Blood's a rover

It's 1968. Bobby

Kennedy and

Martin Luther King

are dead. The mob,

Howard Hughes and

J. Edgar Hoover

are in a struggle

for America's soul.

Wayne Tedrow Jr.

is an ex-cop turned

assassin, dope cooker

and mouthpiece

who plays all sides

and plays to win.

Don Crutchfield is a

nobody, a wheelman,

a kid and a private

dick who stumbles

into an ungodly mess

from which he—and

the country—may

never recover

AMERICA:

"^^^ window-peeped four years

I of our History. It was one

I long mobile stakeout and

I kiched-the-door-in shake-

^fl^ down. I had license to steal

and a ticket to ride.

I followed people. I bugged and tapped and caught big events in ellipses. I remained unknown. My surveillance links the Then to the Now in a never-before-revealed manner. I was there. My reportage is buttressed by credible hearsay and insider tattle. Massive paper trails provide verification. This booh derives from stolen public files and usurped private journals. It is the sum of personal adventure and 40 years of scholarship. I am a literary executor and an agent provocateur. I did what I did and saw what I saw and learned my way through to the rest of the story.

Scripture-pure veracity and scandal-rag content. That conjunc­tion gives it its sizzle. You carry the seed of belief within you already. You recall the time this narrative captures and sense conspiracy. I am here to tell you that it is all true and not at all what you think.

You will read with some reluc­tance and capitulate in the end. The following pages will force you to succumb.

I am going to tell you everything.

Wayne Tedrow Jr. (Las Vegas, 6/14/68) HEROIN:

He'd rigged a lab in his hotel suite. Beakers, vats and Bunsen burners filled up wall shelves. A three-burner hot plate juked small-batch conversions. He was cooking painkiller-grade prod­uct. He hadn't cooked dope since Saigon.

A comp suite at the Stardust, vouchered by Carlos Marcello. Carlos knew that Janice had ter­minal cancer and that he had chemistry skills.

Wayne mixed morphine clay

with ammonia. A two-minute heat­ing loosened mica chips and silt. He boiled water to 182°. He added ace­tic anhydride and reduced the bond proportions. The boil sluiced out organic waste.

Precipitants next—the slow-cook process—diacetyl morph and sodium carbonate.

Wayne mixed, measured and ran two hot plates low. He glanced around the suite. The maid left a newspaper out. The headlines were all him.

Wayne Senior's death by "Heart Attack." James Earl Ray and Sirhan Sirhan in stir.

His front-page ink. No mention of him. Carlos chilled out Wayne Senior. Mr. Hoover chilled out the backwash on the King/Bobby hits.

Wayne watched diacetyl mass build. His blend would semi-anesthetize Janice. He was bucking for a big job with Howard Hughes. Hughes was addicted to pharmaceutical narcotics. He could cook him up a private blend and bring it to his interview.

The mass settled into cubes and rose out of the liquid. Wayne saw photos of Ray and Sirhan on page two. He worked on the King hit. His father worked it high up. Freddy Otash ran fall-guy Ray for King and fall-guy Sirhan for Bobby.

The phone rang. Wayne grabbed it. Scrambler clicks hit the line. It had to be a Fed safe phone and Agent Dwight Holly.

"It's me, Dwight."

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

"'Heart attack,' shit. 'Sudden stroke' would have been better."

Wayne coughed. "Carlos is handling it personally. He can frost out anything around here."

"I do not want Mr. Hoover going into a tizzy over this."

"It's chilled. The question is, 'What about the others?'"

Dwight said, "There's always con­spiracy talk. Bump off a public figure and that kind of shit tends to bubble. Freddy ran Ray covertly and Sirhan up front, but he lost weight and altered his appearance. All in all, I'd say we're chilled on both of them."

Wayne watched his dope cook. Dwight spieled more news. Freddy O. bought the Golden Cavern Casino. Pete Bondurant sold it to him. Big Pete wanted out of The Life.

"We're chilled, Dwight. Tell me we're chilled and convince me."

Dwight laughed. "You sound a little raw, kid."

"I'm stretched a bit thin, yeah. Patri­cide's funny that way."

Dwight yukked. The dope pots started boiling. Wayne doused the heat and looked at his desk photo.

It's Janice Lukens Tedrow, lover/ex-stepmom. It's '61. She's twisting at the Dunes. She's sans partner, she's lost a shoe, a dress seam has ripped.

Dwight said, "Hey, are you there?"

"I'm here."

"I'm glad to hear it. And I'm glad to hear we're chilled on your end."

Wayne stared at the picture. "My father was your friend. You're going in pretty light with the judgment."

"Shit, kid. He sent you to Dallas."

Big D. November '63. He was there that Big Weekend. He caught the Big Moment and took this Big Ride.

He was a sergeant on Vegas PD. He was married. He had a chemistry degree. His father was a big Mormon fat cat. Wayne Senior was jungled up all over the nut right. He did Klan

ops for Mr. Hoover and Dwight Holly. He pushed high-line hate tracts. He rode the far-right Zeitgeist and stayed in the know.

Extradition job, with one caveat: Kill the extraditee.

The PD suborned the assignment. A Negro pimp named Wendell Durfee shivved a casino dealer. The man lived. It didn't matter. The Casino Operator's Council wanted Wendell clipped. Vegas cops got those jobs. They were choice gigs with big bonus money. They were tests. The PD wanted to gauge your balls. Wayne Senior had clout with the PD. Senior wanted Junior there. Wendell Durfee fled Vegas to Dallas. Senior doubted Junior's balls. Senior thought Junior should kill an unarmed black man. Wayne flew to Dallas on 11/22/63.

He did not want to kill Wendell Durfee. He did not know about the JFK hit. He blundered into the hit plot in post-hit free fall. He linked Jack Ruby to that mere named Pete Bondurant. He saw Ruby clip Lee Harvey Oswald on live TV.

It all went blooey that Sunday.

JFK was dead. Oswald was dead. He tracked down Wendell Durfee and told him to run. Cut to January '64. Pete heard that Wendell Durfee had fled back to Vegas. He told Wayne and warned him: Durfee's a rape-o shitbird and worse. Wayne went after Wendell. Three colored dope fiends got in the way. Wayne killed them. Wendell Durfee raped and murdered Wayne's wife, Lynette.

