It could be any black-militant street fool or fool ideologue. It could be some marginalized or factionalized BTA or MMLF fool with a fool’s gut instinct.
I’ve started wearing a bulletproof vest. The MMLF allegedly has a “bounty” out on me. Some MMLF fools saw me on Central Avenue and tossed brim-full malt-liquor cans at me.
I’m frightened. I wear that vest and spend hours standing in front of my bedroom mirror, perfecting mannerisms. Have I betrayed the Bent unconsciously? I am not in the least effeminate. Did someone prescient within my overall dream state simply discern the Bent in me?
I’ve stopped making queries on the armored-car heist. My lust for the money and emeralds has been subsumed by a survivor’s instinct. I’m sitting still for now, but Wayne and Mr. Holly are demanding results. Mr. Holly has been talking up the BTA as a heroin conduit. He wants me to proffer the notion to my BTA brothers, who are too motherfucking dumb to score heroin at a yard sale at a poppy farm in Thailand, which Mr. Holly can’t quite grasp.
I’m scared. I’m sitting still. I’m waiting. I’m wearing that vest. I’m studying dead-straight men and practicing their moves and masculine craft in my mirror.
Per dead-straight, there’s one bright spot in my life right now: my crazy Haitian friend, Leander James Jackson. Leander loves me, but he’s stone straight, so tough luck there. He had that knife fight with Jomo-which Wayne and I provoked-so he loves me for my alleged snitch-out, which resulted in Jomo’s death. I told Leander that I didn’t do it. Leander laughed and said, “Baby boy, I don’t believe you.”
Leander loves 151 rum and reefer and enjoys recounting his days in la belle Haiti. He tortured dissidents for the Tonton Macoute, practiced voodoo and took a sharp left turn. He assisted a group of rebel invaders and fled the island one step ahead of the noose. I wish I could tell him, “Baby boy, I’m frightened, so I’m sitting still these days.”
I have one friend, many nameless enemies and two enemy friends hovering close. Wayne knows that I have the Bent. I don’t want Mr. Holly to know it, or to know that pictures of him and that strange woman Joan haunt my dream state. It would kill me if Mr. Holly knew.
72
(Santo Domingo, 5/3/69)
He couldn’t shake the picture. Shit kept reminding him. He found that golf-course bunker. La Banda left a black guy strapped in. His palms had melted on the electrodes. The restraints burned him bone-deep.
Crutch waited at the airport. Sam G.’s flight was due. The VIP lounge was up and going. The seats were thronelike. They had that ELECTRIC CHAIR look.
The flight was late. Drac Air always ran tardy. The lounge featured Fьhrer art. Oil paintings of the Midget hogged wall space.
Crutch fretted. Wayne was due back soon. He had skim money for the casino build. Wayne laid down that no-dope law. Tiger Krew defied it four times. Four runs to Puerto Rico. Four layoffs to Luc’s guys in Port-au-Prince. Subsequent sales to Haitian hopheads.
Sam’s flight was late. Sam might have Gretchen/Celia in tow. Crutch volunteered for the chauffeur gig. Froggy found that hinky.
His case was popping. He ID’d his murder vie: Maria Rodriguez Fontonette, aka “Tattoo.” He saw that list of massacred Haitians. He memorized the names. It might supply leads. He gave Froggy an update. Froggy scoffed at him. “This is simply your voyeur fixation run amok. Kill more Communists and obsess on fewer women.”
The Drac Air flight descended. Little kids ran up and tossed leis. It was the Midget’s idea. He went to Hawaii once.
A baggage cart whizzed by. It looked like a mobile ELECTRIC CHAIR. The electrodes liquefied the guy’s skin. Rich beaners played golf overhead.
His case was all voodoo. That be baaaad juju. Beware the Zombie Zone.
Sam G. said, “For all his crazy nigger shit, Wayne is a fucking white man. He’s got the stateside funnel running like a charm. We’re pushing skim from our Vegas hotels through this nigger-owned bank in L.A. We’ve got Tiger Kab and the jig clubs for the residual wash. Wayne’s been keestering Hughes and running our Teamster buyout gig like a fucking virtuoso.”
No Gretchen/Celia-that was a bust. The caffeinated Sambo was an equal drag. They toured the Santo Domingo sites. Sam was impressed. The foundations were poured. The first two floors were erected. La Banda bullwhipped the slaves and fed them bennie-laced Kool-Aid. Work proceeded faaaast.
They drove up to Jarabacoa. The Autopista was rife with rickshaws and Haitian refugees. Sammy got spooked. The shines were machete-mauled and wore chicken-head hats. Luc and the Cubans waited in Jarabacoa. Crutch pre-warned them: Don’t mention Big “H” to Big G.
Sam said, “I’m having dinner with Balaguer, and I’m going to have to castigate him about all these evil boogies in plain view of the tourist trade. Batista was excellent in that regard. The downtrodden knew not to fuck with the white visiting class and the light-skinned beaners who ran the show. I am going to make that precise comment to El Jefe.”
Headless hens impaled on cane stalks. Blood-marked trees. D.R. cops with leashed mastiffs. Wetback spooks sprinting.
Sam said, “This needs to be curtailed. If folks want a scary thrill, they can take the Mr. Toad ride at Disneyland.”
A shine in a chicken hat hitchhiking. He’s got zombie eyes. He’s jacking off. He’s got a two-foot dick.
Sam pulled Crutch’s sidearm and fired at him. The shot blew wide and nailed a tree-lynched bird.
Crutch kept it zipped. Sam said, “This country needs a Billy Graham Crusade. You bring the Reverend Graham in to create a sanctified mood, then all the converts backslide at the crap tables. Shit like that can flourish in a properly suppressed climate.”
Jarabacoa was a-go-go. Three floors were up. The slaves worked rapidamente. The Midget’s contractors pushed them. The Cubans dispensed discipline. The whole group swigged Kool-Aid. It created conviviality. Luc brought his three pit bulls. They wore sequined collars and pointy voodoo hats attached with strings.
Crutch slurped Kool-Aid. The buzz hit him quick. The Krew lounged at a picnic table. Luc nuzzled his dogs. Sam pointed to Luc’s emerald ring.
“What is it about emeralds?”
Luc said, “Say what, baby man? Please tell me what you mean.”
Sam yawned. “I mean, there’s people who dig gemstones in general, and people who only dig emeralds, and when they dig emeralds, they dig emeralds in a big way.”
Luc smiled. “I understand this. There is a tradition of emerald worship both in Haiti and the D.R. Emeralds represent ‘Green Fire’ in voodoo text. They shine light on a dark history.”
Sam yawned wide. “My girlfriend Celia’s Dominican. She can talk emerald lore up the ying-yang.”
Crutch volted off “Celia.” Luc bristled weird.
“And what is Celia’s surname? Je m’appelle Celia who?”
Sam said, “Celia Reyes. She’s meeting me at the hotel later, which means I should scram.”
Luc re-bristled. Crutch re-volted. A pit bull went aaaa-oooo!
THE EYE, THE HANDS AND FEET.
The melted skin, the bloody stumps, the knife blade. The Cuban beach and the dead kids’ faces. The wires crack. The lights go out. The black guy screams.
He woke up in a new locale. Sweat pooled in his headphones. It was dark outside. He checked his watch-8:14 p.m.