79
(Las Vegas, 3/14/70)
Wayne linked boxes. His wall graph was Op Art. Boxes and arrows off at odd angles.
Boxes and arrows. Reginald to Joan to the Haitian herb man.
Graph boxes and boxed carbons-LAPD and the L.A. County Sheriff’s, His LVPD contact secured them. Call it a dim long shot. Occurrence reports, field-interrogation cards. The L.A. cops hard-rousted black kids routinely. Reginald’s name might be there.
Wayne checked his watch. He had an hour, tops. His bags were packed. He had skim cash for Celia. He booked a red-eye to the D.R.
Arrows and boxes. “Library Books” to “Bailed Out of Jail.” A new box: “Leander James Jackson/BTA/Tonton Macoute.”
The hallway door creaked. He heard Mary Beth in the living room. Her keys jiggled. She dropped bags on a chair. She exhaled like she was pissed.
He stared at the graph. He locked his satchel and attached the handcuff chain. He check-marked “Leander James Jackson.”
“I want you to stop all this.”
Wayne turned around. Mary Beth stared at the satchel.
“I don’t want you to find my son. He doesn’t want to be found. If he’s alive, he made that decision of his own free will, and I will not dishonor him by forcing a reunion.”
Wayne jammed his hands in his pockets. Voodoo-herb residue made his eyes run.
Mary Beth stepped close. “Whatever you’ve done in the past, I’ll forgive you. Whatever you’re doing now, I’ll forgive you. I’ll forgive you for not trusting me, because you don’t want to be forgiven, you just want to create more risk and intrigue and buy yourself more punishment.”
Wayne left-hooked the wall. He dented the molding, his knuckles bled, his wristwatch face shattered.
Mary Beth said, “Who have you hurt? What have you done?”
He walked to the safe house. Santo Domingo looked different. The visit was ad-libbed. He didn’t call Ivar Smith or the Boys. He just wanted to see.
It felt like wide-screen hi-fi. He usually limousined. It bought him eyeball relief and less volume. This was the shit. The sewers reeked, the noise peaked, the cops perched and pounced.
It was winter-warm/night-air sticky. Wayne wore a sport coat over his cuff chain. The address was in Borojol. The district was all go-go bars and low-peso hotels. Haitian vendors sold klerin-laced ice cream.
Wayne found the address: a pink cube off the main drag. His free hand ached from the wall punch. He banged his bracelet on the door. Celia opened up.
She wore a bloody smock. The space behind her was crammed with cots and fluid-drip stands. Four boys and two girls were head-sutured. Barbed-wire sap wounds-Wayne saw the stitch cuts oozing.
He saw the doctor he met last year. Two nurses changed bedpans. One boy had a foot stump. One girl had a bullet crease down to her cheekbone.
A back window framed an alley space. Wayne saw Joan outside, smoking. Scalpels poked out of her boot tops.
Celia pointed to the satchel. Wayne unlocked it. His hand throbbed. Celia scooped out the money.
“How much?”
“One forty-eight.”
“I spoke to Sam. He told me that Balaguer has agreed to four more casinos. They’ll have to burn or flood Haitian villages before the building can begin.”
Wayne shut his eyes. His senses reloaded. He smelled the skin rot there in the room.
He opened his eyes. Celia repacked the satchel and slid it under a cot. A boy screamed in Spanish. A girl moaned in Kreole French. Joan turned around and saw him. Wayne sidestepped cots and walked out to her.
Her hair was tied back. Her glasses fit crooked. She had small, rough hands.
“Did you bring a donation?”
“Yes, but not quite as much as last time.”
“I’m confident that there’ll be a next time.”
“Yes, there will be.”
Joan lit a cigarette. Her fingernails were blood-caked.
“How real is all of this to you?”
“Tell me what you know about me. Tell me how you know.”
“I’m not going to.”
A gunshot cracked somewhere. A man dog-bayed. Joan said, “The doctor should look at your hand.”
Wayne shook his head. “I tried to find you in L.A.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t the only one looking for you.”
“I’ll find the man we’re discussing when it becomes necessary.”
The dog man bayed. Two more dog men piped in. A dog woman bayed from the opposite direction.
Wayne said, “There’s some things you could tell me.”
“I’m not going to.”
The dog pack bayed and threw bottles at walls. Glass shattered in stereo.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Wayne flexed his hand. “Some people you wait your whole life for. They send you someplace you’d be a fool not to go.”
Joan reached in her pocket. Wayne noticed tremors. She pulled out a small red flag on a stick.
Wayne said, “Get me a silencer threaded for a.357 Magnum revolver.”
The Santo Domingo sites were back from the street and one-man-guarded. The guards knew him. The crews slept in tents thirty yards adjacent. The demolition shacks abutted the foundation struts. The interior walls were baffle-wrapped and unleaded. Dynamite, C-4, nitro. All pure flammables.
The surrounding ground was rain-damp. The work bosses talked site-to-site via pay telephone. Soak a tight synthetic cord and plastic-sheath it. Allow enough circumference to air-feed the flame. Rig the phones and call the phones and pray for a simple ignition.
The rural sites would be harder. They were sixty miles apart. That might mean a bomb-toss gambit.
Wayne found an all-night auto-parts store. He bought the tools and two acrylic-pad car seats. He bought a thick plastic hose at a hardware store and went back to his hotel.
He cut the seats down to fabric strands and gasoline-soaked them. He memory-measured. He cut the hose sections down to an approximate length. He perforated them and created flame-feeders. The pay phones stood on loose dirt. The wire rigs should be easy. The phone-call currents might or might not ignite.
A boy delivered the silencer. Wayne worked all night. He turned his suite into a workshop. He called the desk and rented a car for tomorrow night. He dosed himself with voodoo herbs and slept through the day.
His dreams were mostly peaceful. Dr. King, sermonizing and laughing.
He got up and made himself eat. He packed his rental Chevy and drove to the first site. His hand didn’t hurt. He couldn’t hear external sounds or feel his feet on the pedals. He was way-inside-his-head calm.
11:26 p.m.
He parked across the street. The guard was pacing and smoking. The slave tent was dark.
Wayne jammed a pair of tin snips down his waistband. The guard walked to the gate and came on nosy. Wayne rolled down his window and yelled “Hola.” The guard recognized him and unlocked the gate.
Wayne got out and walked over. The guard did You el jefe shtick. Wayne pointed to the moon. The guard turned his back. Wayne put the Magnum to his head and fired once.
The silencer worked. The soft-point bullet pierced and spread. The guard fell dead with no exit spray.
Wayne walked to the car and got out the tubing. He walked back and dug the dirt trench with his hands. He pulled keys off the guard’s belt and unlocked the explosives shack. He unscrewed the back of the pay phone, unfurled the wires and clamped them to the edge of the tube.
Sixteen minutes.
He unrolled the tubing, end to end. He filled the trench with it, phone to shack. He ran to the slave tent and tapped the floodlight by the entrance.
The slaves stirred. They were shackled cot-to-cot. Most were black, some were light, most looked Haitian. They stared at him. They saw the gun in his belt and genuflected. The postures got them caught up in their chains. Wayne pulled out his tin snips. They started screaming. Wayne grabbed the nearest man and cut his wrists free.