Wayne squinted at the photo. The woman wore long sleeves. No scars stood out. Reginald went to this school. Reginald got popped in the redneck town. Maybe, not quite probably-the woman bailed him out.

Drac Air flew him in. The plane landed on the private Hughes runway. Cops with bullwhips supervised the VIP lounge build.

Joaquin Balaguer sent a limousine and four flanking motorbikes. The vehicles were mid-Trujillo vintage. All five were jackhammer-loud.

They drove into Santo Domingo. The windows were smoked. Bright colors filtered in monochromatically. The limo lurched through traffic. The pictures were sepia-soaked. It was a pauper-nation newsreel. Kids pulled rickshaws, beggars begged, goons chased sign-waving youths. It was a quick-shutter slide show. Blink and you see oppression. Blink and it’s gone.

Wayne was bleary-eyed. Slide show: he kept seeing that woman’s face. The glasses, the streaked hair-the slide jammed and re-ran her image. He read the 6/14 tract on the airplane. It decried Dominican despots and innocent Haitians slaughtered. It prophesied future despots more savvy than the Goat. It predicted U.S.-Dominican collusion in the interest of a Yankee tourist trade.

Reginald meets the Haitian man. They discuss voodoo herbs. Click- memory tug and loss. The woman, the “Freedom School,” mental gears stripped short of connection.

Wayne rolled down his window. The monochrome newsreel went eye-burning bright. The colors assaulted. The salt air burned. Cops chased protestors down a dead-end alley and pinned them to a wall. Wayne saw a single nightstick raised and heard a single scream.

The limo dropped him at the El Embajador. A toady ensconced him in a plush suite. He had a wide view. The Rio Ozama was due west. Black kids dove and fought each other for fishing-boat chum. The skin tone shifted district to district. He saw occasional red flags on sticks.

He walked down to Mesplede’s suite, knocked and got no answer. He walked to Dipshit’s suite and saw the door ajar.

He breezed in. It was a kid’s crib. Magazines were tossed pell-mell. Dip-shit dug Playboy and Guns amp; Ammo. Dipshit was a picture punk. He had a Polaroid camera. He had ad-lib pix of women up the ying-yang.

Brown bottles on a nightstand. White-labeled, what’s-

Sulfur oxide precipitant, ammonia, acetic anhydride.

“Hi, Wayne. What’s shaking?”

Dipshit wore a Colt Python with Bermuda shorts. Dipshit licked an icecream cone. Dipshit had acne.

Wayne smiled and walked up. Dipshit stuck his hand out. Wayne bent his fingers, proned him out and kicked him in the balls. Dipshit dropped his ice-cream cone and went blue.

“No heroin. You don’t make it, you don’t buy it, you don’t sell it. I’ll kill anyone who does.”

Dipshit puked butter brickie and cone shreds. A shadow hit the wall.

“Зa va, Wayne. C’est fini, l’hйroпne.”

Balaguer negotiated. The payouts and contingency plans favored the Fьhrer. The overall deal favored the Boys. Balaguer haggled and conceded. Wayne took the same tack. They chatted in a parlor at the Palacio Nacional and worked from scratch sheets. Mesplede and Dipshit were off boozing. Smith and Brundage were off golfing. The Cubans were off whoring.

Building costs, labor costs, airport kickbacks. Reduced fares for U.S.-D.R. flights. Incentive payments. No-customs-interference chits. Stateside money-wash details. Inspection tours by Dwight Holly, President Nixon’s liaison.

The last point bugged Balaguer. Wayne mollified him. Sir, the tours would be by and large cosmetic.

Der Fьhrer liked that. Wayne bait-and-switched behind it. Tourism only works in peaceful settings. Too much evidence of poverty will turn tourists off. President Nixon understands that, sir. He is your typical tourist writ more politically astute. Visitors will find your enforcement efforts confusing. Goon squads and roving dissidents are greek to them. They cannot extrapolate. They will be shocked by what they see.

Balaguer bristled through the discourse. Wayne forfeited three money points to cut him slack. The chat took six hours. Balaguer stood up to bid adios.

Wayne said, “No whips, sir. I’m afraid I have to insist.”

Cosmetic.

He saw it fast: food giveaways and less hurt from La Banda. The slide show felt marginalized. His shutter popped quicker. He saw or didn’t see at an accelerated rate. The monochrome view helped: Mesplede’s car had smoked windows.

The Santo Domingo sites were plowed and construction-ready. They were police-guarded. They were in half-decent areas. Airport shuttles could take tours through good neighborhoods. Tour packages would be all-inclusive. Guests would be urged to stay inside and spend.

Santo Domingo was Jim Crow. Light-skinned people, dark-skinned people and a stratified mix. Wayne remembered Little Rock, ‘57. The 82nd Airborne and forced desegregation.

Mesplede drove and chain-smoked. Dipshit sat in the backseat and worried his dipshit lapel pin. Radio music stifled conversation. Caribbean jazz, brassy and repetitive.

The Autopista ran them north. The road was bad. The cane fields and glades de-saturated the existing monochrome. Black people ran across the road. Mesplede swerved around them.

The Piedra Blanca site was construction-vetted and guarded. The high-rise view would take in a few shacks and encompass wide greenery. The site felt rapidly vacated. Wayne saw bloodstains on a discarded two-by-four.

They stayed a few minutes and split for Jarabacoa. C’est fini, l’hйroпne-nobody talked.

The ride took three hours. Wayne rolled down his window and de-smoked and jazzed the car. The bright colors hurt his eyes. He smelled jungle rot and gunpowder.

Jarabacoa was identical. The guards were servile and offered them cervezas. Wayne saw a bullwhip stashed behind a bush.

A black man sprinted past a cane field. His face was all open-sored ooze.

Wayne said, “Jean-Philippe, you go back. Crutchfield, you’re driving me into Haiti.”

Mesplede tossed his cigarette. “We have only the one car, Wayne.”

“There’s a bus station a mile back. We’ll drop you.”

The air conditioner tanked. They climbed the Cordillera Central in a mobile sauna. The open windows got them hot air and bugs like Godzilla. They crossed south of Dajabуn. A wobbly pylon bridge spanned the Plaine du Massacre. Fasciste border guards waved good-bye and hello. Gators sunned on the Haitian banks, surrounded by leg bones.

Skin tone darkened. The bright colors held as the poverty index spiked. Rusted tin-roof shacks and mud huts. Blood-marked trees and lynched roosters dripping entrails.

Dipshit drove. His hand trembled on the shifter. Wayne shut his eyes and put his seat back full supine. The upholstery was sweat-slick. Moisture pooled at the piping.

“No more fuckups. I’ll kill you next time.”

Dipshit said, “Okay.”

“Your fail-safes are bullshit. Nobody would believe you. You’re a jerkoff. You eat ice-cream cones and perv on women. Mesplede’s soft for you, but I’m not.”

Dipshit said, “Okay.” His voice squeaked and broke.

“I’ll say this once. You don’t get out of The Life unmaimed or alive. Killing Communists and working for guys like me gets you nothing but your next nightmare.”

Dipshit said, “Sure”-this whisper-squeak.

Wayne opened his eyes. The road was dirt now. Jalopies, oxcarts and a village: thatched huts and pastel cubes flying voodoo-sect flags.

Rhinestone-rock walls. Murals on easeled signboards. A tavern called Port Afrique.

Wayne said, “Stop the car.”

Dipshit pulled over. Wayne got out. Black folks milling about got magnetized.