Wayne Senior and the PD worked to get Wayne a walk on the dope fiends. Mr. Hoover was amenable. He quit the PD and entered The Life.

Soldier of fortune. Heroin run­ner. Assassin.

Lynette was dead. He vowed to find Wendell Durfee and kill him. Lynette was his best friend and sweetheart and the wall to shut out his love for his father's second wife. Janice was older, she watched him grow up, she stayed with Senior for his money and clout. The longing went both ways between them. It stayed there and plain grew.

Wayne fell in with Pete Bondurant. Pete was tight with a mob lawyer named Ward Littell. Ward was ex-FBI and the point man for the JFK hit. He was working for Carlos Marcello and Howard Hughes and playing both ends back, front and sideways. Wayne had two Fiercely driven teach­ers. He learned The Life from them. He blew through their curriculum at a free-fall pace.

Pete was hopped up on the Cuban exile cause. Vietnam was getting hot. Howard Hughes was nurtur­ing crazy plans to buy up Las Vegas. Wayne Senior got in with Hughes' Mormon guard. Ward Littell devel­oped a grudge against Senior. A rogue CIA man recruited Pete for a Saigon-to-Vegas dope funnel, proFits to the Cuban cause, vouchsafed by Carlos Marcello. Pete needed a dope chemist and recruited Wayne. Ward's hatred of Wayne Senior grew. He informed Wayne that his father had sent him to Dallas.

Wayne reeled and grabbed at air and barely stayed upright. Wayne fucked Janice in his father's house and made sure that Wayne Senior saw it.

The Life, a noun. A haven for Mormon burnouts, rogue chemists, coon killers.

Wayne Senior divorced Janice. He beat her with a silver-tipped cane to offset the cost of the settlement.

Janice limped from that day on and still played scratch golf. Ward Littell sold Howard Hughes Las Vegas at the mob's inflated prices and began a sporadic love affair with Janice. Wayne Senior increased his pull with Howard Hughes and sucked up to former veep Dick Nixon. Mr. Hoover directed Dwight Holly to disrupt Martin Luther King and the civil-rights movement.

Wayne cooked heroin in Saigon and ran it through to Vegas. Wayne chased Wendell Durfee for four years. The country blew up with riots and a shitstorm of race hate. Dr. King trumped Mr. Hoover on all moral fronts and wore the old man down just by being. Mr. Hoover had tried everything. Mr. Hoover whined to Dwight that he had done all he could. Dwight understood the cue and recruited Wayne Senior. Wayne Senior wanted Wayne Junior to be in on it. Senior thought they needed a recruitment wedge. Dwight went out and found Wendell Durfee.

Wayne got a pseudo-anonymous tip. He found Wendell Durfee on L.A.'s Skid Row and killed him in March. Dwight gathered some foren­sic evidence and coerced him into the hit plan. Wayne worked with his father, Dwight, Freddy Otash and the pro shooter.

Janice was diagnosed with last-stage cancer. Her beating injuries cloaked early detection of the disease. April and May were pure free fall. The Saigon dope deal factionalized. The '68 election hovered. King was dead. Carlos Marcello and the Boys decided to clip Bobby Kennedy. Pete B. was coerced in. Freddy O. waltzed over from the King hit. Ward Littell was still working angles on Carlos

and Howard Hughes. Ward had inherited an anti-mob file from a woman named Arden Smith. He left it with Janice for safekeeping.

Wayne went to see Janice on June 4. The cancer had taken her strength and curves and had rendered her slack. They made love a second time. She told him more about Ward's file. He searched her apartment and found it. The file was very detailed. It specifically indicted Carlos and his New Orleans operation. Wayne sent it to Carlos, along with a note.

Sir, my father was planning to extort you with this file. Sir, could we discuss that?

Robert F. Kennedy was shot two hours later. Ward Littell killed him­self. Howard Hughes offered Wayne Senior Ward's job as mob fixer-liaison. His first assignment: Purchase the loyalty of GOP front-runner Dick Nixon.

Carlos called Wayne and thanked him for the heads-up. Carlos said, "Let's have dinner."

Wayne decided to murder his father. Wayne decided that Janice should beat him dead with a golf club.

Carlos kept a mock-Roman suite at the Sands. A toga-clad geek played centurion and let Wayne in. The suite featured mock-Roman pillars and sack-of-Rome art. Price tags drooped from wall frames.

A buffet was laid out. The geek sat Wayne down at a lacquered table embossed with spqr. Carlos walked in. He wore nubby silk shorts and a stained tuxedo shirt.

Wayne stood up. Carlos said, "Don't." Wayne sat down. The geek spooned food on two plates and van­ished. Carlos (continued on page 148)

ROVER

(continued from page 139) poured wine from a screw-top bottle.

Wayne said, "It's a pleasure, sir."

"Don't make like I don't know you. You're Pete and Ward's guy, and you worked for me in Saigon. You know more about me than you should, plus all the shit in that file. I know your story, which is some fucking story com­pared to the other dickhead stories I heard lately."

Wayne smiled. Carlos pulled two bobbing-head dolls from his pockets. One doll represented RFK. One doll represented Dr. King. Carlos smiled and snapped off their heads.

"Salud, Wayne."

"Thank you, Carlos."

"You're looking for work, right? This ain't about a handshake and a thank-you envelope."

Wayne sipped wine. It was present-day liquor-store vintage.

"I want to assume Ward Littell's role in your organization, along with the position in the Hughes organiza­tion that my father just inherited from Ward. I have the skills and the connec­tions to prove myself valuable, I'm pre­pared to favor you in all my dealings with Mr. Hughes, and I'm aware of the penalties you dispense for disloyalty."

Carlos speared an anchovy. His fork slid. Olive oil hit his tux shirt.

"Okay, even if I'm fucking suscepti­ble to favors and prone to like you, why should Howard Hughes go outside his own organization full of suck-asses he feels comfortable with to hire a fucked-up ex-cop who goes around shooting niggers for kicks."

Wayne flinched. He gripped his wine­glass and almost snapped the stem.

"Mr. Hughes is a xenophobic drug addict known to inject narcotics into a vein in his penis, and I can concoct-----"

Carlos yukked and slapped the table. His wineglass capsized. Pepper chunks flew. Olive oil spritzed.

