Mesplede said, “I may ask you to report information to me.”

Crutch nodded-yessir, yessir, yessir.

The flask went back and forth. A sync settled in. Their eyes stayed locked while the Frogman monologued. It was all CUBA. It was le grand putain Fidel Castro and the Cuban Freedom Cause. There was JFK’s Bay of Pigs betrayal. There was LBJ’s Commie appeasement. There was America’s sissified accommodation and the Caribbean as a Spreading Red Lake. There were brave men willing to die to quash the Red Tide.

The flask went back and forth. The oration continued. Crutch rode the world’s greatest buzz.

15

(Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

The night nurse took a break to play the slots downstairs. Wayne ran into her in the casino. She said, “You look ill-I’ll bring you something.”

He took the stairs up and burned off excess steam. He still smelled like charred paper. The suite was unlocked. He walked into Janice’s bedroom.

The lights were on. The IV pole and drip bag were down on the floor. The tube was still attached to Janice’s arm. The needle was half in, half out.

Two empty vials on the nightstand. Seconal and Dilaudid. A brief note: “Whatever your plan-please, not on my behalf.”

Wayne sat with her. Her nightgown was still damp. The picture blurred with ‘64. He came home and found Lynette. Wendell Durfee had come and gone. A winter storm leveled Vegas. He sat with Lynette and listened to the rain.

Janice died clutching the bedsheets. Wayne pried her fingers loose and folded them on her chest.

West Vegas hopped at 2:00 a.m. The bars were air-cooled. The shacks weren’t. Folks stayed out late to cool off.

Wayne cruised in. He passed the Wild Goose, the Colony Club and the Sugar Hill Lounge. Memory Lane. The ALLAH IS LORD signs. Night owls cooking bar-b-q in fifty-gallon drums. Streets named for presidents and designated by letters.

He had Pappy Dawkins’ address. It should be off Monroe and J. He scanned faces. Everybody was black. Parked cars with running headlights. Air-conditioned junkers. Beat the heat. Run the vents all night and sleep.

There’s the place: a fuchsia-colored cinder-block dump on plywood struts.

Wayne parked and walked up. The lights were on. The door was open. The front room was furnished with scavenged car seats. A dozen fans pushed air around.

Two Negro men sat there. They were side by side on Chevy leather. Pappy looked older than his mug shots. The other man ran fifty-plus and wore a clerical suit.

They noticed him. They made him. Wayne made their little blinks. The fans churned up a stink: cat piss and stale marijuana.

Wayne shut the door. The smell compounded. Pappy said, “Sergeant Wayne Tedrow Jr.”

Wayne coughed. “Not any longer.”

“You mean you ain’t with the po-lice or you the only Wayne Tedrow left?”

“Both of those.”

The other man said, “He wants something. You should let him get to it.”

Pappy twirled an ashtray. “Reverend Hazzard’s trying to reform me. He visits me once a month, whether I asks him to or not. I say to him, This white motherfucker here killed three brothers awhile back,’ he probably say, ‘Turn the other cheek.’ ”

Wayne spoke to Hazzard. “This won’t take but a minute.”

Pappy hurled the ashtray. It knocked a fan over. The breeze went haywire. Some nesting moths stirred.

“Reverend Hazzard believes you turn the other cheek, but I most emphasizedly do not, unless you wants to bend down and kiss the cheeks of my coal black ass.”

Hazzard touched Pappy’s arm. Pappy grabbed a stray shoe off the floor and hurled it. A fan capsized. A breeze hit the back wall. A Scotch-taped pic of Malcolm X flew.

“Reverend Hazzard says, ‘Forgiveness be next to godliness,’ but I most emphasizedly do not, unless you wants to start by apologizing for killing Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers and any other extraneous niggers that you also might have killed along the way.”

Hazzard said, “Pappy, please.”

Wayne said, “Sir, I apologize.”

Pappy grabbed another shoe. “And that’s all you got to say?”

“No, there’s more.”

“Which includes what?”

Wayne’s legs fluttered. “Some cops are trying to hang a case on you. I don’t want to see it happen. I’ll get you some money, but you’ve got to get out of Vegas.”

Pappy whooped. “Leave all this? On your white motherfucking say-so?”

Hazzard said, “Pappy, let him talk.”

Pappy whooped falsetto. “Not until I’ve had my fun and extricated my pound of flesh, starting with, ‘Hey, Junior, you apologize again.’ ”

Wayne said, “Sir, I apologize.”

Whoop-”One more time now. I’m starting to enjoy this.”

Wayne shook his head no. His legs almost caved. Pappy threw the shoe at him. He stepped aside. Pappy reached in his pocket. Wayne threw himself on the floor.

Metal flashed. Wayne ate rug grit and pulled his ankle piece. Pappy fumbled a snub automatic. Reverend Hazzard froze. Pappy rolled off the car seat and aimed down at Wayne.

They fired simultaneous. The floor exploded by Wayne’s face. He aimed through plaster dust and squeezed the trigger slow. He hit Pappy mid-chest. Pappy spun and jerked the trigger. His hand spasmed. He sent shots every which way.

They hit the fans. Soft points-the blades diced and ricocheted them. Bullet shards became shrapnel pellets. They burst wide and tore out Hazzard’s throat. He gasped and pitched off the car seat. Wayne aimed up and squeezed slow. The shot hit Pappy mid-face. He fell backward. His head hit a whirring fan and sent red up and out.

16

(Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

The squadroom was dead. LVPD ran a light crew from midnight on. Four detectives caught city-wide squeals. They got paid to doze at their desks or shag ass.

They slept. Dwight couldn’t sleep. The desert fire still torqued him. He went by the Golden Cavern an hour back. Fred Otash was still up. They discussed his St. Louis trip. Freddy spent time at the Grapevine. The hit rumors: still escalating. The purveyors: six right-wing fucks. The ATF surveillance: intermittent, but sustained. The upshot: we can’t go in with ATF hovering. We hold for now.

Dwight yawned. Late-night squadrooms consoled him. They were cop still-life tableaux. The St. Louis SAC pledged a late-night teletype. Dwight chair-perched by the machine.

The squadroom was quiet. The cops dozed. The detention-cage winos snored. The teletype machine rattled. Dwight pulled a sheet out.

Terse and shitty news. Be advised: ATF has Grapevine Tavern under lockstep surveillance.

Dwight tore the sheet up and trash-canned it. A patrol cop ran in. He was a beanpole rookie type in a lather. He yelled his good news and woke the crew up.

Body count! Somebody nailed that hump Pappy Dawkins and some shine preacher!

The street was sealed. Dwight badged the perimeter cop and pulled right up to the tape. Inside it: three patrol cars, one coroner’s car and two dead jigs on gurneys.

Live jigs outside the tape: geeks in nightgowns, skivvies and pajamas. A fatso was snarfing chicken wings at 4 fucking a.m.

Two patrol cops by the house. Buddy Fritsch in civvies, looking justifiably freaked.

Dwight whistled long and shrill. Fritsch heard it and looked over. Dwight pointed to his Fed sled. Fritsch blew off the patrol cops and walked straight up.

Dwight opened the back door. Fritsch got in. He had the shakes. He pulled a hip flask and took two maintenance pops. Dwight got in and shut the door. Two tall men-their knees brushed.