I have brought Eleanora into a chaste and duplicitous marriage and into a troubled world, with Richard Nixon poised to assume the White House. Dwight will be buying her odd stuffed animals soon, like the alligators he bought Dina, and she will grow up thinking that predators (like Dwight!) are soft and cuddly. At some point she will point to me for confirmation of this. If I am the least bit candid, I will concede my great love for the man, which will in some small way explain why the teddy bears her father bought her hold no great emotional sway.
I miss Dwight. I’m going to boot What’s-His-Name out of town soon, so we can spend time together and Dwight can meet Ella. He’s fixated on Joan Klein-I can sense it. As always, I pray that my maneuverings and the connections that I facilitate cause more good than harm.
57
(Washington, D.C., 1/20/69)
We have endured a long night of the American spirit. But as bur eyes catch the dimness of the first rays of dawn, let us not curse the remaining dark. Let us gather the light.”
They had boxed seats for the big speech. They had preferred parade-route passes. They had tickets for six inaugural balls.
The new prez soaked up applause. Froggy said, “He is a bland man. We must circumvent his lack of commitment to the Cuban Cause.”
Crutch touched his lapel pin-a solid gold 15. He took the scalps and kept his lunch down. Froggy bought him the pin. It honored his close-range-killer status. He still had nightmares per that eye socket.
“Our destiny offers, not the cup of despair, but the chalice of opportunity. So let us seize it, not in fear, but in gladness-”
There’s LBJ-exhausted and vicious. There’s Earl Warren, there’s Dick’s frau, Pat, there’s ex-Veep Humphrey. Hey, Baldy-Froggy and I keestered you!
Nixon shut it down to cheers and a standing ovation. Froggy mimicked snores. Senator Charles H. Percy scowled at him.
Everybody stayed standing and milked the moment. Crutch memorized details. LBJ’s heifer daughters. Some stray Kennedys. Hey, fuckers- Froggy shot your Uncle Jack!
Crutch stood there, clapping. People walked by him. He thought of his mother and Dana Lund. He touched his lapel pin. He thought of Joan. He thought of his case and the D.R. upcoming. The Nixster walked past. He’d shaved close this morning. Nixey sat out World War II on some Jap-free atoll. He killed Commies close range. Jack the K. killed Japs on PT-109. It was a shuck. Boats didn’t count. Jack was no close-range killer.
The crowd thinned out. Crutch re-memorized. Mesplede said, “Enjoy your extremely minor role in this, Donald. But remember that our destiny lies south of here.”
“Tell me again, Froggy. I dig the repetition of it.”
“What is that?”
“Tell me how we’re going to make the money to buy the guns to kill the Castro guys.”
“We are going to sell heroin.”
They ball-hopped. D.C. was all limos and floodlit monuments. The air was gunpowdered. Fireworks caused most of it. The rest was coons shooting guns off in coontown.
Yippies in Nixon masks weaved in and out of traffic. Crutch saw a mugging by the Lincoln Monument. They shared a limo with some GOP stiffs and Ronald Reagan. Crutch told Reagan he dug Hellcats of the Navy. Governor Ronnie grooved on Crutch and called him “young fellow.”
The ball-to-ball action was blurry. Crutch saw a million famous faces. Mickey Mantle, Floyd Patterson, some TV-show babes. Mummylike J. Edgar Hoover.
They got a tip on a bash at the Hay-Adams. They flagged down a gypsy cab and spent two hours driving six blocks. The driver was a Jamaican dinge with braided hair and a crocheted beanie. He said he was Pat Nixon’s lover. He had some homegrown ganga. They toked up and listened to a long travelogue. The dinge extolled the fine Dominican gash and warned them about Haiti. Voodoo be real. You got to bring good gre-gre. You put a virgin’s snatch hair in a locket and dangle it on your dick. You swear fealty to Baron Samedi.
They got to the Hay-Adams. The bill was two C-notes. The hotel looked familiar. Crutch got the gist: the dinge drove them in circles.
The lobby was plush. Mesplede saluted General Curtis LeMay. LeMay waved his cigar back. Crutch re-re-memorized. Open doorways/loud music/Lucy Baines Johnson and a stone swish actor doing the dirty-dog Twist.
The bash was in 1014. The doorway was open, the noise was big, the census was mob guys and pols. Crutch looked left and saw Bill Scranton and Carlos Marcello. Crutch looked right and saw Sam Giancana, snaked up with a tall brunette.
She turned their way. It was oh-my-fucking-God Gretchen Farr/Celia Reyes.
____________________
Part III
January 24, 1969-December 4, 1970
____________________
58
(Los Angeles, 1/24/69)
Black Cat bopped. It was redecorated and biracial now. Black personnel, white co-boss Milt Chargin. Scratch the velvet walls. Dig the orange-and-black striping.
It was Sam G.’s idea: let’s revive Tiger Kab. Miami and Vegas, the anti-Castro days. Wayne, it’s your job. Tigrify those cabs and make the shines like it.
Junior Jefferson noshed ice cream. “Tigers are okay, but panthers got more soul.”
Milt Chargin said, “I detect a political statement there,”
“It ain’t politics. I’m just seeing two more white dudes than I usually see, which is contributing to the headache I gots from that strippedy-ass wallpaper.”
The hut was SRO. The co-bosses sat in scuffed BarcaLoungers. Wayne perched on the window unit. Two men stood by the switchboard. Wayne ID’d them from file pix: Marshall Bowen and Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson.
Milt said, “The car painters are coming in today. You’ll groove the new look. They’re attaching tiger tails to the rear bumpers.”
Jomo said, “This is jive honky bullshit. You’re appropriating the racial identity of this business. Tigers are faggoty animals that punks dig on. Panthers are deadlier, but they got a distinction that makes you white fuckers squirm.”
Wayne yawned. He was sleep-shot. Two calls rocked him last night. Sam said, “You’re the Tiger Kab overseer.” Dwight said, “I’ve got a job for you.”
“Racial identity is one thing, Mr. Clarkson. Comfort’s another. I’ve ordered air-conditioning units for the whole fleet.”
Jomo picked at his machete scars. Political, self-inflicted. Marsh Bowen wore an all-black ensemble. He failed to look sinister. He looked like a male model slumming.
Junior said, “I likes that. Fat folks tend to sweat.”
Milt lit a cigarette. “You’ve got to lose weight, schmuck. Obesity comes back to haunt you later in life.”
“Ain’t gonna be no ‘later in life’ for me. A race war’s coming, and I just hope I ain’t too plump to run.”
Milt sighed. “If a race war is coming, why are you having such a good time with me?”
“‘Cause you a funny old kike motherfucker, and you makes me laugh.”
Jomo glared at Wayne. Junior passed him a full-page cartoon. It was a mimeo sheet, all reprint-blurred. LAPD pigs butt-fucked Black Panther leaders while Richard Nixon watched and jacked off.
Junior slurped ice cream. “Maybe the brothers in US are putting that shit out to discredit the Panthers.”
Milt said, “The world does not need more hatred. The world needs more love. Inter-racial fucking and sucking would revitalize our great nation and spare us all lots of grief.”
Junior yukked, Wayne laughed, Marsh Bowen grinned. Jomo glaaaared anew. A switchboard call came in. Jomo ignored it. Tires screeched outside. A shotgun blast and glass explosion followed. Wayne pegged the distance: one half block.