They’ve told each other “I’ve prowled you” obliquely. He’s read her journal. She probably hides the pages she doesn’t want him to see. She’s pestered him about the checks. He might tell her one day.

Dwight poured his one drink a night early. Twilight came and went. The dark sky pulsed and clashed with all the Vegas neon.

January ‘57. Icy roads on the Merritt Parkway. He was working the New York City office. He was driving a Bureau car, blitzed. He was en route to a Cape Cod weekend with his girlfriend. He plowed a divider and hit an oncoming car. He killed the two teenaged daughters of Mr. and Mrs. George Diskant.

He suffered minor injuries. Mr. Hoover chilled all inquiries with the Connecticut State Police. He checked into a sanitarium near New Caanan. He segued from sobbing fits to long stints of silence. He stayed at Silver Hill for one month and four days. He got his nerves back and returned to work. He stayed away from women until Karen.

Dwight sipped his one drink slowly. The sky show started chafing him. He got out his black-militant file and read through it.

The second read confirmed the first. The Panthers and US-too known and too infiltrated. The Black Tribe Alliance and Mau-Mau Liberation Front-obscure, with big exposure potential.

Karen could find him an informant. He or she could be white or Negro. He or she could rat out both groups politically. The infiltrator had to be a male Negro. He could rat out all criminal actions justified politically.

Maybe a cop. Maybe an ex-cop. Maybe a cop or ex-cop with a dicey past. Again, that notion: check hate-mail subscriber lists.

Wayne Junior had access to Wayne Senior’s lists. Wayne Junior said he was out of the hate biz. Dr. Fred Hiltz was a Bureau informant. He was tight with that L.A. private eye Clyde Duber. Clyde was tight with the L.A. SAC.

A doorbell rang down the hallway. Dwight jumped out of his skin.

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.”

8

(Los Angeles, 6/20/68)

Stakeout:

The Hertz parking lot. 9:56 p.m. Brisk drop-off biz running late. The ‘66 Comet: due in four minutes or penalties would accrue.

Crutch sat in his GTO. He wore a tartan bow tie and a Scotty Bennett hairdo. He bought the tie and got the crew cut today. They celebrated his case and the Dr. Fred deal. They honored last night’s ass-kicking.

He held his zoom-lens Rolleiflex. He had Arnie Moffett dupe-key fob. The tie clashed with his polo shirt. The haircut clashed with current trend. L.A. guys wore their hair long. Fuck that shit-he and Scotty were avant-garde.

It was hot. He ran the AC and aimed the air at his balls. He talked to Buzz an hour back. Bad news: no trace on that bootleg number yet. Memo: Don’t tell Buzz or Clyde about the Dr. Fred deal. Get the Hughes pic and cut them in then.

Cars hit the lot: Buicks, Fords, Dodge Darts. People got out and schlepped their keys into the office. Countdown: 9:57, 9:58, 9:59. On time by seconds: that Comet, ADF-212.

It pulled in off Sunset eastbound. Steam whooshed out the hood slits. The radiator probably blew.

Two women got out. Crutch zoomed his lens and got them up close.

Gretchen Farr/Celia Reyes-tall and Latin-tinged. It had to be her. She was white, with that spic-pizzazz Something. She wore a tan shirt and flared jeans. She was stunning and stacked-statuesque. About thirty-two. Overmatched by her companion.

Maybe ten years older. More of all Somethings. Smaller, with a rolling-slouchy walk. Pale. Glasses. Near-black hair with gray streaks. Bare arms and a knife scar-Phil Irwin caught that.

They walked into the office. Crutch snapped photos. High-speed film- six frames walking in, six frames walking out.