"-----drugs that will stimulate and

sedate him and diminish his men­tal capacities to the point that he will become that much more tractable in all his dealings with you. I also know that you have a very large envelope for Richard Nixon, should he be nomi­nated. Mr. Hughes is putting in 20 percent, and I plan to raid my father's cash reserve and get you another 5 mil­lion cold."

The toga geek walked in. He brought a sponge and swabbed the mess presto-chango. Carlos snapped his fingers. The toga geek disappeared.

Carlos raised his glass. "You get 250 a year and points, and you jump on Ward's old job straight off. I need you to oversee the buyouts of legitimate businesses started with Teamster Pen­sion Fund loans, so we can launder it and funnel it into a slush fund to

build these hotel-casinos somewhere in Central America or the Caribbean. You know what we're looking for. We want some pliable, anticommunist El Jefe type who'll do what we want and keep all the dissident hippie protest shit down to a dull roar. Sam G.'s run­ning point now. We've got it narrowed down to Panama, Nicaragua and the Dominican Republic. That's your main fucking job. You make it happen and you make your hophead pal keep buy­ing our hotels, and you make sure we get to keep our inside guys, who just might help us out with some skim." Wayne said, "I'll do it."

Don Crutchfield (Los Angeles,

6/15/68)

WOMEN:

Two bevies walked by the lot. The first group looked like shopgirls. They wore Ivy League threads and modified bouffants. The second group was pure hippie. They wore patched-up jeans, peacenik shit and long, straight hair that swirled.

They came and went. The wheelmen waved. The shopgirls waved back. The hippie chicks flipped off the wheelmen. The wheelmen wolf-called.

The Shell station lot, Beverly and Hayworth. Four pumps and a service bay-office. Three wheelmen sprawled in their sleds.

Bobby Gallard had a Rocket Olds. Phil Irwin had a 409 Chevy. Crutch had a '65 GTO. He was the rookie wheel­man. He had the boss ride: 390, Hurst 4-speed, coon maroon paint.

Bobby and Phil were midday-blitzed on high-test vodka. Crutch was residual torqued on the girl show. He scanned the street for more walk-bys. Zilch—just some old hebes loping to shul.

Back to the paper. Yawn—more jive on James Earl Ray and Sirhan Sirhan. Snore—"America Grieves "/"Accused Assassin's Lair." Ray vibed pencilneck. Sirhan vibed towelhead. Hey, America, I got your grief swingin'.

Crutch flipped pages. He hit fly­weights at the Forum and a grabber— Life magazine offers million scoots for Howard Hughes pix! A redhead walked by. Crutch waved at her. She scowled like he was a dog turd. Wheel­men emitted baaaad vibes. They were low rent and indigenously fucked-up. They perched in the lot. They waited for work from skank private eyes and divorce lawyers. They tailed cheating spouses, kicked in doors and took pho­tos of the fools balling. It was a high-risk/high-yuks job with female-skin potential. Crutch was new to it. He wanted to groove the job forever.

The paper called Howard Hughes a "Billionaire Recluse." Crutch got a brainstorm. He could starve him­self down to bones and shimmy up a heat shaft. Snap—one Polaroid and vamoose.

It was hot and humid. Crutch yawned and aimed the AC vent at his balls. It perked him up and got him head trip­ping. Gas-station blahs, adieu.

He was 23. He got expelled from Hollywood High for candid-camera stunts in the girls' gym. His old man lived in a Goodwill box outside Santa Anita. Crutch Senior panhandled, bet all day and ate pastrami burritos exclu­sive. His mom vanished on 6/18/55. Crutch was 10. She up and split and never returned. She sent him a Christ­mas card and a five spot every year, different postmarks, no return address. He built his own missing-persons file. It filled up four big boxes. He killed time with it. He called around the country and ran PD checks, hospital checks, obit checks.

Nothing—Margaret VVoodard Crutch-field was still stone gone.

The wheelman gig fell on his head. It happened like this:

He kept up with his high-school pal Buzz Duber. Buzz shared his passion for pad prowls. Soft prowls, like this:

Hancock Park. Big dark houses. Preppy girls' lairs. Knock, knock. Nobody's home? Good.

You enter undetectably, you carry a penlight, you dig some plush cribs. You walk through girls' bedrooms and exit with lingerie sets.

He did it a few times with Buzz. He did it a lot by himself. Buzz's dad was Clyde Duber. Clyde was a big-time PI. He did divorce jobs and got celebs out of the shit. He installed college kids in left-wing groups and got them to rat out subversion. The fuzz popped Crutch on a panty prowl. They snagged him with some black lace undies and a sandwich he glommed from Sally Compton's fridge. Clyde bailed him out and got his record expunged. Clyde got him wheelman and chump surveil­lance gigs. Clyde said window peeping was kosher, but nixed B&E. Clyde said, "Kid, I'll pay you to peep."

Clyde Duber's office, Beverly Hills. Knotty-pine walls, golf trophies and red leather.

Crutch said, "Freddy Otash bought some hotel in Vegas."

Clyde poured a triple scotch. "Fred­dy's a dipshit. Rumors are circulating, and that's all I can say about that."

Buzz said, "Tell Dad about the Hughes deal."

Crutch scratched his balls. "Life magazine's offering a million bucks for a photo of Howard Hughes. I think we can do it."

Clyde made the jack-off sign. Kids— this white man's burden. Kid wheel­men, kid infiltrators, kid stakeout geeks.

Buzz nudged Crutch. "You got plans tonight?"

"I thought I'd drive around."

"Shit, you're going to peep Chrissie Lund."

Clyde said, "Who's Chrissie Lund?"

"She's USC frosh. She's got Crutch ail wired."

Clyde sipped scotch. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do. Like PC 459, breaking and entering."

Crutch blushed. Buzz seltzer-spritzed his scotch.

"Get us a decoy job, Dad. Send us into some commie group."

"Nix that. You're too green, and you look too square. You've got to be able to talk commie lifestyle shit to make those gigs work. You kids don't know from social upheaval. All you kids know from is this college-girl gash you can't get."

Buzz laughed. Crutch blushed.

"That reminds me. Dr. Fred's got a job for us. A woman stole some money from him and absconded."

