James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (50 page)

Leander loves 151 rum and reefer and enjoys recounting his days in
la belle
Haiti. He tortured dissidents for the Tonton Macoute, practiced voodoo and took a sharp left turn. He assisted a group of rebel invaders and fled the island one step ahead of the noose. I wish I could tell him, “Baby boy, I'm frightened, so I'm sitting still these days.”

I have one friend, many nameless enemies and two enemy friends hovering close. Wayne knows that I have the Bent. I don't want Mr. Holly to know it, or to know that pictures of him and that strange woman Joan haunt my dream state. It would kill me if Mr. Holly knew.

(Santo Domingo, 5/3/69)

E
LECTRIC CHAIR
.

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 Führer 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 vic: María 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 machetemauled 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
rápida-mente
. 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 María Rodríguez 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.”

The audio died. Crutch eyeballed the wire hole. He had to
see
.

Tiger Klaw
lolled in Luc's inlet. The voodoo slaves built a nice berth for her. Luc lounged on the foredeck. His dogs snoozed under the bridge. Scalps drooped from the front antenna. They bore the Tiger Krew paw brand.

Crutch hopped on board. Luc was effusive. He was snorting smack and voodoo-herb speedballs. Crutch perched by the machine-gun nest. Luc flexed his nostrils and fed his head.

Crutch said he couldn't sleep. He was in the neighborhood, blah blah. Luc said, “You are
pariguayo
. You are always looking and thinking. This means you think of questions to ask. You are a very young man out of his depth in a horrifying region, where your questions will often be met with unpleasant answers. I do not begrudge you a very long drive at a very late hour to talk to me, baby boy.”

A dog ambled over. Crutch ruffled his coat. The dog nuzzled him.

“I'm a bit of a history buff, and I know you've been here quite a while.”

Luc wiped his nose. “I have been here since time began. I have carried
the visage of dogs, chickens and men. I know the histories of both countries on this island and would be happy to share my knowledge with you. Was there some knowledge you specifically require?”

“I was thinking of the 6/14 invasion. I know there's a story there.”

“I know the story. Take a drive with me and I'll tell it to you.”

Luc owned a '61 Lincoon. The paint job was a Haitian history show. Black demons impaled white Frenchmen. Luc's dogs raped their wives. Baron Samedi's cloak covered the hood and wheel wells. Papa Doc Duvalier smiled on the trunk.

It was hot. Luc put the coonvertible top down and ran the air coonditioning. Bugs bombed the car. Luc offed them with voodoo-herb bug spray. One puff killed the cocksuckers. Two puffs vaporized them.

They drove through inner Haiti. Villages blipped and vanished. Darkies in whiteface blipped out of the haze.

Luc ran his brights. The Lin
coon
had heavy-duty tires. They kicked big rocks out of their way.

Crutch shut his eyes. He kept seeing demon wisps in the shadows. Luc motor-mouthed.

“The 6/14 insurgents were skilled in Haitian voodoo and had voodoo-chemistry skills. A Marxist ideologue named María Rodríguez Fontonette was supposed to dose the water supply near the invasion sites along the D.R. coast, in hopes that it would induce a mass spiritual awareness in the Dominican peasantry. Herbs and blowfish toxins in non-lethal quantities, baby boy. She wanted to bring ecstasy to the peasants and create spiritual chaos with the police and army contingents. Alas, she betrayed the rebels to the Tonton and the Policía Nacional. Thus, we were able to quash the invasion. Most of the insurgents were killed. Some were captured, imprisoned and executed, a very few escaped.”

Crutch opened his eyes. A whiteface ghoul capered in their headlights. Crutch shut his eyes quick.

“There was a woman named Celia Reyes, right? I saw how you reacted when Sam mentioned her. She had a friend. An American woman with dark, gray-streaked hair.”

Luc lit a cigarette. “Oh, they escaped, baby boy. They were among the few.”

“Emeralds. Sam said Celia loves emeralds, and you said emeralds have this significance.”

Luc turned on the radio. A low chant in French built. Luc said, “Emeralds do as emeralds do, baby boy. They are a power unto themselves.”

Crutch opened his eyes. They bombed south. The coast air evaporated.
The bugs got bigger. Luc drove with his knees and bug-bombed them two-handed. The bugs dropped dead all over Crutch. He went
eek
and tossed them out of the car.

They entered a village. It was small: two mud huts, six graveyards, two taverns. Luc said, “We should visit a friend of mine. He is a
bokur
. He would enjoy meeting you, baby boy.”

Crutch said, “Groovy.” Luc slowed down and idled up to a tavern. A light was on. A voodoo-sect flag flew out front. It matched the flag on Luc's Lin
coon
. Luc parked and ushered Crutch inside.

A fat darky stood at a tonic bar. He had two Mixmasters churning goo and four hot plates stewing shit in saucepans. Luc bowed to the darky. The darky bowed to Luc. They spoke in French. They touched emerald rings. Luc said, “
Il est ‘pariguayo.' 
”

The darky poured steaming brew in a goblet. Crutch grabbed it and chugalugged.

It burned. It tasted like dead leaves and fungus. His vision blurred and came back 20-20. He burped odors from his last ten meals and stumbled over to a chair.

The room went round, square and rectangled. Fun-house mirrors warped out of the walls. They rolled pictures at him. He couldn't discern details. Luc laughed. The darky said, “
Pariguayo, oui.
”

Crutch squinted. His eyes framed a back wall. It was plastered with anatomy charts. Internal organs were highlighted. Pins extended from them.

Crutch re-squinted. A skull morphed into Wayne Tedrow's face. He got up to jab pins in Wayne's eyes. His arms and legs wouldn't move.

Luc laughed. The darky laughed. Luc said, “
Le pauvre pariguayo.
”

He saw his mother's face and Dana Lund's face. He saw Dana naked with Chrissie Lund's eyes. He saw
THE ELECTRIC CHAIR, THE HANDS AND FEET AND THE EYE
. He tried to talk. His vocal chords froze. He tried to stand. His legs walked away from his body and ran outside. He tried to move his hands. His fingers melted. He saw ten thousand snapshots of Joan.