“Go back to Santo Domingo. I’ll get back on my own.”

Dipshit shrugged and screeched off. Wayne walked into Port Afrique. He smelled ammonia base, semi-toxics and untreated alcohol. The place was rectangular. There was a stand-up bar with bottle shelves behind it and no more. French slogans covered the side walls: “By the power of the saint star, walk and find.” “Sleep without knowing or sleeping.”

The barman looked at him. Three other men followed his eyes. They held sequined goblets. Fumes rose out of them. High acidity, low alkaline content. Klerin liquor, certainly. Odds on semi-poisonous reptile-gland compounds.

Wayne walked to the bar and bowed to show respect. The three men walked away. The shelf bottles were transparent and tape-marked in French. Colored talc, tree bark, pharmacologically active snake powder.

The barman bowed. Wayne pointed to an empty goblet. The barman’s look said Are you sure?

“S’il vous plaоt, monsieur. Je suis chimiste, et voudrais essayer votre plus potion.”

The barman bowed. “Comme vous voulez, monsieur. Mais vous comprenez q’il y a des risques.”

Wayne said, “Oui.” The barman opened bottles and dipped a spoon. Fungible plants, bark, puffer-fish liver. Bufo marinus: a sea snake’s porotoid gland. Klerin liquor from a siphon. An unknown liquid that made it all foam.

The fizz increased. It smelled like a volatile component bond. The barman served the goblet with blessing gestures. Wayne bowed and placed U.S. cash on the bar.

The three men walked over. One toasted him, one blessed him, one handed him a sect card. The foam burned the air all around them. Wayne drank the potion in one gulp.

It scorched his throat and shuddered through him. The barman said, “De rien, monsieur. Bonne chance.”

He found a shady spot outside the village. He stood there and turned off external noise. He heard the air breathe and knew he brought belief to the moment. He felt the soil under him swirl.

His pulse beat and wired his limbs to the trees surrounding him. His peripheral vision expanded and allowed him to see from the back of his head. His eyes watered. He saw Dr. King and the Reverend Hazzard swimming. Dr. King had Mary Beth’s coloring. The pastor had Marsh Bowen’s eyes. Birds perched inside him. Their chirps resounded as those mind clicks he kept hearing back in the world. The sun turned into the moon and dropped into his pocket. He kept seeing the woman with the dark, gray-streaked hair.

68

(Los Angeles, 4/10/69)

Scotty said, “Marsh fucked up. He witnessed a 211 and didn’t report it.”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “I know.”

“Marsh copped to it?”

“He told his cutout.”

“You mean Wayne Tedrow?”

“That’s right.”

Scotty laughed. “Inspired casting. The spooks are afraid of him, so they adore him. Nobody suspects that he’s FBI-adjunct, because he’s working for the Boys.”

Piper’s Coffee Shop on Western. The 1:00 a.m. clientele: cops and Schaeffer’s Ambulance ghouls.

Dwight said, “Who told you about Wayne?”

“One of my numerous southside informants.”

“The liquor-store guy?”

“My lips are sealed.”

Dwight rubbed his eyes. “Let’s talk about Jomo.”

“Give me a concession first.”

“All right. I’ll let Jomo go if you let Marsh slide.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, you can have Jomo independent of my operation. Meaning, he’s my best black-militant psycho, but I can live without prosecuting him. Meaning, you’ve got something going that you won’t talk about, because you didn’t call me at midnight for a nigger-strongarm roust.”

Scotty cream-dosed his coffee. “Correct on all counts. Jomo’s got a lot of bread, and I think I know where he got it.”

“And if you need Marsh as a witness, you’ll call him in.”

“That’s correct.”

Dwight chained cigarettes. “Will you promise not to reveal Marsh’s Bureau status?”

Scotty bummed a cigarette. Dwight lit it for him.

“Yes. Will you promise not to pop Jomo for any and all Federal offenses while I build my case?”

“Yes.”

Scotty took one drag and stubbed out his cigarette. Two cops walked by and saluted. Scotty winked at them.

“Thanks for coming out. I realize it was short notice.”

Dwight stretched. “It’s all right. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.”

“There’s always booze.”

“It quit working for me.”

“There’s always women.”

Dwight said, “I’m stretched a bit thin there.”

(Mona Passage, 4/10/69)

“C’est fini, l’hйroпne.”

“You’re a jerkoff.”

“Allons-y, l’hйroпne-oui!”

Tiger Klaw pushed waves. Destination: Point Higuero, Puerto Rico. Saldпvar manned the turbines. Froggy manned the bridge. Gomez-Sloan and Canestel manned the torpedo drops. Morales read the owner’s manual.

Crutch manned the fore machine-gun placement. Luc Duhamel manned the aft. They launched from Luc’s private inlet. They skirted the north coast to the passage unobstructed. It was death-defying shit.

That bankroll clique bought the boat. Bebe Rebozo supplied the bulk of the bread. Luc knew a dope cadre in Point Higuero. Tiger Klaw sidled the night side. Their baaaad baby made four sabotage runs to date.

Luc’s inlet to the Windward Passage and Cuba’s Red Reefs. Two militia launch docks destroyed and thirty Fidelistos mort. “You eat ice-cream cones and perv on women.” Yeah, but nineteen Commies rot dead.

Tiger Klaw: wood-hulled and World War II vintage. Tiger-striped, tiger-pawed, christened “109.” L’hommage а le grand putain Jack.

Crutch ate Dramamine. Tiger Klaw wah-watusi’d in choppy waves. Dusk doused the sun and freon froze the water. Land approached starboard. Saldivar spotted semaphore blinks. Froggy steered Tiger Klaw toward a cove. Shoals hemmed them in. Lantern light strafed the bow. Crutch saw four spies with Tommy guns.

The spies grapple-hooked the bow and tied Tiger Klaw tight. The fit held: machine-gun mounts cinched to rock fissures. The Krew hopped off. Sand sucked at their socks. The P.R. spies looked like the Cubans. They all had that macho-maimed visage. Names went around. Crutch kept it zipped. The spies bowed to Luc. It was his pedigree. Six-foot-eight voodoo priest and Tonton cop. Luc was an all-time rare turd.

The Krew followed the spies. Jungle brush pressed up to the beach. Night bugs swarmed. The lantern light killed most of them dead in the air. Crutch saw a fishing shack. Two spies door-guarded it. The inside was eight by eight. Powder bricks sat on a table.

Saldivar brought the money in a knapsack. Luc brought sucrose filler, a razor blade and a hypodermic syringe. The spies crossed themselves and blessed his test flight.

Gomez-Sloan slit the bricks. Saldivar spooned powder into a purple solution. It turned yellow. Froggy went voilа! The spies went arriba! Luc swabbed his spike, stretched a tourniquet and geezed up.

All eyes on Luc. He’s at Cape Coonaveral. He’s heading for liftoff.

Luc tapped the plunger. Blood hit the syringe. Luc listed, lulled, levitated and left them for Cloud 9.

The water was cold. Waves banged the hull and sudsed the foredeck. Crutch had watch duty. He had to get wet. He brain-tripped. The Dominican women kiss. It takes him back to Joan and Gretchen/Celia and their kiss last summer.

The voodoo death book. Tattoo vanishes that summer. She’s a 6/14 traitor. Joan and Gretchen/Celia want her dead. Slasher homicide-or maybe something else.