DH: May I make a few blunt comments, Mr. President?

RMN: Tell it like it is.

DH: Wayne Tedrow is a very competent man given to the occasional extravagant gesture. The foolishness that he interdicted may have proven detrimental to the casino build in the D.R. Mr. Rebozo’s pet exile group is composed of dubious far-Right ideologues with a giant oozing hard-on to depose Fidel Castro, and as you once told me, Sir, the fucker is here to stay. I would describe Mr. Rebozo’s exile comrades as heedless and whimsical at best, gratuitously psychopathic at worst. Wayne did the prudent thing, Sir.

RMN: You’re absolutely correct, Dwight. Moreover, the D.R. is a shithole, the Boys may take a bath on their hotels, and Joaquin Balaguer is solidly anti-Red and a good deal more tractable than Rafael Trujillo. That cocksucker was a nightmare. You wouldn’t believe the CIA file on him. The shit he pulled with his so-called bitter rival Papa Doc Duvalier was horrific. They looted land, smuggled emeralds, and foreclosed banks and split the profits. While they’re doing this, the Goat is slaughtering Haitian refugees and Papa Doc is fucking half of his girlfriends.

DH: Strange bedfellows, Sir.

RMN: On that note, let’s talk about you-know-who. I was listening to the radio today. A disc jockey called him “Gay Edgar.”

DH: The media has been unkind lately, Sir.

RMN: Do you think he takes it up the keester?

DH: I think he finds the closet too confining for that, Sir.

RMN: A little schlong would make him less uptight.

DH: Yes, Sir.

RMN: He’s losing it. Right, Dwight?

DH: Yes, Sir. But, again, he’s utterly dangerous and should be handled delicately.

RMN: And he’s got those goddamn files.

DH: He does, Sir.

RMN: And they’re wildly revealing and impolitic.

DH: Not as much as this conversation, Sir.

RMN: Dwight, you’re a pisser. It’s fun to belt a couple and jaw with salty guys like you.

DH: Sir, I enjoy our chats very much.

RMN: That Irish cocksucker Jack Kennedy stole the 1960 election from me.

DH: Yes, Sir.

RMN: The cocksucker is dead and I’m the president of the United States.

DH: Yes, Sir.

RMN: Keep tabs on you-know-who for me. Will you do that, Dwight?

DH: Yes, Sir. I will.

RMN: Good night, Dwight.

DH: Good night, Mr. President.

74

(Los Angeles, 5/16/69)

Dwight said, “You’re afraid of something. Your hands are shaking.”

Dipshit slid a wire through a bore slot. His pliers jumped. Marsh Bowen’s pad was bug-tap-amenable. The phones were big and old-fashioned. The wall molding was soft.

“Don’t mess with me. I can’t concentrate.”

Dwight smiled. “It’s a periodic. Wayne will rotate through and check the listening post. He’ll tally the calls.”

The job entailed drill work. Dipshit was good. He laid down a drop cloth and kept his space tight. Marsh was at a BTA gig. They had three hours.

“How many Communists have you killed now?”

“More than you.”

“Are you still peeping?”

“I peeped your mother. She was turning tricks on skid row.”

Dwight laughed and checked out the living room. Marsh employed the Stanislavski Method. The crib was in character. Black-power posters, pix of foxy black chicks with guns.

“I was talking to President Nixon about you.”

Dipshit spackled a drill hole. His hand shook and held firm. He wore a tool belt and magnifier. The loser kid as bug pro.

“Don’t mess with me. We’re running late.”

“You and Bowen are soul brothers. You’re scaredy-cats, but you damn well persist.”

“Bowen’s your coon daddy. Come on, let me work.”

“How many Communists have you killed?”

“Jesus, man.”

Dwight checked his watch. It was midnight. Jig soirees ran to the wee small hours. Reefer and speeches, gasbags and demagogues.

Dipshit finished up. Hot-wired: two lamps, three wall panels, two phones. Dipshit was sweaty and dust-caked. Dwight tossed him a towel.

“How’s tricks in the D.R.? Are you peeping down there?”

Dipshit toweled off. “Quit riding me.”

Dwight walked the pad-final look-see, no loose ends. Marsh breathed the Method. Commie books, ribs in the fridge, no telltale cop or queer shit.

The job was good. No dust sprays, no mounts or wires loose.

Dipshit was nerve-knocked. His breath spurted. His legs fluttered. The tool belt jiggled on his hips.

Dwight said, “Don’t fuck up. Wayne’s looking to kill some fool right-winger.”

“He did not call JFK a cocksucker.”

Dwight did the hands-on-heart thing. “I’m not lying to you.”

Norm’s on Vermont. The 1:00 a.m. clientele: pot-smacked kids noshing budget steak meals.

Karen brought Eleanora. She snoozed in her car seat. Dwight kept staring at her.

“She looks like me.”

“No, she doesn’t. It was a procedure, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”

Dwight yukked and sipped coffee. Karen lit a cigarette. Dwight propped up a menu and shielded Ella from the smoke.

“You like Richard Nixon. I can’t believe what it says about you.”

Dwight smiled. “You love me. What does that say about you?”

Karen twirled her ashtray. “I have some friends in the San Mateo County Jail. They’re being denied habeas.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How’s Mr. Hoover?”

“A little uptight.”

“Is Marshall Bowen your infiltrator?”

“No comment.”

“Is Joan as good an informant as I am?”

“Time will tell.”

Ella stirred. Dwight rocked the car seat. Karen peeked over the menu. Ella grinned and went back to sleep.

“You’re too thin, Dwight.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

Karen smiled. “Bad dreams?”

“You know the answer to that one.”

“I’ll qualify it, then. ‘Bad dreams born of a guilty conscience?’“

Ella kicked her leg out of the car seat. Dwight tucked it back in.

“I love her, you know.”

“Yes, I know that.”

They laced up their fingers. Dwight said, “Do you love me?” Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”

He dawdled at Norm’s. The geek show was a riot, the drop-front was musty, he wouldn’t sleep anyway.

Cops and peaceniks. Late-night film buffs. Stragglers from the porno book bin next door.

The waitress kept bringing coffee. Dwight smoked in sync with her. Time metastasized.

Wayne walked in and sat down. He was too thin. He had new gray hair.

Dwight said, “You’re the bad penny.”

“You know why I’m here.”

“We’ve been through this. I’ll admit that she works for me, but that’s as far as I’ll go.”

Wayne brushed off the waitress. “I saw a tall red-haired woman with a baby walk out of here an hour ago. I ran her plates and got her name, and I’m assuming that she was here with you.”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “Why did you assume that?”

“Because I don’t believe in coincidences.”

Dwight worried his law-school ring. It rolled across the table. Wayne rolled it back to him.

“I saw a photo of the faculty at a left-wing ‘Freedom School.’ Karen Sifakis and the woman we’re discussing were standing together.”

Karen said she never met Joan in person. She said they were mail-drop comrades. Joan said the same thing.

Dwight shrugged. Wayne said, “Tell me.” Dwight said, “I’m not going to.”

A gaggle of drunks walked in. Two cops at the counter bristled.

“Say her name, Wayne. I want to hear you say it.”

Wayne said, “Joan.”

Dwight did the hands-on-heart thing.