Fritsch sighed. “Don’t be a Bolshevik, son.”

Woodrell laughed. “Mr. Sensitive. With the niggers he’s got on his rйsumй.”

Wayne looked at him. “Stop right there. Don’t make me take this any further.”

Woodrell flushed and got shaky-kneed. Fritsch said, “Sweet Jesus.” Dwight pointed to the two of them and the door. They caught the gist and walked out. Dwight stood up and hauled Wayne upright. Dwight grabbed his shirtfront and slapped him.

It stung. It raised blood dots. Wayne popped pain tears. It was a love tap by Dwight Holly standards.

“It’s for Janice. It’s for both of us and everything you’ve put your hands on. It’s for this fucked-up hole we’re both in.”

Wayne wiped his nose. Blood pooled in his mouth. His tears dried quick.

“This has to happen, so you let it happen, and you do not fold on me. I need that from you, and I may need you for the Grapevine. Otash went to St. Louis, we’ll need to talk to him about it, and we might have to go in at some point.”

His blood tasted funny. Dwight held him up. His legs were gone.

“I need you to stand in. I need your father’s mail lists, and if push comes to shove with the Grapevine, I want you there.”

Wayne nodded. Dwight let his hands go. Wayne weaved and stayed up.

The sheets were moist. Her gown was damp. Her pulse ran weak-steady. Wayne flicked the dial and fed dope to the tube.

Heroin. His compound. A morphine-base synthetic.

Janice unclenched. Wayne wiped her brow and toweled the sheets half-dry. The night nurse was sleeping in the living room. Janice was all sweat and chills.

Wayne took her hands. “There’s something that has to be done to give us some safety. When you hear about it, you’ll know. It wasn’t my idea, and there’s no way around it.”

Janice shut her eyes. Tears leaked. She pulled her hands free. They felt weightless, all veins and bone.

Wayne flicked the dial. Dope flowed bag to tube to vein. Janice went out, shuddering.

Her pulse was weak-normal. Wayne arranged her hair on the pillow. He grabbed the bedside phone and dialed Mesplede in Miami.

Three rings. A sleep-slapped “Oui?”

“It’s Wayne.”

“Yes, of course. My American friend in duress.”

“Do something for me.”

“Of course.”

“There was a kid tailing me in Miami. I don’t know what it’s about, but it’s trouble.”

“Yes? And your wish?”

“Early twenties, medium-sized, crew cut. He’s driving an Avis rent-a-car. The plate number is GQV-881.”

“Yes? And your wish?”

“Find out his business and clip him.”

The vault was twelve miles east of Vegas. Wayne Senior had dubbed it the “Fьhrer bunker.” It was a scrub-covered cement square sunk in a sand drift. It was straight out I-15.

Wayne brought a flashlight, a gas can and a Zippo lighter. The location was a mile off the interstate. The vault held copies of all Senior’s hate tracts and his subscriber lists.

Wayne parked on a turnaround near a Chevron station and walked into the desert. It was 106° at midnight. Sand sucked at his feet and slowed his walk to a trudge. It was slow slow motion. He thought about Dallas the whole time.

He got there. He pulled off scrub branches, unlocked the door and hauled hate lit out. Titles jumped off covers. He saw Miscegenation Generation and Jew Stew: A Recipe Book. He saw Pope Pontius: How Papists Rule the Jewnited Nations. He saw doctored pix of Dr. King and little Negro kids. He saw facsimile editions of vintage Klan kodebooks.

He stripped the shelves. He lugged paper and ink-smudged his arms black. He saw hate headlines. He saw pornographic hate cartoons. He saw lynching photos with gag captions.

He built a big hate pile. It stood eight feet high. He doused it with gasoline. He sparked the Zippo and put the flame down.

The pile flared straight up and out. The big black sky went red.

13

(Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

The sky went red to orange. Dwight stood by the service pumps and watched.

The blaze backlit the desert floor and the highway. He saw Wayne’s car on the turnaround. His tail-job-on-instinct got him this.

Two pump jockeys stood around, gawking. A hot wind blew smoke their way. Dwight walked to a pay phone, fed the slot quarters and dialed direct to L.A.

The smoke was thick with paper bits. Dwight felt the sting. Karen picked up immediately.

“Hello?”

“It’s me.”

“You’re not supposed to call when he’s in town, goddamnit.”

Dwight said, “Talk slow to me. Just a minute, please.”

Karen said something back. He didn’t hear it. His eyes were all wet and fucked-up. He couldn’t tell if it was the smoke or his crazy love for Wayne.

(Miami, 8/10/68)

Smoke and fire. The spooks refused to quit. Gunshots, sirens and a 4:00 a.m. light show.

Crutch pulled into the Avis lot. The clutch on his rent-a-car blew. The gears were stripped. The car lurched and lugged. He called ahead. The desk guy said, Screw the riot. You come right in.

Half-tracks rolled down Biscayne Boulevard. The governor called in the Guard. There’s a string of cop cars and a six-seater Jeep. Fuck, the driver’s smoking a joint.

Smoke and fire. Swamp heat. This orange sky edging toward mauve.

The car lurched and died by the gas pumps. Crutch got out and stretched. Heat and fumes smacked him. His head hurt. He’d been working the bug post full-time. He’d been up since God knows-

Someone/Something pushed him. He tumbled back in the car. His head hit the shift knob. His arms hit the dashboard. The Someone/ Something pinned him down. He/It was all black.

Then the knee on his back. Then the gun in his face. With the silencer barrel-threaded and the hammer half-back.

“Why are you surveilling Wayne Tedrow? Be honest. Evasion will decree an even more horrible death.”

The French accent. The Frogman. Frog couture all black.

“I repeat. Why were you surveilling Wayne Tedrow?”

Crutch tried to pray. The words hit his brain jumbled. His piss tubes swelled. He held it in. The weight on him helped. He remembered his lucky rabbit’s foot and obscure Lutheran Church lore.

“I repeat.”

His shit chute swelled. He held it in. The weight on him helped. He opened his mouth. He squeaked and got some sounds out. God or some unseen fucker fed him word soup. He saw his mother. He heard “Dr. Fred,” “Howard Hughes,” “Grapevine plant,” “million dollars.” He heard “Dead woman,” “missing woman,” “knife-scar woman,” “green stones.” He heard “Please don’t kill me” six billion times in six seconds.

He shut his eyes. His tear ducts swelled. He held it in. Biting his tongue helped. Six billion years went by in six seconds. He saw his mother and Dana Lund six billion times. He tried for prayers and dredged up hymns.

The weight eased up. He clenched his tubes, chutes and ducts and stayed dry. He smelled brandy. The scent touched his lips strong. He opened his mouth. He dipped his head and took the pour. His throat constricted. He opened wider and let it roll in. He opened his eyes and saw the Frogman.

“I have been prone to sympathetic lapses before. You must affirm my perception of your youthful willfulness and capacity for acquiescence.”

Crutch crawled into the passenger seat. His heartbeat kept multiplying. He was head-to-toe sweat. The Frogman stretched out in the driver’s seat. He nipped off the flask and passed it back. Crutch chugged brandy and looked out the window. There’s more smoke, sirens and riot cops- the spooks just won’t quit.