The roundups were starting. He called Celia. She said his work inspired their work. Safe houses were hiding their people. La Banda would find people to interrogate and maim. There would be a fearful cost. We have to say it-belief works that way.

Airport security was threadbare. The customs crew got pulled for the Red raids. He flew out easy.

Wayne drew lines. The re-click clicked. Memory tug and loss. It clicked to Joan’s redacted file. It was a brain tweak. He got that tug and no more.

He stepped back and reframed the wall. He took in broad data. He saw a tacked-on note slip off to one side. He knew it wasn’t his.

“Dear Mrs. Hazzard.” Dipshit’s indictment. Mary Beth’s response scrawled below.

“I find this fully credible. If you had told me yourself, I might have forgiven you.”

He signed papers at his lawyer’s office. He went by the Hughes Tool Company and cashed out a bank draft. He flew to L.A. and drove to the Peoples’ Bank. Lionel Thornton let him into the vault. He bagged $1.4 million in casino skim, Tiger Kab receipts and after-hours club profits. He filled three briefcases. He called Hughes Charter and booked a Santo Domingo night.

Trees grew upside down. Joan tossed emeralds and seeded clouds. Each raindrop was a mirror.

He saw his childhood in Peru, Indiana. He saw Dwight and Wayne Senior and the Klan in disarray. His mother walked into a raindrop. He learned chemistry at BYU. Molecular charts etched themselves green. Tree roots reversed their growth. They held his eyes and let him look in. He saw Little Rock ‘57 and Dallas ‘63. JFK waved good-bye. Wendell Durfee laughed. He apologized to Reginald Hazzard for not finding him.

The air melted. Moist particles produced snow. Dr. King whispered chemical equations. The world made sense for an instant. Joan rubbed emerald dust on her knife scar and watched it heal. Janice told him not to worry. The planets realigned themselves and explained physics as whim. He heard “belief works that way” and let his eyes rest on the sun.

A cab ran him to Borojol. The driver was spooked. Red alert-you could see it.

The door knocks, the traffic stops, the street roust/shakedowns. The cops on rooftops with binoculars. The cops scanning crowds and mug-shot sheets.

The cab dropped Wayne at the safe house. A window was half-cracked. He smelled blood and disinfectant and heard half a scream.

Joan appeared in the window. They looked at each other. She saw his suitcases and gestured to someone inside. The door opened. Wayne turned that way. A young man grabbed the suitcases and ran back in.

Wayne looked in the window. Joan placed her hand on the glass inside. Wayne placed his hand over hers. The glass was warm. Their eyes held. Joan walked away first.

A cab dropped him at the river. He crossed the bridge into Haiti at dusk. A Tonton man recognized him-Зa va, boss.

Wayne walked into a village. Masked revelers danced through a graveyard. Men sat propped up on tombstones. They were motionless. Le poudre zombi-goblets rolled off their laps.

The revelers wore machetes in scabbards. Their masks were blood-smeared. The air was scent-thick: reptile powder and poultry musk.

Wayne walked into a tavern. Bizango-sect banners created a mood. He attracted a range of looks. He pointed to bottles and created a concoction he’d never tried before. The barman built his drink. A green foam burned his eyes as he drank it. He left much too much money on the bar.

Two graveyards bisected the next tavern stretch. Wayne walked across them and read headstones in French. His ancestors reburied themselves under his feet. He saw a zombified man convulse. He tasted the gunpowder and tree-frog liver in his drink.

Masked revelers followed him. A dog wearing a pointed hat bit him and ran off. He eyeball-tracked constellations. He fluttered his lids and made meteors arc.

The click revealed itself. Thomas Frank Narduno, dead at the Grapevine. Joan’s known associate. A Joan-to-Dwight motive yet to play out.

He entered a tavern and ordered a potion. Six bokurs watched him drink it. Two men offered blessings. Four men waved amulets and hexed him. He left much too much money on the bar.

He walked outside. The sky breathed. He felt the moon’s texture. Craters became emerald mines.

An alleyway appeared. A breeze carried him down it. Leaves stirred and sent rainbows twirling. Three men stepped out of a moonbeam. They wore cross-draw scabbards. They had bird wings where their right arms used to be.

Wayne said, “Peace.”

They pulled their machetes and cut him dead right there.

83

(Los Angeles, 3/25/70)

BTA scored some smack. It was an old-prison-buddy deal. Ezzard Jones put it together.”

Dwight said, “Keep going.”

“It came out of nowhere. A bunch of Panthers turned tail to Oakland after the December thing. A big connection got stiffed. His guys are willing to lay the stuff off on consignment.”

The Carolina Pines on Sunset. The 8:00 a.m. clientele: drowsy whores and Hollywood High teachers.

Dwight lit a cigarette. “Keep going.”

Marsh twirled his fork. “BTA’s got a pound and a half. The funny thing is that the lay-off guy dumped an equal amount on MMLF. I don’t know how it went down, but it was some kind of consensus. ‘Let’s have a powwow so our shit don’t go bad, brother.’ I’m supposed to mediate a ‘summit meeting’ next week.”

Fucking Joan. Stone-brilliant. She spread the wealth and doubled the indictments.

Dwight blew a Joan-style smoke ring. It came out blurry and dispersed too quick.

“Do it. Make it happen as fast as you can.”

Dwight went back to the drop-front. It was musty. He opened the shades and cracked the windows. He pulled a telex out of the tray.

The Dominican embassy contacted me a few moments ago. Regretfully, I must inform you that Wayne Tedrow was murdered in Haiti sometime within this past week. The crime appears to have been motivated by political and racial grievance. The body was disposed of on the Dominican side of the Plaine du Massacre. Pieces of paper scrawled with garish symbols and anti-American slogans were found in the victim’s pockets. Please assess this situation per the victim’s dealings with RMN, Mr. Hughes and our Italian friends, et al. Call me upon receipt of this communiquй.

The dark room helped. The walls enclosed him. Street noise was steady. He ran the window unit and leveled out the hum.

He pressed himself into small spaces. His desk cubbyhole and the closet felt safe. He tucked up his legs and rode out the cramps. He covered his head for more darkness. He threw his gun down a heating shaft so he wouldn’t shoot himself. His shirt was soaked from sobbing all wrapped up.

Time drilled a hole someplace. He dumped his booze and pills down the shaft so he wouldn’t run to sleep. The phone rang and rang. It was all gunshots. He covered his ears. The phone kept ringing. He crawled out of his nest and threw the phone on the floor. The receiver was close, the line crackled, he heard her voice.

The hole expanded. He grabbed the phone. He got out “Yes?” and “You never called me here before.” His voice was Wayne’s.

The line fuzzed. He lost her voice. The line cleared. He got her again.

“Balaguer’s rounding up and torturing people. Wayne bombed the sites. Balaguer’s making a statement.”