Blood's a rover

7

(Las Vegas, 6/20/68)

The Count chased pills with a red drink concoction. It looked like fruit juice and blood. He wore surgical scrubs and Kleenex-box shoes. His hair was long. His nails were claws. He wore a wool watch cap and a card dealer’s shade.

Wayne made eye contact. It was rough. Farlan Brown made eye contact. He had more practice. He emceed the interview.

The Desert Inn penthouse. Chez Dracula. A hospital room with big wall-to-wall TV sets. Three screens of news chat. Martyred legends. Accused assassins. Nixon versus Humphrey and flashed-on poll stats.

The sound murmured low. Wayne tuned it out. His chair abutted Drac’s bed. He smelled industrial-strength disinfectant.

Brown said, “Mr. Tedrow knows you have questions.”

Drac slipped on a surgical mask. His voice eked through.

“Sir, do you believe that a lone gunman shot President John F. Kennedy?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Do you believe that a lone gunman shot Senator Robert F. Kennedy?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

“Do you believe that a lone gunman shot the Reverend Martin Luther King?”

“Yes, sir. I do.”

Dracula sighed. “He’s a realist, Farlan. He’s a stout Mormon, and he’s not prone to whimsy.”

Brown folded his hands prayerlike. “You picked wisely, sir. Wayne has all the right skills and knows all the right people.”

Drac coughed. His mask puffed. Phlegm dripped down his chin.

“You know our Italian friends. Is that true?”

“It is, sir. I know Mr. Marcello and Mr. Giancana quite well.”

“They’ve sold me some wonderful hotel-casinos, and I intend to purchase several more.”

“They’ll be happy to sell them to you, sir. They welcome your presence in Las Vegas.”

“Las Vegas is a breeding ground for Negro bacteria. Negroes have high white-cell counts. You should never shake hands with them. They emit pus particles through their fingertips.”

Wayne deadpanned it. Seconds crawled. Brown smiled and stepped in.

“Wayne is matching your contribution to Mr. Nixon, sir.”

Drac nodded. “Slippery Dick. I lent his brother some money in ‘56. It came back and bit Dick on the ass. It might have thrown the election to Jack Kennedy.”

Wayne said, “I’ll deliver the envelope at the convention. Mr. Marcello wants to be sure he has the nomination cinched.”

Brown smiled. “I’m a delegate. Miami in August, my Lord.”

Drac said, “The Negroes will riot and will require mass sedation. Animal tranquilizer might be the ticket. Mr. Tedrow could oversee the manufacture of the formula and test the dosage out on some Negro derelicts already in custody.”

Wayne deadpanned it. Seconds slogged. Brown smiled and stepped in.

“Wayne has said that he’ll monitor the convention for us. That’s affirmative, isn’t it, Wayne?”

“It is. I’d be happy to look around and do what I can to protect our interests.”

Drac sipped his red drink. “It’s Chicago that concerns me. Youth factions are mobilizing to create mass dissension that will discredit the Democrats. Would you be willing to help them play a few tricks?”

“With pleasure, sir.”

“Hubert Humphrey is dough-faced and porcine. I would guess that he has a high white-cell count. He was born to lose presidential elections and die of leukemia.”

Wayne nodded. Brown nodded. A male nurse entered the room. He placed a piping-hot pizza pie on Drac’s bedside table. Brown shooed him off.

“Sir, did you read my memo? Our Italian friends are developing a hotel-casino plan for Central America or the Caribbean. Wayne will be overseeing it, and Hughes Air will have the exclusive charter rights.”

Drac sniffed the pizza. “Which countries?”

Wayne said, “Panama, Nicaragua or the Dominican Republic.”

“Good locations. Low cell-count zones all. Mr. Tedrow, will you confirm or refute a rumor I’ve been hearing? It’s been troubling me.”

Wayne smiled. The pizza pie bubbled. Drac said, “Was your father murdered?”

Brown squirmed a little. Wayne said, “Emphatically not, sir.”