Marvin D. Waldrin, SAC, Las Vegas. EYES ONLY/PLEASE DESTROY UPON READING.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/3/68. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: ”Recorded at the Director’s Request”/”Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.

JEH: Good morning, Dwight.

DH: Good morning, Sir.

JEH: Before you ask, the answer is yes. Expedite OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER in the manner you described in your memo.

DH: Thank you, Sir.

JEH: The title possesses a sublime jungle quality. As in “That brother John Edgar Hoover, he baaad.”

DH: You are baaad, Sir. And I might add “inimitably so.”

JEH: You might, and you should. And, on the topic of jungle artistry, I heard a very disquieting song on the radio this morning.

DH: Sir.

JEH: It was called “The Tighten Up.” A Negro ensemble named Archie Bell and the Drells performed it. The song carried the air of insurrection and sex. I’m sure that white liberals will find it authentic. I told the Los Angeles SAC to open a file on Mr. Bell and to determine the identity of his Drells.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Enough bonhomie. Dwight, I am very disturbed by the Wayne Senior and Grapevine Tavern chatter. I’ve been reading the applicable communiquйs, and I take this confluence of loose talk as both a personal insult and an affront to the Bureau. Wayne Senior was an FBI asset and James Earl Ray killed Martin Lucifer King without help from you, me, this agency, Wayne Senior, Wayne Junior, Fred Otash, the redneck sharpshooter Bob Relyea, or any other outside source. Do you understand me, Dwight?

DH: Yes, Sir. I do.

JEH: Make the rumors stop, Dwight.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Good day, Dwight.

DH: Good day, Sir.

9

(Miami, 8/5/68)

Collins Avenue was wall-to-wall elephants. They wore GOP banners and flailed their trunks in the heat. A carny crew herded them with switches. They wore top hats dotted with Nixon buttons. One guy fed the beasts peanuts. One guy urged gawkers to cheer.

The noise was big. Wayne dodged sign-wavers. Nixon signs bobbed upside his face. He lugged two big steamer trunks. Nixon was at the Fontainebleau. He had to walk. He couldn’t drive. The elephant stampede shut traffic down.

The convention had just started. It was thick-aired and 94°. The air sealed an elephant-shit aroma. Wayne’s suit wilted. Wayne’s stomach queased.

More sign fools hit the sidewalk. Cuban chanters showed up-”Cas-tro out! Cas-tro out! Cas-tro out now!” They looked riot-ready. Wayne saw saps in their pockets. The Nixon chumps gave them some space.

The Fontainebleau loomed. Two big men spotted Wayne and cut through the crowd. They wore dark suits and earpieces. They carried walkie-talkies. The crowd caught the gist and let them through quick.

They made it over. They grabbed the trunks and whisked Wayne off in a VIP swirl. It was two minutes all topsy-turvy. They hit the hotel. A side door opened, kitchen help dispersed, an elevator appeared. They whooshed way up. They floated down a thick-carpet hallway and sent sparks off their shoes. The big guys bowed and vanished. A bigger guy opened a door and vanished double-time quick.

Wayne blinked. Zap-there’s ex-Veep Dick Nixon.

In topsy-turvy Technicolor. In chinos and a Ban-Lon shirt. In need of a 1:00 p.m. shave.

He said, “Hello, Mr. Tedrow.”

Wayne quashed a blink. Nixon walked up to him, hands in his pockets, no shake.

“I was sorry to hear about your father. He had become quite a good friend.”

Wayne nodded. “I appreciate the sentiment, Sir.”

“And the lovely Janice? How is she?”

“She’s dying, Sir. She’s quite ill with cancer.”

Nixon made a sad face. It flopped. No sale for Mr. Sincere.

“I’m very sorry to hear that. Please extend my best wishes.”

“Thank you, Sir. I will.”

Noise boomed outside. Wayne heard “Nix-on!” and elephant bleats.

“I won’t take up any more of your time, Sir.”

“No, but I’m sure you’d like some form of acknowledgment.”

“I’d like to pass it along, Sir. That’s true.”

“You want me to say that I’ll sing for my supper.”

Wayne looked away and scanned the suite. Presidential seals and knickknacks ran rampant. The ex-veep booked the Big Room preemptive.

Nixon said, “My Justice Department will not go proactive against your people. I understand that you have designs in Latin America or the Caribbean, and my policy for the country you pick will accommodate it. If the election appears tight, I’d appreciate some help at the polls.”

Wayne bowed. Nixon wrinkled his nose.

“My wife went for a walk this morning. She said the beach was covered with elephant shit.”

“It’ll be donkey shit in Chicago, Sir.”

“Hubert Humphrey is a dough-faced, appeasement-minded cocksucker. He is unfit to lead this country.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“The hippies are mobilizing for Chicago.”

“They are, Sir. And I’ll be there to lend them a hand.”

Carlos had a condo on Biscayne Bay. Wayne had time to kill. He rent-a-car-cruised Miami.

A street map got him west of the elephants. He couldn’t dodge convention hoo-haw altogether. The city was infested.

Placard clowns everywhere. Pick your grievance: Vietnam, welfare, Cuban policy. Longhaired kids defamed Tricky Dick and mourned Dr. King. Fiesty Latins wanted “CASTRO OUT NOW!”

Five- and ten-car motorcades. Floats with children and dressed-up dogs. Inflated elephants leashed to car antennas. Fools with bullhorns spouting gobbledygook.

Red, white and blue balloons. A Nixon banner epidemic. Favorite-son banners-low numbers beside the ex-veep. A twelve-wheelchair nursing-home motorcade-old girls sapped by the heat.

Twelve Nixonites. Balloons and wheelchair bunting. Four old girls with oxygen masks. Four old girls smoking.

Janice was dying. He watched her fight to live and wish to die in in-and-out blips. He cooked dope for her. She lived for the IV drip and fought her way out of stupors. He cooked dope for Dracula. He’d had three more meets with Drac and Farlan Brown. Farlan was due at the convention. They’d scheduled a meet.

Drac wanted to own Clark County, Nevada. The Boys wanted to sell him their share at usurious rates. Feed the cash funnel. Scour the Teamster Pension Fund books for loan defaulters. Usurp their businesses. Grab them, sell them and feed the cash funnel. Castro kicked the Boys out of Cuba. Find a new Latin hot spot, entrench and rebuild.

More banners. More motorcades. Another wheelchair brigade- crippled Vietnam vets.

Wayne looked away and cut down a side street. He cooked heroin in Saigon. He saw the war waste lives. The anti-Castro cause vexed him. His weekend in Dallas launched that distrust.

Dwight kept calling him. A persistent Dwight Holly was a fucking full-court press. His big-brother act doubled the grief. Dwight said the Grapevine was still brewing. Dwight said Vegas was brewing up evil chitchat on Wayne Senior’s death. Dwight wanted to see Senior’s subscription lists. He kept refusing. Dwight kept up the press.

Wayne crossed a long causeway and hit surface streets. He thought he saw-

A tail car. A leapfrogger. A blue sedan sticking close and dropping back.

He made three right turns. He lane-weaved. He hit a two-lane street and eliminated tail cover. The blue sedan fell back, stuck close, fell back. He got blips of the driver: a big, fat-neck type.

There’s an alley-

Wayne cranked a left turn. The tail car braked, skidded and plowed some trash cans. Wayne crisscrossed two more alleyways and lost him.