Karen was guest-lecturing at USC. He cruised by on a timing hunch and caught her class filing out. The kids were longhaired and unkempt. They saw his gray suit and belt gun and went eek. The lecture hall was big. Karen lingered by the dais. Dwight jumped onstage and created sound waves. Karen looked up and smiled.
They kissed over the dais. A few students caught it and went Huh? Karen held a photo slide up to the light. Dwight looked at it. It was Mr. Hoover, circa ‘52.
“Don’t tell me. You’re teaching the blacklist again.”
“Don’t tell me you think it was justified.”
“Don’t tell me I haven’t helped some of your Commie chums get their jobs back.”
“Don’t tell me I haven’t reciprocated with favors.”
Dwight smiled. “Is What’s-His-Name in town?”
“Yes.”
“When does he leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow night, then?”
“Yes, that sounds lovely.”
They sat on the stage and let their legs dangle. They were tall. Their feet scraped the floor. Karen pulled his cigarettes out and lit up.
“One a day, right?”
“Yes, and only when we’re together.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“All right. Occasionally, after breakfast.”
Dwight touched her belly. “You’re showing more.”
Karen touched herself. “That’s Eleanora.”
“Suppose it’s a boy?”
“Then it’s What’s-His-Name or Dwight.”
“And you’re sure it’s not mine?”
“Sweetie, it’s not an immaculate conception, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”
Dwight pulled his legs up and stretched out on the stage. He yawned. He got half-second dizzy.
Karen said, “How’s your sleep?”
“Shitty.”
“Bad dreams?”
“Yes.”
“Any horrible Bureau-sanctioned deeds that you’d like to confess?”
“Not right now.”
Karen tossed her cigarette and stretched out beside him. He touched her hair. He counted the dark flecks in her eyes.
“Any new ones?”
“No.”
“A person’s eyes change as they age. It’s perfectly normal, so you shouldn’t fret over it.”
“I fret over everything.”
Karen touched his hair. “I wasn’t accusing you. I was just commenting.”
Dwight moved closer. Their heads touched. He smelled almond shampoo.
“Find me that informant. A woman. I’ll operate her and my infiltrator, and I’ll keep them separate.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You could do some good here. Both of these groups are uninfiltrated, which means they’ve got all kinds of latitude to pull bad shit.”
Karen burrowed in a little. “Quid pro quo?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a rally here next week.”
“Against the war?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me. You’d like me to pull the photo-surveillance team.”
“Would you?”
“Sure. I’ll call Jack Leahy.”
Karen rolled on her back and stretched. Dwight touched her belly. He thought he felt Eleanora kick.
He said, “Do you love me?”
Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”
They sat in the den. Dwight insisted. It was hate art-free. The rest of Hate House jangled him.
Dr. Fred said, “A hundred G’s. That and a little favor gets you a thorough perusal of all of my lists.”
Dwight yawned. “What’s the favor?”
“Help me find this woman. She dinged me for fourteen G’s and split-skied.”
Dwight shrugged. “Call Clyde Duber. He’ll set you up.”
“He did. I got this numbnuts kid working for me. He’s in Miami now, but I don’t know if he’s worth a shit. Come on, Dwight. The cash and one little favor.”
Dwight shook his head. “Ten cold and a pound of cocaine I’ve been holding. It’s superlative shit. You’ll have the time of your life, until it kills you.”
The phone rang. Dr. Fred picked up, mumbled and listened. Dwight heard scree-scree noise. It sounded like a Bureau patch call.
Dr. Fred nodded. Dwight grabbed the phone. The scree-screes faded to an Okie twang. The caller said, “Dwight, it’s Buddy Fritsch. I got me a cluster fuck here, and you better come.”
A puddle jumper got him into McCarran. He cabbed downtown to LVPD. Buddy was holed up in his office. He was half-tanked. He was pacing. Three cigarettes burned in one ashtray.
Dwight shut the door and locked it. Buddy quit pacing and noticed him.
“I got this AG’s man squeezing me. He’s got a print on Janice, and he’s rolling the dice. Okay, he offered me money, but I still can’t see no way out, except to hand up Wayne and-”
Dwight grabbed him. Dwight threw him over the desk and dumped a file cabinet on him. Dwight pulled the air conditioner off the wall and dropped it on his back. Dwight kicked him in the balls three times.
“You get me a freak to hand up for Wayne Senior, and you do it now.”
11
(Miami, 8/8/68)
Bug work:
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 rйsumй 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 way 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 lamp shades. 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. He took a shower and cleaned up. 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, yawn/snore/soporific. Nixon emitted stupe vibes. He did that V-for-victory thing and looked like a rube robot. 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 six-week sleep deficit, all per HIS CASE.
MS case. Not Clyde or Buzz Duber’s. HIS side deal with Dr. Fred. HIS shot at the million-dollar Hughes deal. HIS side deal side deal: Gretchen Farr as Celia Reyes. Add the knife-scar woman. Add the house with the door markings and the body parts in the kitchen.
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 Farlan Brown and Dracula Hughes. Dr. Fred wanted to sell Drac his racial-purity plan. Crazy shit-sure. But crazy shit with dollar signs attached.
$$$$$$$$$-
He’s hoarded his secret knowledge. He’s held it back from Clyde, Buzz and Dr. Fred. They don’t know about Gretchen as Celia. They don’t know about the knife-scar woman or the Horror House on North Tamarind.
HIS CASE-now six weeks in.
His pad was file-crammed already. His mother’s file ate up most of his floor and shelf space. He rented a second file pad downtown. The Elm Hotel-twelve scoots a week. A piss-in-the-sink dive for rum-dum pensioners. He laid in some file boxes and reams of file paper. He’s on the job full-time.