Blood's a Rover Read online

  Wilton J. Laird, SAC, St. Louis. EYES ONLY/PLEASE DESTROY UPON READING.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/1/68. FBI telex communiqué. From: SAC Marvin D. Waldrin, Las Vegas Office. To: Special Agent Dwight C. Holly. Marked: “Confidential 1-A: Recipient’s Eyes Only.”

  SA Holly,

  Per #8518 & my 7/28/68 response, an addendum:

  A—Sources outside LVPD & CCCO are now reporting “rife” & “widespread” rumors of homicide per the death of WAYNE TEDROW SR.

  B—Confidential Bureau informants at the Las Vegas Sun report that the newspaper may be considering an inquiry, chiefly because of the “checkered past” of WAYNE TEDROW JR. and his alleged current involvement with JANICE LUKENS TEDROW.

  Will forward all future data per Conf. 1-A guidelines.

  Marvin D. Waldrin, SAC, Las Vegas. EYES ONLY/PLEASE DESTROY UPON READING.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/3/68. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/“Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.

  JEH: Good morning, Dwight.

  DH: Good morning, Sir.

  JEH: Before you ask, the answer is yes. Expedite OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER in the manner you described in your memo.

  DH: Thank you, Sir.

  JEH: The title possesses a sublime jungle quality. As in “That brother John Edgar Hoover, he baaad.”

  DH: You are baaad, Sir. And I might add “inimitably so.”

  JEH: You might, and you should. And, on the topic of jungle artistry, I heard a very disquieting song on the radio this morning.

  DH: Sir.

  JEH: It was called “The Tighten Up.” A Negro ensemble named Archie Bell and the Drells performed it. The song carried the air of insurrection and sex. I’m sure that white liberals will find it authentic. I told the Los Angeles SAC to open a file on Mr. Bell and to determine the identity of his Drells.

  DH: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Enough bonhomie. Dwight, I am very disturbed by the Wayne Senior and Grapevine Tavern chatter. I’ve been reading the applicable communiqués, and I take this confluence of loose talk as both a personal insult and an affront to the Bureau. Wayne Senior was an FBI asset and James Earl Ray killed Martin Lucifer King without help from you, me, this agency, Wayne Senior, Wayne Junior, Fred Otash, the redneck sharpshooter Bob Relyea, or any other outside source. Do you understand me, Dwight?

  DH: Yes, Sir. I do.

  JEH: Make the rumors stop, Dwight.

  DH: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Good day, Dwight.

  DH: Good day, Sir.

  9

  (Miami, 8/5/68)

  Collins Avenue was wall-to-wall elephants. They wore GOP banners and flailed their trunks in the heat. A carny crew herded them with switches. They wore top hats dotted with Nixon buttons. One guy fed the beasts peanuts. One guy urged gawkers to cheer.

  The noise was big. Wayne dodged sign-wavers. Nixon signs bobbed upside his face. He lugged two big steamer trunks. Nixon was at the Fontainebleau. He had to walk. He couldn’t drive. The elephant stampede shut traffic down.

  The convention had just started. It was thick-aired and 94°. The air sealed an elephant-shit aroma. Wayne’s suit wilted. Wayne’s stomach queased.

  More sign fools hit the sidewalk. Cuban chanters showed up—“Cas-tro out! Cas-tro out! Cas-tro out now!” They looked riot-ready. Wayne saw saps in their pockets. The Nixon chumps gave them some space.

  The Fontainebleau loomed. Two big men spotted Wayne and cut through the crowd. They wore dark suits and earpieces. They carried walkie-talkies. The crowd caught the gist and let them through quick.

  They made it over. They grabbed the trunks and whisked Wayne off in a VIP swirl. It was two minutes all topsy-turvy. They hit the hotel. A side door opened, kitchen help dispersed, an elevator appeared. They whooshed way up. They floated down a thick-carpet hallway and sent sparks off their shoes. The big guys bowed and vanished. A bigger guy opened a door and vanished double-time quick.

  Wayne blinked. Zap—there’s ex-Veep Dick Nixon.

  In topsy-turvy Technicolor. In chinos and a Ban-Lon shirt. In need of a 1:00 p.m. shave.

  He said, “Hello, Mr. Tedrow.”

  Wayne quashed a blink. Nixon walked up to him, hands in his pockets, no shake.

  “I was sorry to hear about your father. He had become quite a good friend.”

  Wayne nodded. “I appreciate the sentiment, Sir.”

  “And the lovely Janice? How is she?”

  “She’s dying, Sir. She’s quite ill with cancer.”

  Nixon made a sad face. It flopped. No sale for Mr. Sincere.

  “I’m very sorry to hear that. Please extend my best wishes.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I will.”

  Noise boomed outside. Wayne heard “Nix-on!” and elephant bleats.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time, Sir.”

