Brown:… Miami. You know, for the convention.

Otash: Nixon. Jesus, that fucking retread has got nine fucking lives.

Brown: This one’s a keeper. He’s going to win.

Otash: I’ve got a sports book at the Cavern. My guy’s calling the race even money.

Brown: I’ll take those odds.

Otash: Then place a bet, you cheap Mormon cocksucker.

Brown: A grand on Dick. For real, Freddy. I smell victory.

Otash: I smell you trying to Jew me down on a room rate. That’s it, right? Your old buddy Freddy’s an innkeeper now, so let’s put the boots to him.

Laughter-six seconds’ worth.

Brown:… Freddy, you’re a pistol.

Otash: I’ve got a pistol. I’m a well-hung American of Lebanese descent.

Laughter-nine seconds’ worth.

Brown: Okay. I need a big suite at the Cavern. It’s a party for some Democratic delegates, right before the convention. Booze and girls, Freddy. You know my MO.

Otash: When?

Brown: August 23.

Otash: I’ll give you 308. It’s my private spot, so treat it nice or I’ll sic Dracula on you.

Brown: Wooo! I don’t want that!

Otash: You got that, you Mormon cocksucker.

Brown: Cocksuckee, you mean.

Otash: So, confirm or deny a rumor for me.

Brown: Sure.

Otash: Tell true. Is Wayne Junior working for the Count?

Brown: He is. And high up at that.

Otash: Fucking Junior always lands on his feet.

Brown: Care to elaborate?

Otash: No comment.

Brown: On that note…

Otash: Yeah. See you on the 23. Thank you, fuck you, and good-bye.

Two hang-up clicks-Miami and Vegas. Crutch switched to the bug line. There: yawns, bed creaks, silence and snores.

He hit switches and shut down the feed lines. It was 1:14 a.m. His stomach growled. He’d surveilled his way through dinnertime and then some. He called Freddy Turentine’s room and roused Freddy. He said they had a bug job in Vegas-a hotel suite by August 22. Freddy said, “Remind me tomorrow,” and hung up.

The TV was still on. Nixon did the V-for-victory thing. What a geek. He always needed a shave.

Crutch yawned and got antsy concurrent. He popped four dexies and snagged his rent-a-car keys.

Wrong turns and U-turns de-situated him. The Doral was near the Eden Roc. Wayne Junior’s hotel-just two minutes out. One-way streets put him on a causeway. The bay water churned with confetti and floating Nixon signs. The exit markers confused him. Side streets sidetracked him. He smelled smoke. He heard gunfire. Neighborhoods devolved into shine shantytowns. He saw two spooks torch a ‘59 Plymouth.

The spooks saw him-Honky! Honky! Honky! Crutch gunned it and hung a Uey. The spooks chased his car. A tall spook lobbed a cinder block and hit his back window. The block decomposed. The window stayed intact. The spooks yelled spook-outrage slogans and spooked on back to the Plymouth.

Crutch got his bearings. He drove fast and steered clear of smoke stench and flames. The roving spook quotient upgraded to spook winos and porch loafers. He hit a spook-free zone and made it back to the causeway and Miami Beach proper. The detour got him finger-popping alive. He skimmed the radio and found a soul station. He grooved on Archie Bell and the Drells with “The Tighten Up.”

He parked outside the Doral. He eyeballed the door and played the soul station. The DJ talked pro-riot Commie shit with cool spook music mixed in. Wayne Tedrow Jr. walked out at 2:49 a.m. He shagged his rent-a-car. Crutch tailed him.

Convention traffic was still steady. Tail cover was good. Crutch hovered two car lengths back. Wayne Junior stuck to spook-free zones and booked to Little Havana. He swooped by Jean-Philippe Mesplede’s rooming house and picked up the Frogman. Crutch vibed it: another trawl for Caspar Fuentes and Miguel Diaz Arredondo.

Flagler Street hopped. The coffee bars were open late. A radio guy did man-in-the-street interviews. Arson outside the Cuban Freedom Council- some beaners burning a straw Fidel.

Mesplede and Wayne Junior did their thing. Crutch knew it now. They ditched the car, walked storefront-to-storefront and asked questions. Crutch stayed mobile. He slow-trawled Flagler and looked. Mesplede and Wayne Junior did a one-hour loop and re-mobilized. Traffic was thin. Crutch hovered four car lengths back.

Wayne Junior pulled to the curb and walked to a pay phone. Mesplede stayed in the car. Crutch hit the brakes and pulled over eight car lengths back.

He got out his binoculars and zoomed in. Wayne Junior fed quarters to the phone slot-long-distance, for sure. Crutch got in clooooose. Wayne Junior’s lips moved. Two seconds and halt-Wayne Junior just listened.

And trembled. And went pale. And hung up, walked back to the car and leaned in Mesplede’s window.

More lip movement. Crutch zoomed in trиs close. The talk looked panicky. Mesplede slid behind the wheel and pulled out, peeling rubber. Wayne Junior walked to a parked taxi cab and got in the back.

The cab pulled out. Crutch tailed it. Traffic was too sparse to get close. Crutch killed his headlights and cued on the cab’s taillights. They cut across this biiiiiig swath of Miami.

The terrain got rural. The roads got rough and swervy. The cab pulled ahead. Crutch turned his lights on just to see. Dirt roads swerved up to a rinky-dink airfield. Crutch saw a two-seater prop job on the runway.

He stopped the car. He couldn’t see the cab. He got out and squinted in the dark. He was discombobulated. He couldn’t see shit.

Floodlights snapped on. Crutch got glare-blinded. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes. He got some sight back. He saw Wayne Junior, standing by the airplane, looking straight at him.

12

(Las Vegas, 8/9/68)

Buddy Fritsch said, “I got us a suspect.”

His den was polar-cold. He served highballs and Fritos. Chuck Woodrell had the flu and kept sniffling. Dwight kept tugging at his law-school ring. Wayne was frazzled-that bumpy flight and thirty-six sleepless hours.

It was 9:00 p.m. Miami felt like a fever dream. His time zones were stretched disproportionate.

Fritsch passed around a mug-shot strip: three views of a male Negro. Sylvester “Pappy” Dawkins, age forty-eight. A lean man with a fuck-you demeanor. Inked on the back: burglary raps from ‘42 up.

Woodrell said, “Woooo, boy.”

Dwight said, “Hide the kiddies.”

Fritsch said, “He’s a residential burglar with rape-o tendencies. He was in custody near Barstow on the night Wayne Senior died, which don’t make no difference to us. He’s got no alibi for that night, and it’s a little two-man PD. I can buy both them boys off.”

The strip recirculated. Woodrell said, “Katy-bar-the-door.” Dwight said, “Electric chair, sweetheart.” Wayne shut his eyes and passed the strip back.

Fritsch slurped his highball. “Washoe County makes him for two burglary snuffs, so it ain’t like he’s a contributing member of society. He pulls B amp;Es all messed-up on goofballs, so he’ll make a piss-poor witness.”

Woodrell nibbled Fritos. “I like him. He’s five seconds out of the trees.”

Fritsch said, “I got a print transparency. We can roll it through a blood sample and pre-date it.”

Dwight rubbed his neck. “How much?”

Woodrell said, “Fifty on my end.”

Fritsch squirmed. “Uh… twenty for me? And I’ll take care of the Barstow boys out of that?”

Dwight nodded. “I’ll tap you-know-who. He wants to see this covered.”

Wayne said, “No.”

Fritsch froze mid-slurp. Woodrell froze mid-bite. Wayne said, “No more.”

Woodrell sighed. “This is just about the biggest favor you’ll ever get in this lifetime.”