Buzz looked at Clyde. Crutch looked at Clyde. Both looks said Me. Clyde flipped a coin. Buzz called tails. The coin hit the floor heads.

(Las Vegas, 6/17/68) The Sheriff's blocked off Fremont. The low-roller casinos flew flags at half-mast. A lackluster motorcade slogged through.

Dig: a memorial parade for Wayne Tedrow Sr.

Noon in Vegas. 109 and climbing. City fathers in cowboy hats and broil-inducing suits. The mayor's last-second brainstorm. Senior was a heavyweight. Let's dispense respect.

The car procession crawled. The stand­ing spectators sizzled and gaped, sun-stupefied. Some kitchen workers waved placards and booed. Wayne Senior ran their union and fucked them over with management side deals.

The LVPD sent an honor guard. Snail trail—the cars moved bumper-lock slow. Tourists capered and waved chip cups and beers. Negro protestors lugged anti-cop signs. A subgroup taunted Wayne. He heard muffled chants of "Honky killer!"

Wayne saw Carlos Marcello across the street. They exchanged smiles and waves. Wayne got jostled. The crowd swelled and pushed him. They looked pissed. Wayne saw why: Dwight Holly was shov­ing through with his badge out.

Wayne stepped over to a shady spot. It was semiprivate. Dwight found him fast.

He stepped in close. "We've got a little seepage. I'll tell you about it in a second, but you've got to hear the lecture first."

Wayne weaved a tad. A protestor spotted him and did the clenched-fist thing. Dwight pulled him behind the platform.

"You're juiced now. You're in with Uncle Carlos and you may get in with Hughes. I'd be a piss-poor friend if I didn't tell you to be careful."

Wayne stepped in close. "Friend? You fucking coerced me into Memphis."

Dwight stepped closer. He bumped Wayne into a light post and pinned him there.

"Wendell Durfee came with a price, son. And don't tell me that you didn't want the job on some level."

Wayne pushed Dwight back. Easy hands, don't rile him. Dwight made nice and brushed off Wayne's coat.

"Give me an update on Carlos. Some­thing to keep the old poof happy."

"It's stale news. The Boys want to sell Hughes the rest of their hotels and keep their skim guys inside. Hughes wants a peaceful town. Someone has to fill Ward Littell's shoes, and it's me."

Senior was a racist! Junior is a killer!— Wayne heard faint shouts.

"The envelope for Dick Nixon. Tell me about that."

"How did you------"

"We've got his pad in Key Biscayne bugged. Nixon mentioned it to Bebe Rebozo."

Wayne said, "The Boys want to build some casinos in Central America or the Caribbean, and they want things slowed down at Justice. They think Nixon will win the election and be amenable."

Dwight nodded. "I'll buy that, for now."

"The seepage? Memphis? You were going to------"

"I'm trying to run down some hate-mail subscribers. I'd like to get a look at your father's lists."

Wayne shook his head. "No. I'm out of the hate business. Talk to Fred Hiltz."

"Shit, Wayne. I'm not asking you for the world, I'm just asking for------"

"Seepage? Memphis? Come on, don't string me out on that."

Dwight reached for a cigarette. The pack was empty. He threw it into the crowd.

(Los Angeles, 6/18/68)

"Clyde tells me you like looking for

women."

Bam—the Hate King's first words. Bam— at the door, no handshake or introduction.

Crutch said, "Yes, sir. That's true."

Dr. Fred Hiltz laughed. "He said, 'Looking at women,' but I won't press the point."

The Hiltz hate hacienda—a big Spanish manse. Beverly Hills, prime footage, Jew neighbors galore. A jumbo sunken living room festooned with hate art.

Fine oils. The masters reconsidered. A Van Gogh lynching. A Rembrandt gas-chamber tableau. Matisse does Congolese atrocities. Man Ray does Bobby Kennedy dead on a slab.

Fuck-------

Crutch fought off a dizzy spell. Hiltz said, "I met a cooze at Lawry's Prime Rib. Her name was Gretchen Farr. She shot me some trim and got me addicted. She stole 14 grand from the bomb shel­ter in my backyard. You find her, you get me back my money."

Devil-horned kikes by Frederic Rem­ington. Grant Wood does LBJ drawn and quartered.

"Description? Last known address? A photograph, if you've got one."

Hiltz fast-walked Crutch out back. The bum's rush: Raus! Mach schnell! They cut down long corridors. They dodged cats and cat boxes. JFK morgue pix were taped to the walls.

The yard featured a statue garden. A wetback hosed down a lifesize Klan-klad Khrist. Hiltz said, "I've got no pictures.

Gretchen was photo-phobic. She's a tall, stacked cooze with a slight Latin tinge. She was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel, so I made her as kosher. I tried to hire Freddy Otash, but he's not taking skip jobs these days."

The wetback hose-spritzed Hitler and Hermann Goering. Bird shit and dirt decomposed.

"What else can you tell me about her?"

"You're not listening. I know bupkes. I led with my shvantz and it cost me 14 big ones. Get it? I'm hiring you, because you know how to find people, and / don't."

Crutch gulped. Hiltz quick-marched him over to some underground steps and shoved him down them. They hit a steel-reinforced door. Hiltz unlocked it and tapped a light switch. Fluorescent bulbs lit a 12-by-12 hate hive.

Hate-tract wallpaper. Hate-niggers, hate-Jews, hate-papists, hate-Japs, hate-Chinks, hate-spies, hate-commies, hate-the-muthafuckin'-white-oppressor. Hate placards stacked on the floor. A banner:

GENOCIDE IS THE SACRED MANDATE OF ALLAH!!!!!

"The schvartzes eat this shit up. You wouldn't believe the market all this black-militant tsuris has created. I've got a whole sideline going. It's shvoogie prison tracts, allegedly written by these radical shines in San Quentin. You know who really writes them? This kike nigger-lover guy I play golf with."

Crutch sneezed. The hate hive reeked of mildew and cat piss. That dizzy spell revived.

Hiltz pulled the lid off a king-size clothes hamper. The inside was crammed full of C-notes. The tally had to veer toward a half mill.

"Here's the enduring mystery, schmen-drick. She only nailed me for 14 Gs. I

know, because I count my gelt every night. You want my opinion? Gretchen was subtle. The cunt ganef nailed me for what she thought I wouldn't miss."

