Blood's a Rover Read online

  The kiss. The shadows in and out of his vision. The knife-scar woman’s gray-streaked hair. She didn’t have a name. Gretchen/Celia had two. He wanted to know that woman’s name. He drew pictures of her and papered his walls with them. He gave her her own real features, not Dana Lund’s.

  Their talk—“Grapevine,” “Tommy,” “plant”—what did it mean? He checked city directories nationwide. He found listings for 216 Grapevine restaurants, hotels, motels and bars. He didn’t know where he should start checking or if he should start checking or if it meant anything.

  So, Gretchen/Celia fucked men and stole their money. “Al,” “Chuck,” “Lew,” Dr. Fred, Farlan Brown potentially. Sal Mineo spilled all that he knew. Gretchen/Celia was allegedly left-wing. What did that mean? She wanted to “get next to” Farlan Brown—say what? on that. The knife-scar woman—how did she play in? The dead woman in the Horror House—was she connected?

  Crutch brain-looped and watched TV. He got nigger-riot visuals and headphone fuzz next door. Dead air—Farlan Brown’s suite was still still.

  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 Farr 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 deal: they were looking for two Cuban men named Gaspar Fuentes and Miguel Díaz 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-coital: 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 Gaspar Fuentes and Miguel Díaz 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 très 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.

  The cab pulled out. Crutch tailed it. Traffic was too sparse to get close. Crutch killed his headlights and cued on the cab’s taillights. They cut across this biiiiiig swath of Miami.

  The terrain got rural. The roads got rough and swervy. The cab pulled ahead. Crutch turned his lights on just to see. Dirt roads swerved up to a rinky-dink airfield. Crutch saw a two-seater prop job on the runway.

  He stopped the car. He couldn’t see the cab. He got out and squinted in the dark. He was discombobulated. He couldn’t see shit.

  Floodlights snapped on. Crutch got glare-blinded. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes. He got some sight back. He saw Wayne Junior, standing by the airplane, looking straight at him.

  12

  (Las Vegas, 8/9/68)

  Buddy Fritsch said, “I got us a suspect.”

  His den was polar-cold. He served highballs and Fritos. Chuck Woodrell had the flu and kept sniffling. Dwight kept tugging at his law-school ring. Wayne was frazzled—that bumpy flight and thirty-six sleepless hours.

  It was 9:00 p.m. Miami felt like a fever dream. His time zones were stretched disproportionate.

  Fritsch passed around a mug-shot strip: three views of a male Negro. Sylvester “Pappy” Dawkins, age forty-eight. A lean man with a fuck-you demeanor. Inked on the back: burglary raps from ’42 up.

  Woodrell said, “Woooo, boy.”

  Dwight said, “Hide the kiddies.”

  Fritsch said, “He’s a residential burglar with rape-o tendencies. He was in custody near Barstow on the night Wayne Senior died, which don’t make no difference to us. He’s got no alibi for that night, and it’s a little two-man PD. I can buy both them boys off.”

  The strip recirculated. Woodrell said, “Katy-bar-the-door.” Dwight said, “Electric chair, sweetheart.” Wayne shut his eyes and passed the strip back.

  Fritsch slurped his highball. “Washoe County makes him for two burglary snuffs, so it ain’t like he’s a contributing member of society. He pulls B&Es all messed-up on goofballs, so he’ll make a piss-poor witness.”

  Woodrell nibbled Fritos. “I like him. He’s five seconds out of the trees.”

  Fritsch said, “I got a print transparency. We can roll it through a blood sample and pre-date it.”

  Dwight rubbed his neck. “How much?”

  Woodrell said, “Fifty on my end.”

  Fritsch squirmed. “Uh … twenty for me? And I’ll take care of the Barstow boys out of that?”

  Dwight nodded. “I’ll tap you-know-who. He wants to see this covered.”

  Wayne said, “No.”

  Fritsch froze mid-slurp. Woodrell froze mid-bite. Wayne said, “No more.”

  Woodrell sighed. “This is just about the biggest favor you’ll ever get in this lifetime.”

  Fritsch sighed. “Don’t be a Bolshevik, son.”

  Woodrell laughed. “Mr. Sensitive. With the niggers he’s got on his résumé.”

  Wayne looked at him. “Stop right there. Don’t make me take this any further.”

