Crutch poured coffee. “I know that part. I know about the hex you placed on Tattoo and how you wanted to revoke it. What concerns me is the specific details of that sum-”

“I was wild. She was wild. We were caught up in large things together. I had summoned a curse on her because I believed in those things then. We reconnected that summer. It was a dangerous time in the world. I wanted to hurt Tattoo and save her, all at once. She had made a pornographic film with a voodoo theme. A sleazy realtor arranged for screenings of it around the time Tattoo disappeared. Things connected. The realtor knew the man who worked for Howard Hughes. It all felt mystical. Joan humored me and allowed me to rent a house from the man. Tattoo was crashing in a house nearby. Joan had told her about the place. It stayed vacant for long periods. Joan and some comrades had used it as a safe house years before.”

Convergence, confluence, coincidence. Arnie Moffett, Horror House, the Commie meeting notes. A time loop: ‘68 to 12/6/62.

“The realtor’s name was Arnold Moffett.”

“Yes, that sounds right. He had a vague connection to the Caribbean. I think he was involved in Haitian import-export.”

Re-convergence. Arnie Moffett in ‘68: my pads are fuck-film sets.

“You knew Sal Mineo. You asked him to set Tattoo up with some movie-business men. He’d referred you before. You wanted to revoke the curse. Tattoo had done penance and bought her way out of the book of the dead. She-”

Celia clamped his hands. He was racy and sweaty. He let her anchor him.

“Sal called it ‘fantasia’ then, and I’m calling it that now. Tattoo was wild, I was wild. We were wild like you’re wild now. Tattoo reconciled with the 6/14 people and did favors for Joan. Joan said, ‘Sweetie, stop this foolishness. Tattoo will be better served if you let all this go.’ ”

Crutch pulled his hands free. “And you did? And you’re telling me that’s it?”

Celia nodded. “I’ll grant you this. Tattoo disappeared, and I had a legitimate premonition that she had been killed that summer. For what it’s worth, I still have it. I had it later that year, and I talked to a friend about it, and-”

“Leander James Jackson, who-”

“Who is dead now himself. He asked around about Tattoo. He talked to the realtor, and he got nowhere.”

Crutch rubbed his legs. His limbs felt numb. His brain re-spooled, restarted, re-stopped and re-fed.

“You’re saying that’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying you don’t remember the men you set Tattoo up with?”

“Yes.”

“You’re saying you don’t know who attended the screenings?”

“Yes. I have a copy of the film, but Leander and I never identified the other actors.”

“You’re saying that Jackson braced Arnie Moffett on the screenings and got nothing, and that from there you just let it all slide?”

Celia touched his arm. “You’re resourceful and persistent, or you wouldn’t have found me. If you’re as anxious to please Joan as I think you are, you can find better ways to serve the Cause.”

Re-feeding, re-spooling, stop/start, squelch/sputter/off.

“Do you know where Reginald Hazzard is?”

“Yes. He lives a mile from here.”

Crutch laughed. “Just like that?”

She took a napkin and wiped his face. Sweat trickled into his eyes.

“I’m taking you back to Joan.”

“No, you’re not. I’ll write a note to her.”

The film can was heavy. The envelope was sealed. C.R./J.K. was printed on the back.

He decided to walk and re-scale things. It didn’t work. He felt re-railed, not de-railed. He had the Arnie Moffett re-lead. He still had That Idea.

He called Ivar Smith from Celia’s place. They made travel plans. Ton-ton shuttle to Santo Domingo. L.A. from there. Stiff the Vegas call and pray it plays out.

His fingers were paper-cut. File reads did that sometimes. They tingled. His brain just re-signaled him the pain.

Sea spray and humidity. Spice in the air. Black folks speaking French.

He tossed Celia’s passport in a trash can. He swiped a banana from a fruit stand and snarked it. Some kids played a portable radio. Memory Lane: Archie Bell and the Drells with “The Tighten Up.”

There’s chez Reggie. It’s Caribbean Day-Glo green.

The door was open. A torn-up screen was stuck in place. Crutch reached through a hole and un-latched it.

A lab and a file trove. Bottle rows and stacked folders. Chem texts, beakers, burners and pots. Some nifty molecular charts.

His fingers stung. He scanned shelves and played a hunch. There’s ocimum basilicum. Sure, why not?

He dipped his left-hand fingers in the bottle. They re-tingled and un-stung. He pulled them out. The cuts disappeared as the skin puckered up.

“Do you believe in Haitian chemistry?”

He turned around. Nix on Chubby Checker. Reggie looked like Harry Belafonte with white splotches and a Fu Manchu stash.

Crutch said, “I believe in everything.”

Sleep found him and won. He wanted to see it all one more time and say good-bye to Wayne. He got a blackout curtain and cigarette backdraft.

He smelled the airport. Jet fuel and scorched rubber. He heard chants right after that.

“Muerto,” La Banda, “Raids” en espaсol.

He opened his eyes. He saw kids with black-bordered placards. A photo of a swarthy guy. ESTEBAN JORGE SANCHEZ, 1929-1972.

He shut his eyes again. Reggie said, “Don’t go to sleep. We’re here.”

The Midget flew them first-class. Reggie was tall. The legroom jazzed him. Crutch tried to conjure Joan and got Esteban Sanchez non-stop.

Reggie was Mr. Quiet. It all oozed fait accompli. He didn’t niggle, question, protest. Reggie, the doofus genius with the hellbent past.

Crutch stayed awake. The nightmare potential re-vitalized him and kept him up. Reggie read chemistry books and over-ate. His burn scars looked exotic. The stewardess dug on him. Reggie, the socially unkempt and angelic savant.

Crutch got mad out of nowhere. The jet engine throb got lodged in him somehow. He got dizzy. Sleep fought him and won.

“Sir, we’ve arrived.”

The stewardess jostled him. First class had filed out. Reggie was gone. No, not yet. Please, God-let me see-

He jumped up. He grabbed his bag and shoved people out of the way. His coat flapped. People saw his gun and got panicked. He shoved his way down the ramp. He elbowed some hippie fools and a nun. He made the runway. He saw Reggie and Mary Beth lock in an embrace.

The kid was sobbing. Mary Beth held his head down. She looked up and saw Crutch. She gave him her green-flecked eyes for a moment and walked her son off.

125

(Los Angeles, 4/13/72)

Joan built identities.

She worked at Dwight’s desk. Klein and Sifakis were verboten now. Too much had happened. She’d overused Williamson, Goldenson, Broward and Faust.

They needed birth certificates. Forest Lawn sent her a plot list. It included names, dates of birth and dates of death. She thumbed through it. The decedents were alphabetized. They needed two women. 1920s DOBs, one ethnic/one not. She was Jewish and looked it. Karen was Greek and did not.

She scanned columns. The correct-age name selection was scant. They needed solitary women. Scant family or none. That required backup research. From there: driver’s licenses, Social Security cards, official file plants.

The names bored her. She sipped tea and lit a cigarette. Her wrist scars itched. She glanced around the fallback.

An envelope by the door. Expensive paper. It barely fit under the crack.

She got up and reached for it. She saw the set of initials on the back. She slit the top and read the note attached.