Wayne said, “I want him.”
Santo sipped Drambuie. “He’ll want to clip those guys.”
Carlos said, “It’s your call, Wayne.”
Wayne cruised Little Havana. It was all-night, bug-brigade hot. Bug swarms, bug bombardments. Bugs bigger than Rodan and Godzilla. Bugs hit his windshield. He tapped his wiper blades and mulched them to bug juice. Little Havana was HOT.
He cruised. He eyeballed the sidewalk action. Bodegas, fruit stands, vendors selling shaved-ice treats. Leaflet distribution. Pamphlet-packing punks in “Kill Fidel” T-shirts. Political offices: Alpha 66, Venceremos, the Battalion for April 17. He turned off Flagler Street and scoped out rows of houses. He checked his rearview mirror every few seconds. Yes-there’s that blue sedan again, leapfrogged two cars back.
He floored the gas, made four crazy turns and found a parking space on Flager. No blue sedan, okay.
Wayne went walking. His suit instantly rewilted. Street fools jostled him. He got weird looks-Joo ain’t Cubano, joo white. The sky exploded. Dig those lights! Wayne made the source: fireworks from the convention.
People stood and gawked. Papas held their kids up. A street-corner fistfight froze in mid-blow.
Wayne watched. A leaflet-distribution guy waved a little flag. Wayne glanced in a coffee-bar window and saw Jean-Philippe Mesplede.
The glance flew two ways. Mesplede stood and bowed. Le grenouille sauvage-habille tout en noir. Black shirt, black coat, black pants-le grand plus noir.
Wayne walked in. Jean-Philippe hugged him. Wayne felt at least three handguns under his clothes.
They sat down. Mesplede was halfway through a fifth of Pernod. A waiter brought a fresh glass.
“Зa va, Wayne?”
“Зa va bien, Jean-Philippe.”
“And your business in Miami?”
“Political.”
“Par example, s’il vous plaоt?”
“For instance, I was looking for you.”
Mesplede flexed his hands. His tattooed pit bulls grew snarls and erections. He was an ex-French para. He went back to the Algerian War and Dien Bieu Phu. He pushed heroin wherever he went.
They switched to French. They sipped Pernod. Fireworks lit windows all around them. They rehashed Vietnam and their ops deal. Mesplede cursed Carlos, le petit cochon. Wayne did a riff on strange bedfellows. Bygones as bygones. Carlos had work for them. Let me tell you.
Зa va, Wayne. Okay.
Wayne described the casino plan and laid out the territorial options. Mesplede riffed on the geopolitics of Panama, Nicaragua and the D.R. Trade and agriculture. Current despots out to quash dissent and Red countermovements. Wayne sipped Pernod and got a liqueur-language buzz. Mesplede routed the riff to Cuba. He remained committed to the Cause. LBJ, Nixon, Humphrey-Castroite cochons all. The election meant merde. The hands-off Cuba policy would continue. They sparred on that, un peu. Mesplede knew la Causa vexed Wayne. He hated dope peddling. Their ops stint turned him against it. Strange bedfellows-oui, oui.
They got to the yes-or-no stage. Mesplede said maybe. He had pressing business first. Wayne raised three fingers. Mesplede nodded. Wayne said that he’d spoken to Carlos. It’s my call now. I’ll let you kill two out of three.
The fireworks went out with a flourish. Wham-high noon at midnight. The window light died. Mesplede switched to English.
“Who is allowed to live?”
“Bob Relyea.”
“I know why, but please inform me precisely.”
“He was in on a big job in April. He’s too close to some people I’m with.”
“Memphis.”
“Yes.”
“You were there, too.”
Wayne prickled. “Yes, I was.”
Mesplede spit on the floor. “Shameful. A horrible blow to the American Negro. I sympathize with them, because I revere their jazz artistry.”
Prickles, heat bumps, heatstroke pend-
“You can take out Fuentes and Arredondo. That’s as far as I can let it go.”
Mesplede shrugged and bowed. “They may be here in Miami.”
“Let’s go find them.”
They took Wayne’s rent-a-car. Mesplede fouled it with French cigarettes. They drove. They got out and hit cocktail bars and all-nite bodegas. They dispensed cash tips and inquired about Fuentes and Arredondo. They got zero.
Wayne rode a buzz off the Pernod. He kept checking his rearview. He didn’t see the blue sedan. He thought he saw a tan coupe leapfrogging. It got close, fell back, got close. The driver: a crew-cut kid, early twenties.
It schizzed him. He took evasive turns and made Mesplede carsick. The tan coupe vanished. They circled back to Flagler and rewalked it. The storefront offices stayed open late. Cuban Freedom Action Committee, Cuban Freedom Caucus, Cuban Freedom Council. Mesplede loved it. He spoke Spanish and captivated a slew of late-night loafers. They bummed cigarettes. Mesplede pressed his case. He logged three tips total.
Tip #1: Fuentes and Arredondo booked to the Midwest. Tip #2: They might be heisting department stores. Tip #3: They might be heisting gas stations in Chicago.
It was 4:00 a.m. Mesplede fell asleep in the car. Wayne woke him up and dropped him at his rooming house. He drove back to his hotel, near woozy. Elephants and Dick Nixon. Cuba, tail cars, mob ghouls, bugs like Rod an.
He unlocked the door. The room light was on. The blue-sedan man was sitting in the one chair. He was holding a.38 Smith. A Nevada AG’s badge was pinned to his coat.
Wayne shut the door and leaned on it. The guy pointed to his gun bulge. Wayne tossed his.45 on the bed.
The guy said, “Chuck Woodrell.”
Wayne yawned. “Tell me what this is. I know, but tell me anyway.”
Woodrell yawned. “You and your stepmom killed your daddy. The AG knows it’s a homicide, and he’d like to prosecute. He’s aware that you work for Uncle Carlos and Mr. Hughes, and he still doesn’t care, because he’s a ballsy kind of guy. We’ve got a bloody print on Janice. Eight comparison points, so it’s a clincher. We don’t want to file on a dying woman, but business is business.”
Wayne rubbed his eyes. “How much?”
Woodrell yawned and stretched. “Why don’t you and Buddy Fritsch find me a suspect? That and fifty grand chills it.”
10
(Los Angeles, 8/6/68)
The drop-front came furnished: three rooms in Naugahyde and scuffed chenille. The air conditioners worked. The couch folded out to a bed. It was ample space. Dwight figured he could live there full-time.
Silver Lake. A Bureau-vouchered office suite at Sunset and Mohawk. A barber college, fruit bar and porno bookstore downstairs.
Karen lived a mile northwest. It was a good spot for spontaneous nooners. He listed the office as “Cove Enterprises.” It was fittingly bland. It winked at Karen’s crib at Baxter and Cove.
Dwight moved in. He placed his clothes in the closet and set up a hot plate and coffee gizmo. He wired two standard phone lines and a secure scrambler line. He unloaded his surveillance equipment. He locked a box of throwdown guns in the safe.
He was fucking dog-tired. He’d caught the redeye in from D.C. His seat was midget-size. His legs were jammed to his chest. His one drink and one pill got him one hour’s sleep full of nightmares.
Mr. Hoover okayed a wire transfer: sixty cold to a bank downtown. It was his six-month budget. Upkeep, informant fees and miscellaneous expenses. OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER, on-go.