  Woodrell flushed and got shaky-kneed. Fritsch said, “Sweet Jesus.” Dwight pointed to the two of them and the door. They caught the gist and walked out. Dwight stood up and hauled Wayne upright. Dwight grabbed his shirtfront and slapped him.

  It stung. It raised blood dots. Wayne popped pain tears. It was a love tap by Dwight Holly standards.

  “It’s for Janice. It’s for both of us and everything you’ve put your hands on. It’s for this fucked-up hole we’re both in.”

  Wayne wiped his nose. Blood pooled in his mouth. His tears dried quick.

  “This has to happen, so you let it happen, and you do not fold on me. I need that from you, and I may need you for the Grapevine. Otash went to St. Louis, we’ll need to talk to him about it, and we might have to go in at some point.”

  His blood tasted funny. Dwight held him up. His legs were gone.

  “I need you to stand in. I need your father’s mail lists, and if push comes to shove with the Grapevine, I want you there.”

  Wayne nodded. Dwight let his hands go. Wayne weaved and stayed up.

  The sheets were moist. Her gown was damp. Her pulse ran weak-steady. Wayne flicked the dial and fed dope to the tube.

  Heroin. His compound. A morphine-base synthetic.

  Janice unclenched. Wayne wiped her brow and toweled the sheets half-dry. The night nurse was sleeping in the living room. Janice was all sweat and chills.

  Wayne took her hands. “There’s something that has to be done to give us some safety. When you hear about it, you’ll know. It wasn’t my idea, and there’s no way around it.”

  Janice shut her eyes. Tears leaked. She pulled her hands free. They felt weightless, all veins and bone.

  Wayne flicked the dial. Dope flowed bag to tube to vein. Janice went out, shuddering.

  Her pulse was weak-normal. Wayne arranged her hair on the pillow. He grabbed the bedside phone and dialed Mesplede in Miami.

  Three rings. A sleep-slapped “Oui?”

  “It’s Wayne.”

  “Yes, of course. My American friend in duress.”

  “Do something for me.”

  “Of course.”

  “There was a kid tailing me in Miami. I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s trouble.”

  “Yes? And your wish?”

  “Early twenties, medium-sized, crew cut. He’s driving an Avis rent-a-car. The plate number is GQV-881.”

  “Yes? And your wish?”

  “Find out his business and clip him.”

  The vault was twelve miles east of Vegas. Wayne Senior had dubbed it the “Führer bunker.” It was a scrub-covered cement square sunk in a sand drift. It was straight out I-15.

  Wayne brought a flashlight, a gas can and a Zippo lighter. The location was a mile off the interstate. The vault held copies of all Senior’s hate tracts and his subscriber lists.

  Wayne parked on a turnaround near a Chevron station and walked into the desert. It was 106° at midnight. Sand sucked at his feet and slowed his walk to a trudge. It was slow slow motion. He thought about Dallas the whole time.

  He got there. He pulled off scrub branches, unlocked the door and hauled hate lit out. Titles jumped off covers. He saw Miscegenation Generation and Jew Stew: A Recipe Book. He saw Pope Pontius: How Papists Rule the Jewnited Nations. He saw doctored pix of Dr. King and little Negro kids. He saw facsimile editions of vintage Klan kodebooks.

  He stripped the shelves. He lugged paper and ink-smudged his arms black. He saw hate headlines. He saw pornographic hate cartoons. He saw lynching photos with gag captions.

  He built a big hate pile. It stood eight feet high. He doused it with gasoline. He sparked the Zippo and put the flame down.

  The pile flared straight up and out. The big black sky went red.

  13

  (Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

  The sky went red to orange. Dwight stood by the service pumps and watched.

  The blaze backlit the desert floor and the highway. He saw Wayne’s car on the turnaround. His tail-job-on-instinct got him this.

  Two pump jockeys stood around, gawking. A hot wind blew
smoke their way. Dwight walked to a pay phone, fed the slot quarters and dialed direct to L.A.

  The smoke was thick with paper bits. Dwight felt the sting. Karen picked up immediately.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me.”

  “You’re not supposed to call when he’s in town, goddamnit.”

  Dwight said, “Talk slow to me. Just a minute, please.”

  Karen said something back. He didn’t hear it. His eyes were all wet and fucked-up. He couldn’t tell if it was the smoke or his crazy love for Wayne.

  14

  (Miami, 8/10/68)

  Smoke and fire. The spooks refused to quit. Gunshots, sirens and a 4:00 a.m. light show.

  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.