Avco Jewelers. Gretchen/Celia gets advice on re-cutting emeralds. The green glass shards in the dead woman’s arm.
Question marks, dollar signs-
He looped through Las Vegas six times. He spot-tailed Farlan Brown and Wayne Tedrow Jr. He saw them at the D.I. They took the private elevator up to Dracula’s lair. Brown has not seen Gretchen/Celia in Vegas. He’s sure of it. Maybe she never hooked up with him. Maybe she ripped him off in L.A. and split. He ran a Miami phone book/airline check on the names Gretchen Parr and Celia Reyes. He got zero Gretchens. He got nine Celias and ran driver’s license checks on them all. None of them were her.
He ran a Miami-airline check on Wayne Tedrow Jr. and hit positive. He ran a hotel check and located him at the Doral. He tailed Wayne Junior three times. Wayne Junior might have tail-spotted him. The Clark County D.A. passed a Vegas rumor on to Clyde Duber: Wayne Junior might have offed Wayne Senior in June.
It was all dizzying. It was re-situating, re-wire-all-your-circuits shit.
The tails went A-OK. Wayne Junior met a black-clad, foreign-looking guy twice. Crutch hit his rooming house and records-checked him. Jean-Philippe Mesplede, French merc, age forty-five. Mesplede and Wayne Junior combed Little Havana twice. Crutch followed up. The deaclass="underline" they were looking for two Cuban men named Caspar Fuentes and Miguel Diaz Arredondo.
The nigger riot heated up. The TV screen almost throbbed. Spooks lobbed Molotov cocktails. Spooks chased honkies with two-by-fours. Crutch heard movement next door.
Yeah, it’s Farlan Brown’s voice. That’s him tipping the bellman. There’s the door again. The bellman’s gone. There’s phone-dial noise. Yawn-there’s Brown on the horn with his wife.
Blah, blah-the kids are fine, the dog has fleas, I love you, too. Hang-up noise. Door-opening noise. A young woman’s voice.
Yeah, dig it-
They negotiated-fifty for French, a yard for half and half. Brown took the latter. The bed was by the wall unit. Air hum drowned out most of the trick. The climax came in fuzzy.
Brown bragged post-coitaclass="underline" I’m a big cheese with Howard Hughes. The call girl said, “Is that so?” Brown blathered. I’m hip, I’m cool, I swing. I run Hughes Airways. I’ll be running Hughes charter flights to some rocking new mob resorts.
The call girl stifles a yawn. The bedsprings creak. A zipper threads. Bye, bye, baby-she’s out the door.
Brown got back on the horn. Crutch hit console buttons and activated the tap line. He got garbles and a dial tone. He heard a gruff “Hel-lo.”
Brown said, “Freddy, it’s Farlan.” A man said, “What’s happening, paisan?” Crutch made the voice: Shakedown Fred O.
He hit his tape feed. The spool turned. He got garbles and voices verbatim.
Brown:… Miami. You know, for the convention.
Otash: Nixon. Jesus, that fucking retread has got nine fucking lives.
Brown: This one’s a keeper. He’s going to win.
Otash: I’ve got a sports book at the Cavern. My guy’s calling the race even money.
Brown: I’ll take those odds.
Otash: Then place a bet, you cheap Mormon cocksucker.
Brown: A grand on Dick. For real, Freddy. I smell victory.
Otash: I smell you trying to Jew me down on a room rate. That’s it, right? Your old buddy Freddy’s an innkeeper now, so let’s put the boots to him.
Laughter-six seconds’ worth.
Brown:… Freddy, you’re a pistol.
Otash: I’ve got a pistol. I’m a well-hung American of Lebanese descent.
Laughter-nine seconds’ worth.
Brown: Okay. I need a big suite at the Cavern. It’s a party for some Democratic delegates, right before the convention. Booze and girls, Freddy. You know my MO.
Otash: When?
Brown: August 23.
Otash: I’ll give you 308. It’s my private spot, so treat it nice or I’ll sic Dracula on you.