Crutch looked in the hamper. Hiltz grabbed a bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

"Lunch is on me. Find her, and I'll get you a threesky with Brigitte Bardot and Julie Christie. Believe me, I've got that kind of clout."

Schvartzes, shvantz, shvoogies, the beast with two backs. A potential threesky. A time-clock gig for Clyde Duber Associates.

Next stop: the Beverly Hills Hotel.

Crutch drove there and got situated. He whipped out his fake cop's badge and made a sound impression. The fruit desk guy looked askance at his low-rent attire. Crutch told him he worked for Clyde Duber. The fruit desk guy dug on that. Clyde had panache. Okay, kid, let's talk.

Crutch asked the standard skip-job questions. The fruit desk guy responded. He called Gretch Farr "dicey." She rented bungalow 21 for three weeks. She tricked with wealthy European and Latin guests of both genders. She paid cash for her flop and extra charges every morning. Gretch supplied one check-in referral: a phone drop called Bev's Switchboard. It was a message-pick-up service for the fly-by-night crowd. Gretch was a quintes­sential fly-by-night chick.

That was it. The fruit sashayed off. Crutch hit the phone bank and called Information. Bev's Switchboard: 8814 Fountain, West Hollywood.

He drove there and got situated. The address was a storefront adjoining a quick-script pharmacy.

The pharmacy was closed. Ditto Bev's Switchboard. A walkway led back to a rear parking lot. Clouds absorbed moonlight. The side door looked weak.

Crutch stuck a #4 pick in the keyhole. Two jiggles eased the main tumblers back. He pushed a #6 in. He twisted in unison. The lock button slid. The door snapped.

He let himself in and got out his penlight. He saw a file cabinet. Three drawers set on sliding runners. All three: unlocked.

He hit the A TOG drawer. Aaronson, Adams, AUworth. Some Bs, Cs and Ds. Echert, Ehrlich, Falmouth. There, Gretchen Farr.

The file was skinny. He quick-skimmed it. The call log went back three weeks, to late May '68.

No personal stats on Gretch Farr herself. Just incoming calls listed.

Six calls from foreign consulates: Pan­ama, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic. Huh?—whazzat?—this wild brew so far.

Du3-2758/"wouldn't give name." Sal/ NO5-2808. He knew that name and num­ber: Clyde's actor pal.

The Klondike Bar, 8th and La Brea. A Greek grail and a lavender lodestone for the limp-wristed set.

Crutch sat in his car and scoped the door. Sal's Lincoln was back in the park­ing lot. Sal lived at the Klondike. He'd walk out sooner or later, with or sans the night's quiff.

Sal Mineo. Paid informant for Clyde and Fred Otash. Two Oscar nominations and Skidsville. One trouble-prone fruit fly.

Someone drummed on his windshield. Crutch saw Sissy Sal—all spit curled and tight-jeaned. He popped the door. Sal got in. He wore this look of wop-fruit enchantment.

Crutch pulled around the corner and reparked. Sal said, "You could have come inside. You didn't have to lurk all night."

"1 wasn't lurking."

"You always------"

"Gretchen Farr. She took one of Clyde's clients for some money, and I know you know her."

Sal pouted and lit a cigarette. "Sure, I know her. I know that she fucks strings of men and rabbits with their money routinely, but I don't know how you traced her to me. If you explain that to me convincingly, I'll tell you what you need to know."

That pout, that dago hair—Crutch balled his fists.

"I ran a phone check. You called her ser­vice two weeks ago."

Sal cracked the window and de-smoked the car. Sal tucked up his knees and went doe-eyed.

"I'd say Gretchen Farr is an alias. She's too spic-looking to be a Farr. I don't have a line on her whereabouts, because she never tells people where she lives. I called her service because she called my service. We didn't actually speak. I've steered her to men before, but she usu­ally develops her own prospects."

"Give me some names."

"No. I am truly drawing a blank, and

Gretch paid me to steer her, and I prom­ised I wouldn't tell on her, cross-my-heart, hope-to-die."

Crutch slapped the steering wheel and the dashboard. Sal made with the doe eyes and never flinched.

"Feel better, sweetheart?"

Crutch flexed his hands. His fingers and palms stung. Sal twirled his spit curl and sighed.

"And she doesn't live in L.A.?"

"No, she just passes through, causes tra­vail and moves on."

"Known associates? Do you know anyone who knows her?"

Sal doe-eyed him. "You sound resigned, so I'll give you a nibble. I set Gretchie up with a realtor named Arnie Moffett, who is a horrible man who used to pimp for Howard Hughes. He bought a string of Hughes' old fuck-pad houses in the Hollywood Hills, so maybe Gretchie is staying in one of them."

Crutch cracked his knuckles. His head hurt. He couldn't get situated. His thoughts jumbled and veered.

Sal said, "I'm waiting for the day, sweetheart."

"What day?"

"The day that you figure out you're not at all tough."

Buzz dubbed the Hiltz job "The Case." Crutch dubbed it "My Case" in his head. Arnie Moffett was their one lead out­standing. Buzz called it hot. Crutch called it a scorcher.

They drove to the Miracle Mile. Dexies and Jim Beam drove them. Crutch felt his eye sockets expand.

Moffett Realty was a hole-in-the-wall. It was right beside Ma Gordon's Deli, the "Home of the Hebrew Hero." The door was open. The lights were on. A skinny guy was kicked back at the one desk. He wore a red bowling shirt with a stitched-on arnie.

He was embroiled. He was staring into a swivel mirror, squeezing his blackheads. Crutch cleared his throat. Buzz cleared his throat. Arnie stayed transfixed.

Buzz said, "Uh, sir?" Crutch shushed

him. Arnie said, "Frat boys, right? You want to rent one of my dumps for a kegger and lure in some gash."

The room de-situated. Funny lights swirled. Crutch said, "We're private detectives."

Arnie stood up. Arnie grabbed his crotch and said, "Detect this."

Crutch saw RED. RED room, RED room lights, RED world. He kicked Arnie in the balls. He jackknifed him. He rabbit-punched him. He threw him on the floor face-first. Arnie's nose cracked. Blood spattered. Arnie flopped and flailed for his desk phone. Crutch pulled the cord out of the wall and threw the fucking phone across the room.

