They agreed on thirty-four names. Twenty-three lived in the D.R., eleven lived in Haiti. They had four La Banda teams with squad cars. They had three Tonton teams with squad cars. The jail sites were mid-island, near Dajabуn. A walk-bridge provided foot access. The Plaine du Massacre was croc-infested there. The fuckers dined on dumped garbage and errant Haitians on voodoo-herb trips.
The polygraphs were hooked up. The Pentothal was laid in. The interrogators stood ready. Both jails were two-way-radio-rigged. The squad cars had two-ways. The system was spiffy.
Smith called the shots. Crutch joined him at the D.R. jail. Crocs lounged on the riverbank. They were groovy. Crutch stared out the window at them.
Clock it: exactly 7:00 a.m.
Smith radioed the cars. The cars rogered back in English and French. Mug shots were wall-pinned: thirty-four comrades, total.
Crutch read their files last night. They were mostly kids his age. They looked like kids. He didn’t. He had gray hair and posterior scarring. One non-kid exception: Esteban Sanchez, M.D. He looked battle-aged. Joan had called him “a seasoned Red Brigade warrior.”
The callbacks hit: got them, got them, got them. Smith manned the radio. Crutch heard sputter and squawk. Some Reds resisted, some didn’t. We’re coming in now.
Crutch walked outside and waited on the bridge. Crocs sunned and swam below. He tossed them handfuls of beef jerky. They snapped it off the water. Their teeth flashed. Their snouts veered toward the bridge.
Joan.
Every thought now. Cutting through his case and his idea. Cutting through to This.
She raises her arms. He kisses her there. She says, “You’re insanely durable and persistent.” She harps on that. She talks about the gene of persistence. He asks her what she means. She says, “I’m not telling you.”
Hours whizzed by. Crutch stayed in the Joan Zone. He ate dexies. He watched the crocs. He heard incoming calls on a loudspeaker. Yeah, we got Reds-but no Reggie or Celia.
The squad cars showed. Muffler noise announced them. Whoosh- dual-court press-both riverbanks. It felt synchronized. Crutch had a two-river view.
Eyes right-Tonton guys and black Commies. Eyes left-La Banda with Reds black and brown. Crutch stood on the bridge and head-counted. The D.R.: eighteen total. Haiti: nine of eleven. No Reginald Hazzard, no Celia Reyes.
The comrades were handcuffed. Crutch counted twenty-four men and three women. The goons shoved and pushed them. A few dragged their feet. Little sap shots got them back going.
They entered the jails. Two-river view. Out and in, instantaneous.
Nothing showed through the windows. Crutch stood on the bridge and fed the crocs. He was weavy and dingy. Spots popped in front of his eyes. He’d been up since L.A.
A croc leaped way high. Crutch reached down and scratched his nose. A man screamed in the D.R. jail, up close. A man screamed in the Haiti jail, faint.
It went on for ten seconds. Crocs swarmed under the bridge. Feed me that shit now.
Crutch tuned it all out. The crocs dispersed. Time dispersed. He popped more dexies, he got more dingy, he saw more spots. Joan takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. He kisses her arms. He yanks at her boots. She laughs and resists. He falls on his ass.
A man screamed in the D.R. jail. Two men screamed in the Haiti jail, faint. It went on for half a minute and stopped.
Crutch re-tuned it out. His arms tingled. He felt sunstroked. He saw spots. His pants felt slack. The spots started to look like bugs.
A man screamed in the D.R. jail. It went on and didn’t stop. He conjured Joan harder. She touched Dwight’s clothes and cried. He told her he’d look after her. She said, “You can’t.”
A woman screamed in the D.R. jail. It went on and didn’t stop. Crutch covered his ears. That didn’t stop it. He turned his back and got more distance. That made it worse. His ears hurt. The spots grew into grids and re-framed everything. The screams got louder. He turned around and sprinted up.
The front door was open. Kids were shackled to drainpipes and benches inside. The sound reverbed down a back hall.
Crutch ran. The spots became figures. He knocked down a Tonton dude and a La Banda guy with a Sten gun. He hit a connecting corridor. He saw mirror-paned sweat rooms on both sides. Kids resisted poly tests. Goons cuffed kids to chair backs. Goons waved phone books and hose chunks.
The woman screamed louder. Crutch nailed the sound and kicked in the door. She was chair-cuffed. Her arms were bloody. A Tonton fuck had a barbed-wire sap.
She saw him and screamed louder. The Tonton guy stepped up. Oh, no, baby boy-this is mine.
Crutch arm-barred him. His throat bones cracked. Crutch elbow-slammed his nose and broke it. The Tonton guy grabbed at his throat and convulsed. The woman screamed. Crutch pulled off his shirt and showed her his scar.
Smith ran into the room. The Tonton fuck puked bone chips and blood. Crutch weaved and saw spots. The woman looked at his scar. Their heads converged. She said something in Spanish. Crutch thought he heard “Celia” and “Port-au-”
Two Tonton guys drove him. Brundage and Smith frosted the dustup. You was over-zealous. You over-reacted. Thanks for the bread.
The car was a voodoo barge. A ‘63 Impala, lowered and chopped. Bizango-sect flags. Cheater slicks and baby-moon hubcaps. Dashboard pix of dogs in pointed hats.
Crutch weaved in the backseat. Those spots kept swirling. He broke his L.A. record for staying hot-wired awake. The Tonton guys dug him. The torture guy fucked the driver guy’s wife. That be bad juju. You a righteous white boy.
The barge was air-cooled. Tinted windows shaded all the pauvre shit outside. Little villages and big signs extolling Papa Doc. Blood-marked trees ubiquitous and geeks in chicken-head hats.
The people faded into spots and vice versa. The Tonton guys spoke half English, half French. The roundup made them each a C-note. La Banda skirmished with some Reds in Santo Domingo. That be bad gre-gre.
Port-au-Prince was Shitsville with a Sea Breeze. Rocky beaches, stucco cubes and eroded buildings older than God. The barge stopped at a lime green pad raised off the street on pylons. Crutch said bye-bye and lurched up the steps.
He knocked. The door opened. Celia Reyes leaned on the jamb. She said, “I’ve seen you before.” He said, “Everyone has.” The spots cohered and made everything black.
Lieutenant Maggie Woodard, USNR.
She wore the winter blues and the summer khakis. Her name tag read WOODARD. She never married Crutch Senior. She drank too much and got pissy or effusive. She stayed in the reserves after the Big War.
She wore her uniform on weekends. He watched from doorways. She tipped highballs and played Brahms on a scratchy phonograph. She chain-smoked. She dangled her brown uniform shoe off her left foot. She dangled her black uniform shoe off her right. She caught him lurking and laughed. She fed him maraschino cherries out of her glass.
Fading in and dispersing. Blackout sketches into spots.
We’re in Ensenada. You ‘ve got an earache. I can’t stand your hurt. I hit a farmada and shoot you up.
We’re in L.A. Your father blows our money. We scrounge empty pop bottles and splurge at Bob’s Big Boy.
We’re in San Diego. Your father is elsewhere. You’re out roving, as you always are. You come back unexpectedly. You catch me with a lover at the El Cortez Hotel.
You’re always watching me. I leave that day. You stand at the window, waiting. I never saw it, but I know.
“You undressed me.”
“You were delirious. You weren’t making sense at all.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two full days.”
“Jesus. Everything looks different.”
“Then maybe it is.”