73

(Santo Domingo, 5/6/69)

Joan.

The plane taxied in.

Backdraft toppled the Midget’s welcome signs. Wayne woke up. He still had his satchel-four hundred grand cuffed to his wrist.

The dream was fragmented. He saw Joan three weeks back. The dream played most nights since. Factual club noise and music. Fictive knife-scar imagery.

He returned Dwight’s ring. Dwight refused to discuss Joan. His guess: she was his informant. Joan taught at the “Freedom School.” Reginald Hazzard attended. Wayne went back to the Freedom School and re-checked the records. There was nothing on Reginald. His little click clicked in, finally.

The Freedom School was listed in Joan’s Fed file. He’d shredded the file. Dwight refused to get him a new copy. Another click clicked. There was something else he’d forgotten or missed.

Wayne deplaned. His limo was waiting. The smoked windows shut out Tijuana-by-the-Sea. He ran a national records check on Joan Rosen Klein and got nothing. He laid out southside queries. The consensus: she’s a BTA hanger-on and a boss chick with a past.

The limo crawled. Balaguer’s “Urban Renewal Plan” flatlined traffic. The ditchdiggers wore jail denims. They took mincing steps. Their shackled ankles bled.

Mary Beth was problematic now. His workload kept them parted. His search for Reginald torqued her. She was up front. You work for the Boys. You run bag to dictators. He cajoled and mollified her. He euphemized and lied. She just plain seethed.

Dwight was problematic. Jomo Clarkson suicided in custody. Marsh was terrified and denied that he ratted Jomo out. The snitch-out bored Dwight. The stance was weirdly un-Dwight.

The limo cut down the Malecуn. Signs announced the Midget’s food giveaway. A flatbed was parked. Dark- and light-skinned paupers lined up. Two La Bandaites tossed paper bags at them. The bags broke. A mini-race riot ignited. The bags contained meat scraps and dented dog-food cans.

Marsh was scared. Wayne and Dwight agreed: he’s volatile and might double-deal. Let’s have Dipshit rotate stateside and hot-wire his crib.

Haiti sideswiped him. The herb trip recircuited his memory. He saw through the ground and tracked tree roots. He saw magic creatures at play.

Horn blare doubled and tripled. A foot chase stopped traffic flow. Kids with leaflets. Sprints down the street and end-run zigzags. La Banda goons peeled out. One kid group, two goon flanks. Pincer movements, no exit/dead end. The kids ran straight toward a cop line: Policпa Nacional guys with plastic shields and clubs.

The pincers pressed. The brownshirts absorbed the kids. Their clubs were spike-pointed. Light blows tore flesh.

The kids tried to run into buildings. Foyer guards saw them and locked their doors up. A kid ran beside the limo. He was shirtless. One eye gushed blood.

Wayne opened his door. The kid tried to hurdle it. He hit the sill and went flying. Wayne grabbed him and threw him in the backseat. The kid resisted. Wayne pinned him and yelled at the driver. The kid caught the gist and yelled in Spanish. Wayne heard numbers and “Calle Bolнvar.” The driver U-turned and bombed down an alley.

Wayne popped his suitcase and pulled out a shirt. The kid held his eye socket. Blood poured through his fingers. Wayne tilted his head and reversed the flow.

The limo hit a clear stretch. The driver gunned it and rode his horn. Their antenna flags got them through bottlenecks and red lights. Calle Bolнvar popped up. The driver downshifted and brodied to a small house mid-block. The kid was passed out. Wayne picked him up and carried him inside.

The office was small. The furniture was scuffed and mismatched. It looked like a sub-rosa Commie medical source. A nurse and doctor grabbed the kid. They seemed to know him. They ran him straight into a back room and shut the door.

Wayne sat in the waiting room. The satchel cuff gouged his wrist. The phone rang every ten seconds. The walls closed in a little. He thought of Haiti and Mary Beth.

The phone kept ringing. An hour ticked off. The doctor walked out. His gown was bloody. His hands were rubber-gloved.

“I saved the boy’s eye.”

“I’m glad.”

“You are?”

“My name’s Wayne Tedrow.”

“I would guess that you are at the El Embajador.”

“That’s right.”

“You have my thanks. You performed a brave deed.”

He went by the Santo Domingo sites. They were cosmeticized.

Two more floors were up. It was too fast. The workers greeted Jefe Tedrow. They were ringers. They looked like actors from a plucky peasant script. No whips or guns visible. Leg chains haphazardly stashed.

The limo ran him north. The rural sites were identical. The Jarabacoa site included a lunch buffet. The fat and sassy workers dined with the bosses. Wayne shimmied up a tree and scoped the area. Forty yards off: La Banda fucks and the real workers chained.

Wayne dozed en route to the Tiger Krew inlet. The smoked windows provided a shut-out-squalor view. He woke up and saw Dipshit outside the encampment. The punk Commie hunter looked halfway distraught.

The driver slowed. Wayne tapped him and motioned him to stop. Dipshit looked up. Wayne said, “You’re flying back to L.A. with me. Dwight and I want you to hot-wire Marsh Bowen’s place.”

Dipshit nodded. It was half eager, half numb. Wayne tapped the driver. The limo pulled into a clearing. Mesplede and the Cubans were there. The Cubans were interchangeable. He never got their names straight. One litter, four mean cubs.

They saw the limo and waved. Wayne got out and walked up. They were hanging things on a line strung between two tree trunks. Wayne smelled decomposition.

Mesplede walked up. Wayne pushed him aside. There: five scalps, Tiger-paw marked.

The Cubans posed-feet dug in, smirks, bandoliers and gun belts. Mesplede hovered. He wore his scalping knife on a thong.

Wayne said, “No more runs. No political bullshit while you’re working for me. One more infraction and muerto.”

The Cubans readjusted: smirks, thumbs in their belt loops, feet dug in wiiiiide. Mesplede knife-scratched his neck.

Wayne plucked the scalps off the clothesline. Wayne walked merc to merc. Wayne mashed the scalps in their faces.

“Viva Fidel, you fucking lowlifes.”

The suite phone rang at midnight. It jolted him up. He fell asleep with the lights on. Santo Domingo was a window blur. He thought about the gashed-eye kid straight off.

“Hello.”

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes and no.”

Mary Beth said, “I hope you weren’t dreaming.”

“Well, yes and no.”

“I’d ask you how things are going, but I’m not sure I want to know.”

Wayne rubbed his eyes. “I got a lead on the woman who bailed your son out of jail.”

“Sweetie, I wasn’t talking about Reginald.”

Wayne looked at his briefcase. “I know you weren’t. I told you because it’s about you and me, and not about what I do for a living.”

“Or about the people you work for?”

Wayne sighed. “Babe, please don’t do this. Not on the telephone.”

Mary Beth sighed. “It’ll be worse in person.”

“Then let’s be fucking civil and not do it at all.”

“We should say good night now.”

“Yes, I think we should.”

The line clicked and disconnected. Wayne looked out the window. The sky was neon-free. The Midget told Sam G. he wanted mucho neon. Sam said they’d provide some.

The buzzer rang. Wayne got up and opened the door. It was Celia Reyes. He met her in convention-time Miami. She was Sam’s consort then.

She said, “Hello, Mr. Tedrow.” She wore a white dress and a linen blazer. She extended her hand. He stepped aside and held the door open. Celia sat on the couch.