“You’re supposed to call first. Clyde knows that.”

“Does Phil have to call first?”

“Phil’s a special case. Clyde knows that, too.”

Crutch flipped his chair and straddled it. The hash smoke burned his eyes. He smelled Hai Karate cologne.

The pool water rippled. Chick took a hit and offered the pipe. Crutch shook his head.

“I’ve put some things together. I’d appreciate your comments.”

Chick re-lit the pipe. The little mesh glowed.

“There’s something portentous about this visit of yours. It’s starting to bum me out.”

“You killed a woman named Maria Rodriguez Fontonette. I’d like you to tell me about it.”

Chick grinned and winked. It was practiced. Chick had studied the late Scotty B.

“There’s not much to tell, although I have to credit you with an assist on that one.”

“Have there been others?”

“A few, here and there.”

“You peep, you see something you like, and you kill them?”

“More or less.”

“Tell me about Maria.”

Chick took a hit. His eyes were red, his pupils were dots.

“I peeped her. She dug voodoo, I dug voodoo, we both dug voodoo art. We ate some herbs and rapped about Haiti. Everything’s cool, until she lays out this guilt trip about some Commie invasion she betrayed. It was a bummer. It brought me down, until I started thinking, you know, you’re here in this abandoned house, you’ve always wanted to do it, she’s a nigger fly-by-night that nobody will miss.”

Crutch pulled his chair up. “So you did it.”

“Yeah. I bisected the body and cut off her hands. She told me all these emerald stories, so I ground up some green glass and stuffed it in with her wounds. I started having these fantasies about five years earlier. I bought a set of surgical tools and kept them in the trunk of my car, but I never thought I’d have the nerve. Well, the moon was in Scorpio that night, and I guess I just did.”

Crutch looked at the moon. It was slivered and half-eclipsed.

“You’re vibing judgmental, Peeper. That cracks me up.”

“Oh?”

“I always thought you had a surfeit of balls and a shortage of brains. Now, I have to add ‘hypocritical mind-set’ to that.”

Crutch reached in his pockets. Chick took a hit and blew smoke in his face.

“You can’t put your nose to windows and come away blood-free. Inspiration’s inspiration. It’s like that guy King said. ‘I have a dream.’ You just never know who’s been watching you or who’s kicking around in your head.”

Crutch pulled out the capsules and displayed them. Chick said, “What have you got?”

“They’re Haitian. It’s an up trip. You’ll fly for a day and a half.”

Chick went May I? Crutch went Sure. Chick dry-swallowed the capsules and re-lit his pipe.

Crutch leaned closer. “Tell me about the other ones.”

“What’s to tell? They looked good, and I was bored.”

“Just like that?”

Chick took a hit. “Yeah, ‘Just like that.’ It’s the ‘70s, baby. ‘Do your own thing.’ ”

Crutch looked around. The pool, the moonlight, the moment. A bird flutter overhead.

Chick looked at him. A few seconds passed. His gaze glazed. Green foam poured out his eyes, nose and mouth. His arms spasmed and constricted. Bones shattered. Crutch heard the breaks. Chick stood up and staggered. Foam bubbled out of his ears.

Crutch stuck a leg out and tripped him. Chick fell into the pool. Crutch watched him thrash and float facedown.

127

(Los Angeles, 4/17/72)

“Don’t give me a surname. There’s one I’m considering.”

“Dare I guess?”

“Let’s just say it honors the past several years, as well as runs from them.”

The backyard was Ella’s gator farm. Clouds brewed and promised rain. Joan rounded the stuffed creatures up.

Karen said, “Literary executor. What do you think? All our files, diaries, memoranda. Everything we’ve put together.”

Joan looked up at the fallback. “He’d be good. He’s quite the hoarder.”

“What would he do with it?”

“He’d read through it and look for answers. He’d see things that no one else has seen and impose his own logic on it. If he grows up, he’ll understand what it all means.”

The girls bombed around the house. Joan peered through windows. Dina watched TV cartoons. Ella snuck up, pulled the plug and laughed.

Karen said, “I miss Dwight.”

Joan said, “Something’s changing with my body.”

The rain kept up. A strong wind came with it. Joan anchored her paper stacks with throwdown guns and Dwight’s knickknacks. She wanted the wind. The boy loved her hair aswirl.

Mixed blessing. The wind gave them the backdrop. Gusts snuffed the candle flames.

He was there with her and off somewhere. He kept his eyes open. She kissed them shut and held them shut and caressed a neck vein pulsing. He made sounds she’d never heard before. He had a kid-sound repertoire. The sounds pushed his tears back. He burrowed into her hair, so she wouldn’t see.

It took a while. He’d drift someplace and touch her from a distance. He’d spend time away from her and roll back. He saw what he saw or thought what he thought and come back to her. He put a knee between her legs and kissed her underarms. He forced the fit. She rolled and kneeled over him. His eyes looked crazy. She covered them. He kissed her palms and held her fingers in his mouth.

“Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“I can’t.”

“Have you been thinking about the island?”

“Yes, in part.”

“I heard that Esteban Sanchez had been killed.”

“Yes, he was.”

“Were you complicit?”

“Yes.”

“Trust the purity of your intent. There will always be casualties, and there will always be fewer of them if you act boldly.”

“There’s something else.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Were you complicit?”

“Yes.”

“Did you act boldly?”

“Yes.”

“Did you realize that you had to act, because no one else would?”

“Yes.”

“Are you comforted by that now?”

“No.”

“Your options were do everything or do nothing. You made the correct choice.”

“How will I know when I’ve done the wrong thing?”

“When the result is a catastrophe that will in no way subside.”

“What do I do then?”

“Reach for a deeper resolve and try to be stronger and smarter next time.”

“There’s something kicking around in my head now.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I can’t.”

“All right.”

“Tell me why you redacted my file.”

“I’m not going to.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again. I’ll always be looking for something that may or may not be there.”

“You’ve always been that way.”

“Is there a way to run away from all this?”

“Not for you or me. We might run, but we’ll always run back.”

(Los Angeles, 4/18/72-4/30/72)

He worked at pad #3. He closed the curtains, shut the drapes and ran the air conditioning. He shut off all the clocks. He unplugged the phone. He turned day to night and night to day.

It was a controlled burning. He emptied out his file trove at the Vivian. He boxed up all his file shit downtown. He had the liquid-herb formula and the syringe. He had written formulas from his herb guys. Burn your mother’s file, burn Wayne’s file, burn your case file. Build your paper bombs and gauge the results.

He stole Dwight Holly’s bolt-tappers. Pre-oiled tungsten cut through anything. He had his plane tix, his fake facial hair, his bogus ID. He had everything. He had to act, because no one else would.