He put the wallet back. Wayne got out the liquid coke and syringes. Blood leaked on the floor. They all looked down and stepped way clear of the spill.

Dwight knocked over the table. The booze and food debris blended in with the spill.

Otash arranged the bodies: three on the floor, four on the sofas.

Mesplede planted the throwdown guns. Three in their hands, three near their bodies.

The blood spill expanded. They all kept looking down and stepping clear of it.

Dwight pulled off their shoes and socks.

Wayne injected them between their toes and cotton-swabbed the blood drips.

Otash pulled their socks back on. Mesplede relaced their shoes.

Fiddle music brayed and screeched. The walls absorbed the gunshot noise-Dwight knew it.

They stepped waaaaay back from the blood spill. Dwight framed the scene. Sofa springs exposed. Kling’s missing finger. Booze, cocaine, a group tantrum. Pierce’s coughed-out dentures. DeJohn’s shattered glasses.

Dwight tapped his watch-out. Wayne looked at him. Dwight couldn’t detect anything.

Otash grinned. Wayne poured powdered cocaine on the bar.

Mesplede grabbed some blood-free potato chips.

31

(Las Vegas, 9/6/68)

You look through him.

It subsumes the shock and diverts the titillation. It deflects the insanity. It was his sixth face-to-face meet with Dracula. Wayne just discovered the trick.

“It’s a pleasure to see you, sir.”

Drac said, “Humphrey is very far behind in the polls. The hippies and yippies did him in.”

Farlan Brown coughed. “Wayne and I were there, sir. We gave them quite an assist.”

The trick worked with Drac himself. Castle Drac details remained. The condom-wrapped doorknobs, the Kleenex-box piles, the wall pix of Jane Russell’s breasts.

Drac said, “On to November. Every Humphrey campaign stop must be a miniature Chicago. May I have your guarantee, Mr. Tedrow?”

“I’ll try, sir.”

Brown coughed. “Wayne’s being modest, sir. When he says, ‘I’ll try,’ he means ‘I’ll succeed.’ ”

Drac said, “Don’t cough again, Mr. Brown. You’re creating an unsanitary environment. If you cough again, I will terminate your employment and buy out your contract for five cents on the dollar.”

Brown got up and left the room, waving a handkerchief. Wayne looked through Drac. Fresh details: plates covered with leftover food. Bugs scattered on pizza-pie crusts.

“You’ve lost weight, Mr. Tedrow. Have you been ill?”

“I had extensive dental surgery, sir. I’ve been unable to eat solid food for three weeks.”

“Was the surgery performed under sanitary conditions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“I’m thirty-four, sir.”

“I’m sixty-one, sixty-two or sixty-three. I’ve sustained head injuries from my numerous airplane crashes and have lost some memories.”

Wayne smiled. “You were born in 1905, sir. You’re sixty-two years old.”

Drac coughed. “Did you look me up in the Farmer’s Almanac?”

“Encyclopedia Britannica, sir.”

“Did it state how many women I have fucked?”

“It omitted that detail, sir.”

“I have fucked countless women. Ava Gardner gave me both tertiary syphilis and the bubonic plague. Between my head injuries and those other maladies, I suffer constant pain. I am thus very grateful for your adroit skills as a chemist.”

Wayne faux-beamed. “I’m very pleased that you feel that way, sir.”

“Gain some weight, though. It pains me to look at a young man so gaunt.”

“I’m going back on solid food tomorrow, sir.”

“Good.”

Wayne leaned in and stared at Drac. The filmy eyes and chancre sores got him this time.

“Mr. Hughes, may I ask a favor of you?”

“Yes. I rarely grant favors, but I’ll permit you to ask.”

“Sir, I’d like you to reinstate the Hotel Workers’ Union at all your Las Vegas locations. I would also request that you brusquely tell the Hotel Owners’ Council that they should drop the implicitly enforced employment color line that they have long adhered to.”

Fresh details: tremors and puffs of dry spit.

“How firm a request is this?”

“It’s a polite request, sir.”

“Is it an ultimatum?”

“No, but it’s a vouchsafe on my future as your business intermediary and chemist.”

Drac shuddered. His jaw dropped. He had for-real fangs.

“Very well. I’ll grant your request.”

At least they were vicious. At least they were white.

It was his post-Grapevine mantra. He employed it along with opiate compounds. It got him through the flight back and the Hughes meet.

He was tapering off. He was sleeping better. Dwight called last night. St. Louis PD tagged the Grapevine their way.

Spontaneous combustion. Toxic booze/dope levels cited. A quickie coroner’s inquest stamped it case closed.

He was feeling better. His appetite was returning. The throbs and kinks all over his body were starting to abate.

Wayne cruised the Strip. It was dusk and too hot to live. He saw heat-dazed picketers outside the Dunes and the Sands. He saw picketers waving their signs outside the Frontier. Most were black, some were white, all were plain thrilled.

He parked and walked to the picket line. He caught snippets of a joyous gobbledygook.

The Hotel Council caved. It was sudden-who knows why-it allegedly came from Howard Hughes.

Wayne stood there. The picketers ignored him. An LVPD goon squad lounged at the curb. They wore helmets and twirled their nightsticks. They plain seethed. Buddy Fritsch kicked at scattered cigarette butts and seethed the worst.

The picketers whooped and leaped and tore the tops off their signs. Wayne saw Mary Beth Hazzard raise one fist.

Buddy Fritsch saw him and teetered on over. He reeked of afternoon vodka and breath mints.

“Hey, killer. Want to smoke a few jungle bunnies while you’re here?”

Wayne winked at him. Buddy winked back. The picketers looked over. They started nudging each other. Wayne smiled at Buddy and let the moment build.

“Times like this make me wish you were back on the ‘ole LVPD. We could use a coon kill-”

Wayne gut-punched him. Buddy gasped and folded and went green in the face. The other cops froze. The picketers froze. Wayne grabbed Buddy’s necktie, pulled him close and elbow-slammed his face. Wayne ripped his badge off his shirt and hurled it.

Buddy wobbled and stayed up. His face was all blood. Wayne let go of his tie. Buddy hit the pavement face-first. A bunch of the picketers cheered.

The cops stayed frozen. Wayne looked at the picketers. Mary Beth Hazzard stared dead at him. Wayne blew her a kiss.

32

(Los Angeles, 9/8/68)

Crutch Senior lived behind Santa Anita. He ruled a cardboard-box encampment. Winos and racetrack bums. Hooverville updated. Bet all day, booze all night. The California Lifestyle Supreme.

Crutch came with gifts: a good-bye C-note and a Reuben sandwich. Hey, Dad-I’m a dead man. I know all this top secret shit.

Fred Turentine called him yesterday. Fred Otash found some bug-tap debris in suite 307 and traced it back to him. Fred O. leaned on Fred T. Fred T. gave Crutch up for the bug job. Fred T. convinced Fred O. that he wasn’t there, it was only doofus Crutchfield. Fred T. showed Crutch his broken fingers. “Kid, I don’t know what you heard, but you better run.”

He read the St. Louis papers. Seven dead at the Grapevine. Tavern “Hoodlum brawl escalates.” He did some checking. James Earl Ray’s brother was part owner. Killers. His Frogman pal on the grassy knoll. Bug talk: Sirhan amp; King, Memphis amp; Dallas.