  “No, but I’m sure you’d like some form of acknowledgment.”

  “I’d like to pass it along, Sir. That’s true.”

  “You want me to say that I’ll sing for my supper.”

  Wayne looked away and scanned the suite. Presidential seals and knickknacks ran rampant. The ex-veep booked the Big Room preemptive.

  Nixon said, “My Justice Department will not go proactive against your people. I understand that you have designs in Latin America or the Caribbean, and my policy for the country you pick will accommodate it. If the election appears tight, I’d appreciate some help at the polls.”

  Wayne bowed. Nixon wrinkled his nose.

  “My wife went for a walk this morning. She said the beach was covered with elephant shit.”

  “It’ll be donkey shit in Chicago, Sir.”

  “Hubert Humphrey is a dough-faced, appeasement-minded cocksucker. He is unfit to lead this country.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “The hippies are mobilizing for Chicago.”

  “They are, Sir. And I’ll be there to lend them a hand.”

  Carlos had a condo on Biscayne Bay. Wayne had time to kill. He rent-a-car-cruised Miami.

  A street map got him west of the elephants. He couldn’t dodge convention hoo-haw altogether. The city was infested.

  Placard clowns everywhere. Pick your grievance: Vietnam, welfare, Cuban policy. Longhaired kids defamed Tricky Dick and mourned Dr. King. Fiesty Latins wanted “CASTRO OUT NOW!”

  Five- and ten-car motorcades. Floats with children and dressed-up dogs. Inflated elephants leashed to car antennas. Fools with bullhorns spouting gobbledygook.

  Red, white and blue balloons. A Nixon banner epidemic. Favorite-son banners—low numbers beside the ex-veep. A twelve-wheelchair nursing-home motorcade—old girls sapped by the heat.

  Twelve Nixonites. Balloons and wheelchair bunting. Four old girls with oxygen masks. Four old girls smoking.

  Janice was dying. He watched her fight to live and wish to die in in-and-out blips. He cooked dope for her. She lived for the IV drip and fought her way out of stupors. He cooked dope for Dracula. He’d had three more meets with Drac and Farlan Brown. Farlan was due at the convention. They’d scheduled a meet.

  Drac wanted to own Clark County, Nevada. The Boys wanted to sell him their share at usurious rates. Feed the cash funnel. Scour the Teamster Pension Fund books for loan defaulters. Usurp their businesses. Grab them, sell them and feed the cash funnel. Castro kicked the Boys out of Cuba. Find a new Latin hot spot, entrench and rebuild.

  More banners. More motorcades. Another wheelchair brigade—crippled Vietnam vets.

  Wayne looked away and cut down a side street. He cooked heroin in Saigon. He saw the war waste lives. The anti-Castro cause vexed him. His weekend in Dallas launched that distrust.

  Dwight kept calling him. A persistent Dwight Holly was a fucking full-court press. His big-brother act doubled the grief. Dwight said the Grapevine was still brewing. Dwight said Vegas was brewing up evil chitchat on Wayne Senior’s death. Dwight wa
nted to see Senior’s subscription lists. He kept refusing. Dwight kept up the press.

  Wayne crossed a long causeway and hit surface streets. He thought he saw—

  A tail car. A leapfrogger. A blue sedan sticking close and dropping back.

  He made three right turns. He lane-weaved. He hit a two-lane street and eliminated tail cover. The blue sedan fell back, stuck close, fell back. He got blips of the driver: a big, fat-neck type.

  There’s an alley—

  Wayne cranked a left turn. The tail car braked, skidded and plowed some trash cans. Wayne crisscrossed two more alleyways and lost him.

  • • •

  It was a party. Sam Giancana called it a “buy Nixon” bash. Santo Trafficante laughed and shushed him. Carlos roasted a pig on the terrace. Droves of flunkies and call girls. Fools with noisemakers. Convention delegates with Italian surnames. Three bars and a mile-long buffet.

  Wayne circulated. The condo was bigger than the Orange Bowl. He walked room-to-room and got lost twice. It was old home week. He saw a hood he popped for flimflam, circa ’61. He saw a fruit actor he popped at a glory-hole stall. He saw a bevy of Vegas-transplant hookers.

  Sam G. waltzed a woman by. Wayne caught “Celia” and “hola” instead of “hello.” Carlos waltzed by and tapped his watch. Wayne caught “den” and “five minutes.”

  Wayne circulated. A commotion occurred. Flames shot off the terrace grill and ignited some curtains. A stooge put the blaze out with a seltzer spritzer and promoted a big round of applause.

  A call girl walked Wayne to the den. Carlos, Sam and Santo were already ensconced. The walls were plywood-paneled. A photo frieze showed Carlos playing golf with Pope Pius.

  The call girl split. Wayne sat down. Sam said, “Did he say ‘Thank you’?”

