72

(Santo Domingo, 5/3/69)

He couldn’t shake the picture. Shit kept reminding him. He found that golf-course bunker. La Banda left a black guy strapped in. His palms had melted on the electrodes. The restraints burned him bone-deep.

Crutch waited at the airport. Sam G.’s flight was due. The VIP lounge was up and going. The seats were thronelike. They had that ELECTRIC CHAIR look.

The flight was late. Drac Air always ran tardy. The lounge featured Fьhrer art. Oil paintings of the Midget hogged wall space.

Crutch fretted. Wayne was due back soon. He had skim money for the casino build. Wayne laid down that no-dope law. Tiger Krew defied it four times. Four runs to Puerto Rico. Four layoffs to Luc’s guys in Port-au-Prince. Subsequent sales to Haitian hopheads.

Sam’s flight was late. Sam might have Gretchen/Celia in tow. Crutch volunteered for the chauffeur gig. Froggy found that hinky.

His case was popping. He ID’d his murder vie: Maria Rodriguez Fontonette, aka “Tattoo.” He saw that list of massacred Haitians. He memorized the names. It might supply leads. He gave Froggy an update. Froggy scoffed at him. “This is simply your voyeur fixation run amok. Kill more Communists and obsess on fewer women.”

The Drac Air flight descended. Little kids ran up and tossed leis. It was the Midget’s idea. He went to Hawaii once.

A baggage cart whizzed by. It looked like a mobile ELECTRIC CHAIR. The electrodes liquefied the guy’s skin. Rich beaners played golf overhead.

His case was all voodoo. That be baaaad juju. Beware the Zombie Zone.

Sam G. said, “For all his crazy nigger shit, Wayne is a fucking white man. He’s got the stateside funnel running like a charm. We’re pushing skim from our Vegas hotels through this nigger-owned bank in L.A. We’ve got Tiger Kab and the jig clubs for the residual wash. Wayne’s been keestering Hughes and running our Teamster buyout gig like a fucking virtuoso.”

No Gretchen/Celia-that was a bust. The caffeinated Sambo was an equal drag. They toured the Santo Domingo sites. Sam was impressed. The foundations were poured. The first two floors were erected. La Banda bullwhipped the slaves and fed them bennie-laced Kool-Aid. Work proceeded faaaast.

They drove up to Jarabacoa. The Autopista was rife with rickshaws and Haitian refugees. Sammy got spooked. The shines were machete-mauled and wore chicken-head hats. Luc and the Cubans waited in Jarabacoa. Crutch pre-warned them: Don’t mention Big “H” to Big G.

Sam said, “I’m having dinner with Balaguer, and I’m going to have to castigate him about all these evil boogies in plain view of the tourist trade. Batista was excellent in that regard. The downtrodden knew not to fuck with the white visiting class and the light-skinned beaners who ran the show. I am going to make that precise comment to El Jefe.”

Headless hens impaled on cane stalks. Blood-marked trees. D.R. cops with leashed mastiffs. Wetback spooks sprinting.

Sam said, “This needs to be curtailed. If folks want a scary thrill, they can take the Mr. Toad ride at Disneyland.”

A shine in a chicken hat hitchhiking. He’s got zombie eyes. He’s jacking off. He’s got a two-foot dick.

Sam pulled Crutch’s sidearm and fired at him. The shot blew wide and nailed a tree-lynched bird.

Crutch kept it zipped. Sam said, “This country needs a Billy Graham Crusade. You bring the Reverend Graham in to create a sanctified mood, then all the converts backslide at the crap tables. Shit like that can flourish in a properly suppressed climate.”

Jarabacoa was a-go-go. Three floors were up. The slaves worked rapidamente. The Midget’s contractors pushed them. The Cubans dispensed discipline. The whole group swigged Kool-Aid. It created conviviality. Luc brought his three pit bulls. They wore sequined collars and pointy voodoo hats attached with strings.

Crutch slurped Kool-Aid. The buzz hit him quick. The Krew lounged at a picnic table. Luc nuzzled his dogs. Sam pointed to Luc’s emerald ring.

“What is it about emeralds?”

Luc said, “Say what, baby man? Please tell me what you mean.”

Sam yawned. “I mean, there’s people who dig gemstones in general, and people who only dig emeralds, and when they dig emeralds, they dig emeralds in a big way.”

Luc smiled. “I understand this. There is a tradition of emerald worship both in Haiti and the D.R. Emeralds represent ‘Green Fire’ in voodoo text. They shine light on a dark history.”

Sam yawned wide. “My girlfriend Celia’s Dominican. She can talk emerald lore up the ying-yang.”

Crutch volted off “Celia.” Luc bristled weird.

“And what is Celia’s surname? Je m’appelle Celia who?”

Sam said, “Celia Reyes. She’s meeting me at the hotel later, which means I should scram.”

Luc re-bristled. Crutch re-volted. A pit bull went aaaa-oooo!

THE EYE, THE HANDS AND FEET.

The melted skin, the bloody stumps, the knife blade. The Cuban beach and the dead kids’ faces. The wires crack. The lights go out. The black guy screams.

He woke up in a new locale. Sweat pooled in his headphones. It was dark outside. He checked his watch-8:14 p.m.

Bug job-quick and ad lib.

He got Sam back to Santo Domingo. He had booked him at the El Embajador. Sam got suite 810. Sam popped a Seconal and hit the bedroom. Crutch booked suite 809, high-risk.

He bored a hole through to the 810 living room. He ran a wiggle wire in. He bored a second hole and wall-clamped it. He attached a mini-mike. The baseboard dust blew back into his suite. The wire/mike was minuscule. It looked like spic maintenance on the fritz.

Celia was due soon. Luc hinked on her name. Emeralds. Green glass on the body of Maria Rodriguez Fontonette.

Crutch yawned. He was whip-whoozy. He did his work and Seconaled off the Kool-Aid for a nap. Note to Sam and Celia: if you talk in the bedroom, I’m fucked.

He fucked with his amplifier. He got next-door static and ten minutes of zilch. There-click-the bedroom door opens.

Sam yawned. Sam did that oh my cabeza/I’m jet-lagged thing. Click- the TV’s on. Spanish jabber, fuck that, he turns it off.

Crutch adjusted his headphones. Sam yawned-oh my cabeza, sleeping pills come with a cost.

Pop-a door opens. Squeals, baby-baby’s and huggy-kissy sounds. Spanish words-the bellman bows and scrapes. Pop-he’s out the door. Voice garbles-Sam and Celia. Fizz/pop-someone opened champagne.

Glasses clink. Plop-on-couch sounds. Two minutes of oh-baby garbles and smooches. Celia’s looooong breath of it.

Crutch readjusted his headphones. He got static, squelch and Sam: “Emerald,” “colored guy,” “called it ‘Green Fi-’”

The feed fritzed. Shit-all undertones. Crutch perked his ears and got half-audibles. He started to get a subtext.

Sam’s pussy-addled. He’s thirty years older, he’s a wop doofus, Celia’s playing him.

Glasses clink. A match scrapes. Celia coughs and exhales. Sam puts out half-audibles. Sam says, “Your silly emerald thing.” His tone’s patronizing. Celia puts out third-audibles. She says something garbled and “emerald intrigue.”

Crutch pulled off the headphones and stuck the wire points in his ears. He got a volt charge and more volume. Celia said, “The construction sites. How’s the work going?” Sam bragged and monologued. No full words formed. His tone said it plain.

Celia’s tone ditto. She’s probing, she’s mollifying, she’s leading him. Three words in six minutes: “footage,” “access,” “security.”