Crutch pulled into the Avis lot. The clutch on his rent-a-car blew. The gears were stripped. The car lurched and lugged. He called ahead. The desk guy said, Screw the riot. You come right in.
Half-tracks rolled down Biscayne Boulevard. The governor called in the Guard. There’s a string of cop cars and a six-seater Jeep. Fuck, the driver’s smoking a joint.
Smoke and fire. Swamp heat. This orange sky edging toward mauve.
The car lurched and died by the gas pumps. Crutch got out and stretched. Heat and fumes smacked him. His head hurt. He’d been working the bug post full-time. He’d been up since God knows-
Someone/Something pushed him. He tumbled back in the car. His head hit the shift knob. His arms hit the dashboard. The Someone/ Something pinned him down. He/It was all black.
Then the knee on his back. Then the gun in his face. With the silencer barrel-threaded and the hammer half-back.
“Why are you surveilling Wayne Tedrow? Be honest. Evasion will decree an even more horrible death.”
The French accent. The Frogman. Frog couture all black.
“I repeat. Why were you surveilling Wayne Tedrow?”
Crutch tried to pray. The words hit his brain jumbled. His piss tubes swelled. He held it in. The weight on him helped. He remembered his lucky rabbit’s foot and obscure Lutheran Church lore.
“I repeat.”
His shit chute swelled. He held it in. The weight on him helped. He opened his mouth. He squeaked and got some sounds out. God or some unseen fucker fed him word soup. He saw his mother. He heard “Dr. Fred,” “Howard Hughes,” “Grapevine plant,” “million dollars.” He heard “Dead woman,” “missing woman,” “knife-scar woman,” “green stones.” He heard “Please don’t kill me” six billion times in six seconds.
He shut his eyes. His tear ducts swelled. He held it in. Biting his tongue helped. Six billion years went by in six seconds. He saw his mother and Dana Lund six billion times. He tried for prayers and dredged up hymns.
The weight eased up. He clenched his tubes, chutes and ducts and stayed dry. He smelled brandy. The scent touched his lips strong. He opened his mouth. He dipped his head and took the pour. His throat constricted. He opened wider and let it roll in. He opened his eyes and saw the Frogman.
“I have been prone to sympathetic lapses before. You must affirm my perception of your youthful willfulness and capacity for acquiescence.”
Crutch crawled into the passenger seat. His heartbeat kept multiplying. He was head-to-toe sweat. The Frogman stretched out in the driver’s seat. He nipped off the flask and passed it back. Crutch chugged brandy and looked out the window. There’s more smoke, sirens and riot cops- the spooks just won’t quit.
Mesplede said, “I may ask you to report information to me.”
Crutch nodded-yessir, yessir, yessir.
The flask went back and forth. A sync settled in. Their eyes stayed locked while the Frogman monologued. It was all CUBA. It was le grand putain Fidel Castro and the Cuban Freedom Cause. There was JFK’s Bay of Pigs betrayal. There was LBJ’s Commie appeasement. There was America’s sissified accommodation and the Caribbean as a Spreading Red Lake. There were brave men willing to die to quash the Red Tide.
The flask went back and forth. The oration continued. Crutch rode the world’s greatest buzz.
15
(Las Vegas, 8/10/68)
The night nurse took a break to play the slots downstairs. Wayne ran into her in the casino. She said, “You look ill-I’ll bring you something.”
He took the stairs up and burned off excess steam. He still smelled like charred paper. The suite was unlocked. He walked into Janice’s bedroom.
The lights were on. The IV pole and drip bag were down on the floor. The tube was still attached to Janice’s arm. The needle was half in, half out.
Two empty vials on the nightstand. Seconal and Dilaudid. A brief note: “Whatever your plan-please, not on my behalf.”
Wayne sat with her. Her nightgown was still damp. The picture blurred with ‘64. He came home and found Lynette. Wendell Durfee had come and gone. A winter storm leveled Vegas. He sat with Lynette and listened to the rain.
Janice died clutching the bedsheets. Wayne pried her fingers loose and folded them on her chest.
West Vegas hopped at 2:00 a.m. The bars were air-cooled. The shacks weren’t. Folks stayed out late to cool off.
Wayne cruised in. He passed the Wild Goose, the Colony Club and the Sugar Hill Lounge. Memory Lane. The ALLAH IS LORD signs. Night owls cooking bar-b-q in fifty-gallon drums. Streets named for presidents and designated by letters.
He had Pappy Dawkins’ address. It should be off Monroe and J. He scanned faces. Everybody was black. Parked cars with running headlights. Air-conditioned junkers. Beat the heat. Run the vents all night and sleep.
There’s the place: a fuchsia-colored cinder-block dump on plywood struts.
Wayne parked and walked up. The lights were on. The door was open. The front room was furnished with scavenged car seats. A dozen fans pushed air around.
Two Negro men sat there. They were side by side on Chevy leather. Pappy looked older than his mug shots. The other man ran fifty-plus and wore a clerical suit.
They noticed him. They made him. Wayne made their little blinks. The fans churned up a stink: cat piss and stale marijuana.
Wayne shut the door. The smell compounded. Pappy said, “Sergeant Wayne Tedrow Jr.”
Wayne coughed. “Not any longer.”
“You mean you ain’t with the po-lice or you the only Wayne Tedrow left?”
“Both of those.”
The other man said, “He wants something. You should let him get to it.”
Pappy twirled an ashtray. “Reverend Hazzard’s trying to reform me. He visits me once a month, whether I asks him to or not. I say to him, This white motherfucker here killed three brothers awhile back,’ he probably say, ‘Turn the other cheek.’ ”
Wayne spoke to Hazzard. “This won’t take but a minute.”
Pappy hurled the ashtray. It knocked a fan over. The breeze went haywire. Some nesting moths stirred.
“Reverend Hazzard believes you turn the other cheek, but I most emphasizedly do not, unless you wants to bend down and kiss the cheeks of my coal black ass.”
Hazzard touched Pappy’s arm. Pappy grabbed a stray shoe off the floor and hurled it. A fan capsized. A breeze hit the back wall. A Scotch-taped pic of Malcolm X flew.
“Reverend Hazzard says, ‘Forgiveness be next to godliness,’ but I most emphasizedly do not, unless you wants to start by apologizing for killing Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers and any other extraneous niggers that you also might have killed along the way.”
Hazzard said, “Pappy, please.”
Wayne said, “Sir, I apologize.”
Pappy grabbed another shoe. “And that’s all you got to say?”
“No, there’s more.”
“Which includes what?”
Wayne’s legs fluttered. “Some cops are trying to hang a case on you. I don’t want to see it happen. I’ll get you some money, but you’ve got to get out of Vegas.”
Pappy whooped. “Leave all this? On your white motherfucking say-so?”
Hazzard said, “Pappy, let him talk.”
Pappy whooped falsetto. “Not until I’ve had my fun and extricated my pound of flesh, starting with, ‘Hey, Junior, you apologize again.’ ”
Wayne said, “Sir, I apologize.”
Whoop-”One more time now. I’m starting to enjoy this.”
Wayne shook his head no. His legs almost caved. Pappy threw the shoe at him. He stepped aside. Pappy reached in his pocket. Wayne threw himself on the floor.
Metal flashed. Wayne ate rug grit and pulled his ankle piece. Pappy fumbled a snub automatic. Reverend Hazzard froze. Pappy rolled off the car seat and aimed down at Wayne.