  Wayne smiled. “No, but he called Hubert Humphrey a ‘dough-faced cocksucker.’ ”

  Santo laughed. “He is absolutely correct there.”

  Carlos said, “Humphrey can’t win. He takes the soft line on social chaos.”

  Sam said, “He’s a pinko. He came out of the Farmer-Labor movement in Minnesota. They are 100% Red.”

  Santo sipped Galliano. “Howard Hughes. Tell us the latest and greatest.”

  Wayne said, “He wants to buy the Stardust and the Landmark. I assured him they’re for sale. Farlan Brown thinks he may be breaching anti-trust laws, which might push the purchases off until next year.”

  Carlos sipped XO. “The cocksucking Justice Department.”

  Santo sipped Galliano. “Yeah, but lame duck. And I have to say that our boy Dick will not let shit like that impede us.”

  Sam sipped anisette. “The inside guys. That’s what concerns me. We have to keep our people on the premises.”

  Wayne nodded. “Mr. Hughes agrees. I’ve convinced him that the transition will run much smoother that way.”

  Carlos switched to Drambuie. “The Fund books. What’s going on there?”

  “I want to buy out banks and loan companies, so they can earn marginal profits and double as laundry fronts. There’s a Negro-owned bank in Los Angeles that interests me. Hughes Air is in L.A., and we need a funnel close to the border.”

  Sam shook his head. “I don’t like dealing with niggers.”

  Carlos shook his head. “They’re impetuous and get agitated too easy.”

  Santo shook his head. “They’ve been demoralized by welfare.”

  Sam sipped anisette. “Which our boy Dick will put the skids to.”

  Wayne prickled. His skin itched. His ears throbbed.

  Santo said, “Wayne’s having an adverse reaction to this conversation.”

  Sam said, “Wayne’s an open book in some ways.”

  Santo sipped Galliano. “What’s the book? Jungle Bunnies I Have Slain?”

  Carlos said, “Wayne’s a coon hunter from way back.”

  Sam yukked. “So maybe therein lies the rub?”

  Santo said, “What’s the ‘rub’? You sound like a faggot talking like that.”

  Carlos looked at Wayne. Carlos raised his hands and eased his palms down—whoa, now, whoa, whoa.

  Santo coughed. “Okay, let’s change the subject.”

  Sam coughed. “Okay, how about politics? Me, I’m voting for Dick.”

  Carlos coughed. “How about your scouting trip? Let’s hear about that.”

  Sam switched to XO. “I been to all three places. To me, they’re apples and oranges. Panama’s got the fucking canal, Nicaragua’s got the fucking jungle, and the D.R.’s got the fucking island breeze. They all got right-wing guys with their hands out pulling the strings, which is the most important thing. My friend Celia’s from the D.R., so she’s been lobbying for it.”

  Carlos made the jack-off sign. “Sam’s pussy-whipped.”

  Santo made the jack-off sign. “Celia this, Celia that. Sam’s got heatstroke from that island pussy.”

  Sam flushed. Carlos raised his hands and eased his palms down—whoa, now, whoa, whoa.

  Santo switched to Drambuie. “The front team. Let’s talk about that. Once we pick our spot, we’ll have to send some guys down.”

  Wayne coughed. “I want to bring in Jean-Philippe Mesplede.”

  Carlos gulped. Santo gulped. Sam gulped. Looks traveled three ways. Mesplede fucked Carlos on the Saigon “H” deal. He was a French-Corsican merc. He was an anti-Castro militant. He was in Dallas that weekend. He shot from the grassy knoll.

  Sam sighed. “I’ll admit he’s a good choice, but we got problems with him.”

  Santo said, “I heard he’s here in Miami. Wherever you got anti-Fidel shit, you got Jean-Philippe.”

  Sam said, “Is this where we all say ‘Let bygones be bygones’?”

  Carlos sipped Drambuie. “Three names keep popping into my head. A little birdie keeps telling me that Mesplede wants to clip them.”

  Bob Relyea. Gaspar Fuentes. Miguel Díaz Arredondo.

  A redneck shooter and two Cuban exiles. Part of the Saigon cabal. Relyea sided with the Carlos faction and fucked over Wayne and Mesplede. Relyea joined the Memphis team and dropped Dr. King. Fuentes and Arredondo were anti-Wayne and anti-Mesplede. They plain disappeared last spring.

  Santo sighed. “I’ll concede he’s a good choice.”

  Sam sighed. “I know he speaks Spanish. ‘Let bygones by bygones’? I don’t know, you tell me.”

  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 wa
s halfway through a fifth of Pernod. A waiter brought a fresh glass.

  “Ça va, Wayne?”

  “Ça va bien, Jean-Philippe.”

  “And your business in Miami?”

  “Political.”

  “Par example, s’il vous plait?”

  “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.

  Ça 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.”