Blood's a rover

78

(Jarabacoa, 3/12/70)

Heavy rain stalled out work. The thirteenth-floor framing dragged. All four sites dipped behind schedule. A few slaves escaped.

La Banda reacted. They combed the crews and drew torture lots. “Hate-ins”: lashings and slaves screaming in the rain.

Crutch watched the latest. A monsoon just passed over. The ground was ankle-deep mud. The site was packed with sodden lumber and equipment. It was all miasma and muck.

The La Banda guy used a tassel whip. Little bulbs supplied extra pain. Crutch bopped behind voodoo herbs. It focused him and zoned the ugly shit out.

The slave was strapped to a bulldozer. His shrieks boomeranged. The lash-to-lash echoes overlapped.

The whip man was good. The tassels cut down to the rib bone. The slave crew watched. Crutch shut his eyes.

The slave collapsed. A La Banda guy bug-sprayed his wounds for added hurt and disinfection. The slave ate mud. It muffled his screams.

A horn honked. Crutch looked over. Froggy had a new ‘59 Cadiblack. It was de rigueur striped. Froggy called it “Tiger Kar.”

The Cubans were crammed in with Tommy guns. Canestel pointed north-Tiger Kove now.

Crutch got queasy. Tiger Kar ran rough roads on soft suspension. He was squished between Morales and Saldivar. His brainpan popped. He kept checking the rearview mirrors. He’d had this surveillance vibe. He couldn’t validate it. Hell hound on my trail.

They hit Tiger Kove at dusk. Tiger Klaw was gassed to go. The storm had passed over. Residual chop pushed them east. The north shore and the Mona Passage-one big whitecap. They made Point Higuero early. They smoked weed to kill time. The Puerto Rican spies trusted them now. Froggy called them their “Tiger Kompaсeros.”

Crutch heard onshore movement. The spies popped out of the brush. They lobbed the dope suitcase on board. Gomez-Sloan lobbed the cash suitcase at them. It was kwick and kompanionable.

The Krew unmoored the Klaw and sailed away, kove-bound. White-caps bucked them. Crutch launched a torpedo for kicks. It hit a shit-flecked atoll and exploded.

They moored and draped Tiger Klaw with camouflage netting. They took Tiger Kar back to Santo Domingo. Crutch dozed off his dope jolt. Mosquitoes buzzed into his mouth and woke him up periodic.

It was dawn. The Krew decamped at the El Embajador. Froggy told Crutch to hold the suitcase. The Tonton guys would shag it to Port-au-Prince tomorrow. Crutch yawned and elevatored up to his suite.

He opened the door. He re-caught the vibe. He smelled cigarette smoke. He saw a tip glowing.

The light snapped on. There’s Dwight Holly on the couch. There’s some shit on the coffee table.

A paint can and a paintbrush. A syringe and a morphine Syrette.

Crutch shut the door and dropped the suitcase. Dwight pulled out a pocketknife.

“How much are you holding?”

“Three pounds.”

“That’ll do.”

His mouth dried up. His bladder swelled. The walls loop-de-looped.

Dwight said, “Take your shirt off.”

“Man, you can’t-”

“I’m not saying it again. You’re taking your shirt off, I’m taking the suitcase. I won’t stop you from running out the door. I’ll call Wayne and rat out your dope business the moment you do.”

Crutch pulled his shirt off. His sphincter almost blew. Dwight opened the paint can and dipped in the brush. The paint was bright red.

He walked the walls and pulled off the artwork. He painted “6/14” above the couch. He re-dipped his brush. He painted “6/14!!!!” above the wet bar. He re-dipped his brush. He painted “Death to Yanqui Dope Peddlers” beside the door.

Crutch prayed and tried not to cry. Dwight popped the Syrette and plungered the syringe. Crutch held his arm out. Dwight clamped his biceps and brought up a vein.

Crutch squeezed his Saint Chris medal. It snapped off his neck. Dwight poked the vein and geezed him up.

He went loosey-goosey. His bladder blew. He didn’t care. His eyes rolled back.

Dwight flicked his lighter and warmed up his knife. Crutch braced his hands on the door. Dwight carved “6/14” on his back.