Buzz trembled. His lips did funny things. Crutch saw the piss stain on his jeans and smelled the shit in his shorts.

Arnie gurgled. Buzz ran for the John, making like upchuck. Crutch threw down a handkerchief. Arnie rolled on his back, covered his nose and stanched the blood flow. Crutch pulled out his short dog. Arnie made a gimme sign and tilted his head. Crutch fed him little pops. Jim Beam, 100 proof.

Arnie sucked, gasped and coughed. Arnie dredged up savoir faire. Arnie said, "You evil little shit."

Crutch squatted. He kept himself clear of the blood mess. He was all re-circuited. The room leaped and whirled.

"Gretchen Farr."

"She's a commie. She's some kind of left-wing transient with more names than half the world."

"Keep going."

"She heard I used to score snatch for Howard Hughes."

"Keep going"

"She rented one of my pads. The Hol­lywood Hills, a half-ass little house. Two-week rental, in and out."

"Keep going."

"They're skeeve pads. Fuck-film sets, keg-bust spots, short-term rentals."

Crutch said, "Give, Arnie. I know there's more."

"Give what'? She's a commie with some fucked-up agenda."

"Arnie..."

"Okay, okay. She pumped me for dope on the Hughes organization. She said she wanted to get next to a guy named Farlan Brown. I said I knew him. He's this cunt man who plays Mormon to stay kosher with Hughes. When he passes through L.A., he always hits Dale's Secret Harbor."

Buzz stumbled back from the can. Crutch steadied him. Arnie grabbed for the short dog. Crutch let him have it. His Red World veered and swerved.

Crutch parked outside the Hate Haci­enda. Shrieky opera blasted from the backyard. He walked down the driveway. The gate was unlocked. Birds nested on the dictator statues. The music blared out the bomb-shelter door.

He walked over and popped down the steps. He made noise on purpose. Dr. Fred was at a draftsman's desk. He wore a Klan robe and sandals. A Luger on a gunbelt bunched up his sheet.

He saw Crutch. He hit a desk switch and killed an aria mid-shriek. He quick-drew the Luger and did some gun-slinger shtick.

Crutch rubbed his ears. Dr. Fred said, "You've got blood on your pants."

"It was on your time card, sir."

The shelter reeked: must, mildew, money for sure.

"Gretchen, Arnie Moffett and Farlan Brown. Tell me what you haven't told me."

"Why should I do that, schmendrick? You know what schmendrick means? It's a synonym for schlemiel."

"I'm trying to help you, sir. I'm just-----"

"A kid-adventurer who fell into some shit with Clyde Duber. And now you've fallen into some shit with me. Clyde's paying you $6 an hour, but I'm going to split a full million with you."

A squirrel sat on the steps. Dr. Fred aimed the Luger and plugged it. The shot sonic-boomed the shelter. The squirrel vaporized. Dr. Fred snagged the ejected shell in mid-twirl.

He said, "Dracula." Crutch went Huh? Sonic-boom remnants banged his head.

Dr. Fred reholstered. "I got suspicious

of Gretchie. So, I rifled her purse and found Arnie Moffett's number. Arnie was pliable. So, I paid him for the scoop on Gretchie. So, he told me that Gretchie was trying to get next to a Howard Hughes macher named Farlan Brown."

Crutch said, "So?"

"So, / wanted to get next to Hughes. We've got the same racial sensibility, and I've got a purification plan he can bank­roll. I had a rival named Wayne Tedrow Sr. Between the two of us, we had the hate-tract biz dicked. He just died, and his numbnuts kid Wayne Junior may be Dracula's new point man. I want to get my hands on Senior's hate-mail stash and get next to Dracula, and I'm think­ing this Mormon hump Farlan Brown is the key. I'm too controversial to make

the approach, but a kid-loser like you could breeze in innocuous. Life magazine is offer­ing a million bucks for a snapshot of Hughes, and a kid-opportunist like you could get close."

Tilt, swerve, veer and blood on his pants—Crutch said, "Yessir."

(Miami, 8/5/68) 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 fruit actor he popped at a glory-hole stall.

A call girl walked him 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.

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 antitrust 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."

YVayne nodded. "Yes. Mr. Hughes thinks 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."

Santo said, "The front team. Let's talk about that. Once we pick our spot, we'll have to send some fjuvs 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. The deal factionalized and blew up six ways. Mesplede was a French-Corsican mere. He was far right. He was an anti-Castro militant. He was in Dallas that weekend.

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. Caspar Fuentes. Miguel Diaz 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. Fuentes and Arre­dondo were pro-Carlos and anti-Wayne and 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 siooed Drambuie. "He'll want

to clip those guys." Carlos said, "It's your call, Wayne."

Cuba.

He'd been there. He killed militiamen on Varadero Beach. The Saigon deal car­ried a Cuban Cause commitment. The betrayals resulted from it. He knew the Cause was right-wing bullshit from Jump Street.

Cuba.

It got to you. It gotJFKoffed. It got to him for 10 sec­onds tops. It got to Carlos and the Boys in a very large way. They bankrolled exile groups. They cooked up the Sai­gon deal as a dope funnel, with profits to the Cause. They betrayed the Cause from Jump Street. Wayne and the Boys knew it: Castro was in for keeps. J.P. Mesplede would never know.

Way n e foot-cruised Little

Havana. 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.

Wayne watched. It was roast-all-night hot, with flying bugs like Godzilla. Wayne glanced in a coffee-bar window. There's Jean-Philippe Mesplede.

The glance flew two ways. Mesplede stood and bowed. Le frog sauvage—habille tout en noir. Black shirt, black coat, black pants—le grande plus noir.

Wayne walked in. Jean-Philippe hugged him. Wayne felt at least three handguns under his clothes.

They sat down. Mesplede was half­way through a fifth of Pernod. A waiter brought a fresh glass.

"Qa va, Wayne?"

"Qa 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 Bien Phu. He pushed heroin wherever he went.

Street agitation swirled outside. 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.

Qa va, Wayne. Okay.

Wayne described the foreign-casino

plan. Mesplede routed the riff to Cuba. LBJ, Nixon, Humphrey — Cas-troite cochons all.

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.

"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. 1 greatly revere their jazz art­istry."