Brown: Wooo! I don’t want that!
Otash: You got that, you Mormon cocksucker.
Brown: Cocksuckee, you mean.
Otash: So, confirm or deny a rumor for me.
Brown: Sure.
Otash: Tell true. Is Wayne Junior working for the Count?
Brown: He is. And high up at that.
Otash: Fucking Junior always lands on his feet.
Brown: Care to elaborate?
Otash: No comment.
Brown: On that note…
Otash: Yeah. See you on the 23. Thank you, fuck you, and good-bye.
Two hang-up clicks-Miami and Vegas. Crutch switched to the bug line. There: yawns, bed creaks, silence and snores.
He hit switches and shut down the feed lines. It was 1:14 a.m. His stomach growled. He’d surveilled his way through dinnertime and then some. He called Freddy Turentine’s room and roused Freddy. He said they had a bug job in Vegas-a hotel suite by August 22. Freddy said, “Remind me tomorrow,” and hung up.
The TV was still on. Nixon did the V-for-victory thing. What a geek. He always needed a shave.
Crutch yawned and got antsy concurrent. He popped four dexies and snagged his rent-a-car keys.
Wrong turns and U-turns de-situated him. The Doral was near the Eden Roc. Wayne Junior’s hotel-just two minutes out. One-way streets put him on a causeway. The bay water churned with confetti and floating Nixon signs. The exit markers confused him. Side streets sidetracked him. He smelled smoke. He heard gunfire. Neighborhoods devolved into shine shantytowns. He saw two spooks torch a ‘59 Plymouth.
The spooks saw him-Honky! Honky! Honky! Crutch gunned it and hung a Uey. The spooks chased his car. A tall spook lobbed a cinder block and hit his back window. The block decomposed. The window stayed intact. The spooks yelled spook-outrage slogans and spooked on back to the Plymouth.
Crutch got his bearings. He drove fast and steered clear of smoke stench and flames. The roving spook quotient upgraded to spook winos and porch loafers. He hit a spook-free zone and made it back to the causeway and Miami Beach proper. The detour got him finger-popping alive. He skimmed the radio and found a soul station. He grooved on Archie Bell and the Drells with “The Tighten Up.”
He parked outside the Doral. He eyeballed the door and played the soul station. The DJ talked pro-riot Commie shit with cool spook music mixed in. Wayne Tedrow Jr. walked out at 2:49 a.m. He shagged his rent-a-car. Crutch tailed him.
Convention traffic was still steady. Tail cover was good. Crutch hovered two car lengths back. Wayne Junior stuck to spook-free zones and booked to Little Havana. He swooped by Jean-Philippe Mesplede’s rooming house and picked up the Frogman. Crutch vibed it: another trawl for Caspar Fuentes and Miguel Diaz Arredondo.
Flagler Street hopped. The coffee bars were open late. A radio guy did man-in-the-street interviews. Arson outside the Cuban Freedom Council- some beaners burning a straw Fidel.
Mesplede and Wayne Junior did their thing. Crutch knew it now. They ditched the car, walked storefront-to-storefront and asked questions. Crutch stayed mobile. He slow-trawled Flagler and looked. Mesplede and Wayne Junior did a one-hour loop and re-mobilized. Traffic was thin. Crutch hovered four car lengths back.
Wayne Junior pulled to the curb and walked to a pay phone. Mesplede stayed in the car. Crutch hit the brakes and pulled over eight car lengths back.
He got out his binoculars and zoomed in. Wayne Junior fed quarters to the phone slot-long-distance, for sure. Crutch got in clooooose. Wayne Junior’s lips moved. Two seconds and halt-Wayne Junior just listened.
And trembled. And went pale. And hung up, walked back to the car and leaned in Mesplede’s window.
More lip movement. Crutch zoomed in trиs close. The talk looked panicky. Mesplede slid behind the wheel and pulled out, peeling rubber. Wayne Junior walked to a parked taxi cab and got in the back.