure you that I am telling it like it is.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: The honorary Negro Wayne Tedrow. Lay it on me, brother.
DH: He’s status quo, Sir. He was in the Dominican Republic nec–
JEH: Dick Nixon is peeved at Wayne, once removed. Wayne pulled the plug on a plucky little group of anti-Castro brigands that Bebe Rebozo was bankrolling. Bebe is determinedly anti-Communist. I respect him for that.
DH: I’ll be speaking to the president tomorrow night, Sir. I’ll advise him on the Wayne matter as you advise me.
JEH: Do what you like. Tell it like it is, because I’m cool with it.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Nixey boy has never learned the rudiments of achieving a close shave. I use Wilkinson Sword blades. My personal file on Nixon would ruin him. The files in my basement would create Armageddon instantaneously.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: The BTA and/or the MMLF must push heroin. We must create a properly controlled chaos.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I dream of Martin Lucifer King quite often. He invariably wears a red-devil costume and carries a pitchfork.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Do you dream of him?
DH: Frequently, Sir.
JEH: And how is he attired?
DH: He always wears a halo and wings.
JEH: (Abrupt and muffled comment/phone transcript terminates here.)
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/14/69. VERBATIM STAGE-1/CLOSED CONTACT/TOP-ACCESS ROUTING telephone-call transcript. Closed file #48297. Speaking: President Richard M. Nixon and Special Agent Dwight C. Holly, FBI.
RMN: Dwight, good evening.
DH: Good evening, Mr. President.
RMN: You’re not taping this, are you, Dwight?
DH: No, Sir. Are you?
RMN: Yes, I am. I’ve got a device that records my calls automatically, but one of my slaves comes by and dumps the tapes in a vault. They’ll never see the light of day, and we’ll be pushing up daisies if they do.
DH: I’m cool with it, Sir.
RMN: I can dig it. Did you vote for me, Dwight?
DH: I’m not registered to vote, Sir.
RMN: You’re a bad citizen. You’re like your friend Tedrow, who messed with my friend Bebe. He’s the First Friend, Dwight. I enjoy these talks of ours, and Wayne has been instrumental in facilitating our arrangement with the Italians, but Bebe is Bebe and Wayne fucked with him.
DH: May I make a few blunt comments, Mr. President?
RMN: Tell it like it is.
DH: Wayne Tedrow is a very competent man given to the occasional extravagant gesture. The foolishness that he interdicted may have proven detrimental to the casino build in the D.R. Mr. Rebozo’s pet exile group is composed of dubious far-Right ideologues with a giant oozing hard-on to depose Fidel Castro, and as you once told me, Sir, the fucker is here to stay. I would describe Mr. Rebozo’s exile comrades as heedless and whimsical at best, gratuitously psychopathic at worst. Wayne did the prudent thing, Sir.
RMN: You’re absolutely correct, Dwight. Moreover, the D.R. is a shithole, the Boys may take a bath on their hotels, and Joaquín Balaguer is solidly anti-Red and a good deal more tractable than Rafael Trujillo. That cocksucker was a nightmare. You wouldn’t believe the CIA file on him. The shit he pulled with his so-called bitter rival Papa Doc Duvalier was horrific. They looted land, smuggled emeralds, and foreclosed banks and split the profits. While they’re doing this, the Goat is slaughtering Haitian refugees and Papa Doc is fucking half of his girlfriends.
DH: Strange bedfellows, Sir.
RMN: On that note, let’s talk about you-know-who. I was listening to the radio today. A disc jockey called him “Gay Edgar.”
DH: The media has been unkind lately, Sir.
RMN: Do you think he takes it up the keester?
DH: I think he finds the closet too confining for that, Sir.
RMN: A little schlong would make him less uptight.
DH: Yes, Sir.
RMN: He’s losing it. Rig
ht, Dwight?
DH: Yes, Sir. But, again, he’s utterly dangerous and should be handled delicately.
RMN: And he’s got those goddamn files.
DH: He does, Sir.
RMN: And they’re wildly revealing and impolitic.
DH: Not as much as this conversation, Sir.
RMN: Dwight, you’re a pisser. It’s fun to belt a couple and jaw with salty guys like you.
DH: Sir, I enjoy our chats very much.
RMN: That Irish cocksucker Jack Kennedy stole the 1960 election from me.
DH: Yes, Sir.
RMN: The cocksucker is dead and I’m the president of the United States.
DH: Yes, Sir.
RMN: Keep tabs on you-know-who for me. Will you do that, Dwight?
DH: Yes, Sir. I will.
RMN: Good night, Dwight.
DH: Good night, Mr. President.
74
(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.”