"You can take out Fuentes and Arre-dondo. That's as far as I can let it go."

Mesplede shrugged and bowed. "They may be here in Miami."

"Let's go find them."

(Miami, 8/8/68) Bugwork:

The wires, the pliers, the screwdrivers. The drills, the mounts, the baseboard dust. Butterfingers: sweaty hands on gnat-size devices.

The Eden Roc Hotel. Drill job: suite 1206 into suite 1207. Crutch worked with Freddy Turentine. Freddy was the "Bug King." Freddy's bug resume astounded.

Freddy was on loan to Clyde Duber Asso­ciates. Freddy usually worked for "Shake­down King" Fred Otash.

They drilled. 1206 was their listen­ing post. Farlan Brown was due in 1207 shortly. Time clock: The Find-Gretchen-Farr gig was moving into five figures.

They drilled. They bored through to 1207 and pushed wires in. Crutch picked the door lock. They got full-suite access. They miked up the bedroom lampshades. They tapped the two phones. They spackle-covered the wall wires and applied touch-up paint. They stuffed baffling in the bore-through holes and sanded the rough spots down smooth. They swept up all the baseboard dust and zoomed back to 1206.

Finger-cramping drudge work—four full hours. Crutch was grit-encrusted His

fingers hurt. He had spackle dust in his ears, eyes and nasal nooks. Freddy went to his room to snooze. Crutch turned the living-room TV on and put the sound low. The screen faced the bug-tap receiver. He grabbed a chair, hooked on headphones and listened to dead air next door.

The TV half-ass absorbed him. Nixon got the nod, first ballot. The news cut to riot footage. The Miami Congo blazed. It derived from a spook-housing-project brouhaha. Spooks were stoning and sniping white motorists. Nigger mobs, arson, loot­ing. Hot-weather action. Groovy footage.

Crutch yawned. He was running on a six-week sleep deficit, all per HIS CASE.

HIS side deal with Dr. Fred. H/S shot at the million-dollar Hughes deal.

Farlan Brown was Miami-bound.

Wayne Tedrow Jr. was here already. Junior had Senior's hate-mail stash. Dr. Fred wanted it. Junior worked for Far-Ian Brown and Oracula Hughes. Dr. Fred wanted to sell Drac his racial-purity plan. Crazy shit—sure. But crazy shit with dol­lar signs attached.

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.

He'd looped through Vegas six times. He spot-tailed Farlan Brown and Wayne Tedrow. He saw them at the DI. They took the private elevator up to Dracu-la's lair. Brown has not seen Gretchen 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-airline check on Wayne Tedrow and hit positive. He tailed him three times. The Clark County DA passed a rumor on to Clyde Duber: Wayne Junior might have offed Wayne Senior in June.

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 mere, age 45. 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 Diaz Arre-dondo.

The riot heated up. The TV screen almost throbbed. Spooks lobbed Molo-tov 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. Slam—the bell­man's gone. 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—50 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 postcoital: 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.

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, poison?" 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: "I need a suite for August 23, Freddy. Girls and booze. I've got some Democrats coming in."

Otash: "You're in, you cocksucker."

Laughter—four seconds.

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. 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. He called Freddy T.'s room and roused him. 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.

Crutch got his bearings. He drove fast and steered clear of smoke stench and flames. He parked outside the Doral. Wayne Tedrow 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 Caspar Fuentes and Miguel Diaz 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. The Frogman looked avid. Wayne Junior looked vexed. Crutch stayed mobile and eyeball-tracked them.

The night slogged on. Wayne Junior walked to a parked taxicab 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.

Urban Miami disappeared. The ter­rain got rural. The roads got rough and swervy. 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.

(Las Vegas, 8/9/68) 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 sweats and chills.

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

Her pulse was weak-normal. Wayne grabbed the bedside phone and dialed Mesplede in Miami.

Three rings. A sleep-slapped "Out?"

"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 20s, medium-sized, crewcut. He's driving an Avis rent-a-car. The plate number is gqv-881."

"Yes? And your wish?"

"Clip him."

The vault was 12 miles east of Vegas. Wayne Senior dubbed it the Fiihrer Bunker. It was

a scrub-covered cement square sunk in a sand drift. It was straight out 1-15.

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 of 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 kids. He saw vintage Klan kode books.

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.

(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 the Guard in. There's a string of cop cars and a six-seater Jeep. Fuck, the driver's smoking a joint.

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 halfback.

"Why are you surveilling Wayne Ted-row? 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.

"I repeat."

His shit chute swelled. He held it in. The weight on him helped. He opened

his mouth. He squeaked and got some sounds out. He got ventriloquized. God or some unseen fucker fed him word soup. He saw his mother. He heard "Dr. Fred," "Howard Hughes," "Million dol­lars." He heard "Missing woman." He heard "Please don't kill me." He tried for prayers and dredged up hymns.

The weight eased up. He smelled brandy. The scent touched his lips strong. He opened his mouth. He dipped his head and took the pour. He opened wider and let it roll in. He opened his eyes and saw the Frogman.

"I have been prone to sympathetic lapses before. You must affirm my per­ception of your youthful willfulness and capacity for acquiescence."

Crutch crawled into the passenger seat. His heartbeat kept multiplying. He was head-to-toe sweat. The Frogman stretched out in the driver's seat. He nipped off the flask and passed it back. Crutch chugged brandy and looked out the window. Shit— the spooks just won't quit.

Mesplede said, "I may ask you to report information to me."

Crutch nodded—yessir, yessir, yessir.

The flask went back and forth. A sync settled in. Their eyes stayed locked while the Frogman monologued. It was all CUBA. It was Le Grande Putain Fidel Castro and the Cuban Freedom Cause. There was JFK's Bay of Pigs betrayal. There was LBJ's commie appeasement. There were brave men willing to die to quash the Red Tide.

The flask went back and forth. The ora­tion continued. Crutch rode the world's greatest buzz.

(Las Vegas, 8/23/68) The feed lines worked. The 307-to-308 wiring laid firm. Crutch bored a tiny spy hole through the wall yesterday. Sight-and-sound access, confirmed.

The console faced the connecting wall. Crutch settled in with his headphones. Fred T. was back in L.A. This gig was his solo.

