He got up and washed his hands in the lab sink. Toad particles stung his skin.

“You’re shitting me.”

“No, I’m not. Farlan Brown set it up.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

“No, Richard Milhous Nixon.”

Dwight dined on Bromo-Seltzer and aspirin. The Dunes Lounge was a tomb. Jody and the Misfits played stale oldies. Patrons shagged back to the slots.

Wayne said, “It’s a pro forma deal. You reassure the president, I’ll reassure the Boys. The D.R.’s a sweet spot, we’re all A-OK.”

“Mr. Hoover will want me to report back. I’ll keep things light and tell him what he wants to hear.”

“Which is?”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “That Nixon’s as absorbed with black militants as he is. That he understands the national security threat of Archie Bell and the Drells.”

A drunk careened by their table. Wayne pulled his chair closer in.

“The knife fight. Did you get feedback from your informant?”

Dwight shrugged. “She said the BTA brothers hate the MMLF brothers a whole lot more now. She didn’t mention our boy Marsh in the middle.”

“I know Clarkson, but I’ve hardly met Jackson. He’s Haitian, right?”

“Right. He’s got no rap sheet, but he was allegedly a Tonton Macoute cop in Haiti. He emigrated, changed his name and became a black-militant asshole. Why are you asking? He’s not as bad as most of those fucks.”

Wayne shrugged. “Coincidence. Idle curiosity.”

Dwight cracked his knuckles. “ ‘Idle,’ shit. The guy who’s idle is Marsh. I want you to jerk his leash. Tell him he has to join the BTA or MMLF and hand up some snitches on collateral groups to keep the old girl wetting her panties.”

Wayne smiled. “I’ll tell him.”

“And tell him to score some heroin while he’s at it.”

Wayne squeezed his water glass. The edges almost snapped. Dwight said, “Get off your high horse, son. It’s not like you haven’t cooked it, run it and sold it to black folks yourself.”

He needed air. He walked the Strip in a rainstorm.

Dwight had his shit pegged. Dwight knew how to make him work and how to wet down his fuse.

It was cold. The rain carried ice chips. The hotel marquees fritzed and lost letters.

The Boys overbooked him. The Teamster loan buyouts devoured his time. He’d purchased thirty-four busted businesses since New Year’s. The L.A. money wash was all systems go. The Peoples’ Bank was the main laundry chute. Tiger Kab and the low-life clubs washed residual green. Mesplede and Dipshit were in the D.R. Hughes Air took them down.

Drac was tailspinning at Gay Edgar’s rate. Wayne met him in private hospital rooms and assuaged his fear of the Bomb. Drac wanted to curb black breeding. His solution: put fallout in the collard greens at soul-food restaurants. Drac got two blood transfusions daily. Drac bought eight gold mines, two silver mines and a golf course since New Year’s. His lawyers were filing injunctions against the state of Nevada. Drac wanted to ban all A-bomb testing. Farlan Brown said his legal bills ran fifty grand a month. Farlan asked about Dipshit-is he still looking for that cooze rip-off chick? Wayne said probably. Dipshit follows women around when he doesn’t know what else to do.

The rain turned to hail. Wayne ducked into the Top O’ the Strip. Art and Dottie Todd sang “Chanson d’Amour” for the twelve thousandth time. The bar revolved and gave revelers a 360 view. Ice came down in sheets.

Sonny Liston was defacing publicity pix of Muhammad Ali. The going rate was ten scoots apiece. White losers bought them and displayed them in their dens. Sonny wrote “Draft Dodger” and drew devil’s horns on Ali. Drac had a half-dozen. Farlan Brown sent the prez a Liston special: Ali sucking LBJ’s dick.

Wayne waved. Sonny ditched the losers and came over. A waiter brought Wayne a Coke and Sonny a scotch-rocks. They schmoozed up the old days.

Sonny was a Tiger Kab alumnus. Wayne told him the biz had just moved to southside L.A. Sonny said he’d beat feet and lend support to the brothers. Wayne said he’d appreciate it. Sonny said he’d heard a rumor- you and this black woman.

Wayne admitted it. Sonny brought up Wendell Durfee. Wayne said he was looking for the woman’s missing son. Sonny laughed for two minutes straight. It galvanized the whole room. People looked over. Wayne glared them off. Sonny caught his breath and drained his cocktail.

Wayne said, “Are you finished?”

Sonny said, “You and your nigger quests.”

Graph boxes, arrows. Connecting lines to and from.

A box marked “Library Books.” Connection points: the boxes marked “Political Texts” and “Haitian Herbs.” A box marked “Parking Ticket.” Connection point: the box marked “Haitian Herb Man.” A box marked “Jail.” Connection point: the box marked “White Woman/Bail.”

The graph helped him think. The wall placement let him think sitting and standing. It supplanted and reduced his file work.

Wayne scanned boxes. The LVPD summary sheet said Read Me. He sat down and skimmed it again. It summarized Reginald’s loneliness. High school, J.C., the car-wash job. Nobody really knew the boy. Piss-poor acquaintances and no friends.

“Before you ask me for the dozenth time. No, we never discussed Haitian herbs or left-wing political texts.”

Wayne swiveled his chair. Mary Beth put her hands on his shoulders and straddled his lap.

“I wouldn’t have given you a key if I knew you’d use it to torment me.”

“You’re prone to torment, so I’m only checking in as usual.”

Wayne pulled her shirttail out. “We could lie down for a while.”

She touched his lips. “We could and we should, given that you’ve got that policeman-with-routine-questions look on your face.”

“They’re not routine.”

“I know that, sweetie. I’m just teasing you. It’s just my way of curbing my tendency for brusqueness.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I’m here at this moment, and Reginald’s not.”

He kissed her. She traced his jawline. There’s her eyes. As always, those green flecks.

“The emerald. Remember, you said you’d-”

She covered his mouth. It always meant You hush.

“Yes, I asked around. I learned nothing of specific value, which didn’t surprise me. What I did learn was that there is a persistent and persistently amorphous myth that black people in dire need get emeralds anonymously in the mail.”

Wayne stood up. Mary Beth held on and stayed in his lap. She laughed. He carried her into the bedroom and dropped her on the bed.

She bounced a little. She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her socks.

“I don’t want to spoil the mood, but I remembered something.”

Wayne took his shirt off. “About Reginald?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me. Don’t spoil the mood, but-”

“I found some of his old school clothes, so it jogged my memory. It was the spring of ‘62. Reginald took a field trip to Los Angeles. It was a science fair at USC. He told me he went to a few classes at a ‘Freedom School.’ They had a little makeshift office on the campus.”

Something went click. He couldn’t place it. He went blank in dead sync. Mary Beth threw a shoe at him.

“I’m here. My son is not.”