Blood's a rover

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 amp;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 rйsumй.”

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 “Fьhrer 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.