The 308 door opened. Click-thump—that's the sound. Crutch checked the spy hole. On time: Fred Otash and Wayne Tedrow.

They sat down. They chitchatted. They sat away from the lamp feed. Their voices were dim.

Click-thump—the door again. This time: a tall, gray-suited man. Crutch heard gar­bles and read lips. Fred O. and Wayne called the man Dwight.

The console-to-spy-hole cord was stretched taut. Crutch pulled up a chair and got adjusted. Note: Respackle the spy hole tomorrow.

The doorbell rang. Fred O. opened up. Sacre Frog—there's Jean-Philippe Mesplede.

Confluence. Clyde Duber's word. It's who you know and who you blow and how you're all linked.

Wayne introduced Fred O. to the Frog­man. They spewed some staticky talk. Fred O. introduced "Dwight" to the Frog­man and spieled his last name as "Holly."

Confluence. Dwight Holly knew Clyde. He was some kind of rogue Fed.

Crutch got situated. His headphones

fit tight and the spy hole was there at eye level. The crew pulled chairs up close to the lamp feed. Fred O. bopped to the wet bar and came back with highballs and chips. Dwight Holly declined the drink. The other guys dug in. Crutch got a vibe: This had nothing to do with His Case.

Clock it—3:18 km. Roll the tape, live.

The guys settled in. Sentence frag­ments overlapped. Dwight and the Frog­man lit cigarettes. Fred O. looked plump and sassy. Wayne looked raggedy-ass and too thin.

Fred O. said, "Enough bullshit," pitch-perfect headphone sound.

The headphones pooled sweat. Crutch whipped them off, wiped them dry and put them back on. He got four-way garbles, fuzz, bips, pops, line hiss. Sweat-clogged feeder lines, shit.

More bips and line hiss. Food noise— Fred O. and the Frogman snarfed chips. Crutch took the headphones off, shook them dry and put them back on. He pressed up to the spy hole. He squinted. He tried to read lips and gestures and sync them to hiss. He got squeaks, he got crackle, he got words here and there in the mix.

He heard "Memphis." He saw Wayne twitch. He heard "Patsy," "King," "Ray." Dwight Holly and Wayne shared queasy looks. He heard food noise. He squinted harder. He breathed harder. He fogged up the spy hole. He lost a full minute to bip-bip-bips.

He heard "Witness."

HE STARTED TO GET IT.

Fred O. ran a monologue. His bass voice cut down line hiss. Crutch heard "Sirhan." Crutch heard "Bobby K." Fred O. mimed a shooting—bam, bam, you're dead. Wayne and Dwight H. shared a Ires queasy look.

HE GOT MORE OF IT. His bladder almost blew. He clenched up, sucked up and kept it in.

The spy hole was fogged. The bug line was clogged. Fucking potato-chip-chomping noise fucked it up worse. Crutch took the headphones off, banged them on the wall and put them back on. Crutch spit on the spy-hole glass and shirt-wiped it clean.

The sound died altogether. Crutch shook his head. The phones cleared and the bug line re-fed. He got hiss, snap, crackle, pop, buzz, fuzz, bips. He heard "Le grande putain Jack" and "Dallas." He saw Jean-Philippe Mesplede assume a rifleman's pose.

And he pissed in his pants.

And he shit in his pants.

And he vomited and gasped.

He pulled off his headphones. He ran to the console, pulled the wire and ripped spackle out of the wall. He made a small through-hole. It fed into 308, all wire-free. The spackle blew back into his suite. He squinted and put his ear to the hole—God, please please please.

(Los Angeles, 8/25/68) Fred T. called him yesterday. Fred O. found some bug-tap debris. Fred O. leaned on Fred T. Fred T. ratted out Crutch. Fred T. convinced Fred O.: // was Dipshtt Crutch-field, solo. Fred T. showed Crutch his bro-

ken fingers. "Kid, I don't know what you heard, but you better run."

Yeah, he put it all together. But, it was all instinct. Sputter, squelch, static and some words mixed in.

He knew. They knew he knew. Fred O. would tell the others. Wayne would be pissed at the Frogman. Froggy let him live. It would allll blow up.

It was too big and played too preposterous. Clyde wouldn't believe him. Some left-wing Jews and paranoid hippies might believe him. The hebes would turn on him in a hot tick.

Bluff.

He put the fail-safes in place yesterday. He devised the plan off his one ray of hope. They didn't know his bug gear was defective.

Crutch waited at his pad. The dump was near-empty. He moved his mother's file and his personal shit to a hotel yes­terday. His Case file was there. Buzz would find it.

He waited. He skimmed the November '67 playboy. Kaya Christian smiled from the foldout. Baby, speak to me.

The southbound view beckoned. Crutch walked to the window and looked out. All those shrubs that served as his perch spots. New shrubs blocking windows he'd peeped.

He leaned out the window. He caught smog in the air. He leaned too far. He started to drop. He heard noise behind him. A force slammed him down and pulled him back up.

He was on the floor. He was foot-pinned. He was blurry-eyed, half there and half not. He smelled oil on metal and knew they'd greased the door lock.

The half there expanded. The blur decreased. A full there came on. He saw Wayne Tedrow with a silencered gun and the Frogman holding a pillow. He clutched his Saint Christopher medal and prayed the Gloria Patri.

Their feet were dug in. The Frogman sweat-oozed nicotine. Wayne said, "You dipshit cocksucker."

Froggy dropped the pillow on his head. Crutch thrashed it off and gulped in air to say it.

"I've got four tape copies, plus deposi­tions. Four bank safe-deposit boxes. I show up in person, six-month intervals. They ver­ify me at the sites with photo and fingerprint checks. If I don't show, you know what."

Wayne looked at Mesplede. Mesplede looked at Wayne. Wayne picked up the pillow and foot-mashed it down on his head. He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. No voices, no gunshot, no pain or white clouds. Breath spurts and heartbeats, dear God am I dead?

Then light and air and the model air­plane dangling from his ceiling. Then some breath. Then Wayne's gun with the silencer untapped.

A red Fokker triplane. Historically cool. He built it and sniffed the glue the day JFK got whacked.

Crutch said, "I want in. I'll take whatever you've got."

Blood's a Rover will be published in the fall of 2009 by Alfred A. Knopf.