He took her pulse. It ran short of weak-normal.

Farlan Brown said, “I was sorry to hear about your father.”

“These things happen, sir. He had a bum ticker and indulged bad habits.”

“ ‘Bad habits’? A clean-living Mormon man like that?”

Wayne smiled. “Mormons drink and fuck more than the rest of the world combined, as I’m sure you know from personal experience.”

Brown slapped his knees. He was tall and faux-hayseed friendly. His Michael Caine glasses magnified bad eyes. His suite was done up mock-Tudor. The Hughes group had the top six floors of the D.I. The big guy reposed in the penthouse.

Brown said, “You’re a hot sketch, sir.”

“Just think of me as my father’s son. Give me the job, and I’ll take it from there.”

Brown lit a cigarette. “Tell me why I should give you the job, and convince me in under one minute.”

Wayne said, “Collusion.” Brown tapped his watch. Wayne shot his cuffs and displayed his gold Rolex. Wayne Senior taught him the trick.

“Howard Hughes is a delusional xйnophobe addicted to pharmaceutical narcotics and vitamin-laced blood transfusions. His employees refer to him as ‘Dracula.’ Mr. Hughes relies upon lucid men like you to mediate the world for him and to facilitate his dealings with the venal politicians and organized-crime figures who run the state of Nevada and, arguably, the whole country. I am Carlos Marcello’s liaison to the business community. I am a brilliant chemist who can cook up compounds that will zonk Dracula out of his fucking gourd. I will be Mr. Marcello’s bagman to Richard Nixon and hopefully to the Nixon presidential administration. Dracula is bribing Mr. Nixon to the tune of five million dollars, and I will raid my late father’s assets to match that amount. I will deliver it, along with Mr. Marcello’s fifteen million, to Mr. Nixon personally, at the GOP Convention. I am charged with overseeing the upcoming grand design of Mr. Marcello and his organized-crime cohorts, which is the building of lavish hotel-casinos in a friendly, dictator-run banana republic somewhere south of here, and I will guarantee you that Hughes Airways will have the exclusive rights to fly the suckers in. You should carefully consider me for the job, because you know who I know and what I know, and because you have the utilitarian common sense to know that I will make you look good at all junctures.”

Brown checked his watch. “Fifty-six seconds. You had the edge with Mr. Hughes going in, and now you’ve got the edge with me.”

“Why did I have the edge with Mr. Hughes?”

“Because you shot some burrhead dope fiends in 1964, and Mr. Hughes thinks you’d be a good man to scare the coloreds out of his hotels.”

Wayne said it soft. “I’m out of the hate business, sir. Please tell Mr. Hughes that I won’t be willing to do that, and please tell him that I’ll require an in-person meeting with him before you hire me.”

Brown said it soft. “Sir, you are drastically impaired at this moment.”

Wayne tossed four capsules in his lap and walked out of the room.

Two hours. Three tops.

He went back to his suite and stretched out. He pictured Dracula twirling around the rings of Saturn and moon-hopping Jupiter. Maybe he’s flying or crashing airplanes. Maybe he’s fucking Kate Hepburn on the back lot at RKO.

The phone rang. Wayne picked up. Brown cut him off at “Hello.”

“The job is yours. And Mr. Hughes will see you.”

(Los Angeles, 6/18/68)

“Clyde tells me you like looking for women.”

Bam-the Hate King’s first words. Bam-at the door, no handshake or introduction.

Crutch said, “Yes, sir. That’s true.”

Dr. Fred Hiltz laughed. “He said, ‘Looking of women,’ but I won’t press the point.”

The Hiltz hate hacienda-a big Spanish manse. Beverly Hills, prime footage, Jew neighbors galore. A jumbo sunken living room festooned with hate art.

Fine oils. The masters reconsidered. A van Gogh lynching. A Rembrandt gas-chamber tableaux. Matisse does Congolese atrocities. Paul Klee does Martin Luther King charbroiled.

Crutch scoped the walls. Man Ray did Bobby Kennedy dead on a slab. Picasso did Lady Bird Johnson muff-diving Anne Frank.

Fuck-

Crutch fought off a dizzy spell. Hiltz said, “I met a cooze at Lawry’s Prime Rib. Her name was Gretchen Farr. She shot me some trim and got me addicted. She stole fourteen grand from the bomb shelter in my back-yard. You find her, you get me back my money.”

Devil-horned kikes by Frederick Remington. Grant Wood does LBJ drawn and quartered.

“Description? Last known address? A photograph, if you’ve got one.”

Hiltz fast-walked Crutch out back. The bum’s rush: Raus! Mach schnell! They cut down long corridors. They dodged cats and cat boxes. JFK morgue pix were taped to the walls.

The yard featured a statue garden. A wetback hosed down a life-size Klan-klad Christ. Hiltz said, “I’ve got no pictures. Gretchen was photophobic. She’s a tall, stacked cooze with a slight Latin tinge. She was staying at the Beverly Hills Hotel, so I made her as kosher. I put Phil Irwin on her, but he went on a bender and blew me off. I tried to hire Freddy Otash, but he’s not taking skip jobs these days.”

The wetback hose-spritzed Hitler and Hermann Goering. Bird shit and dirt decomposed.

“What else can you tell me about her?”

“You’re not listening. I know buppkes. I lead with my schvantz and it cost me fourteen big ones. Get it?I’m hiring you, because you know how to find people, and I don’t.”

A cat scaled Mussolini and sat poised for birds. Hiltz quick-marched Crutch over to some underground steps and shoved him down them. They hit a steel-reinforced door. Hiltz unlocked it and tapped a light switch. Fluorescent bulbs lit a twelve-by-twelve hate hive.

Hate-tract wallpaper. Hate-niggers, hate-Jews, hate-Papists, hate-Japs, hate-Chinks, hate-spies, hate-Commies, hate-the-muthafuckin’ white oppressor. Hate placards stacked on the floor. Boxes full of Nazi armbands. Hate voodoo-doll pincushions: Jackie Kennedy Onassis, Pope Paul, Martin Luther Coon.

Hiltz grabbed a placard. A giant buck slave stabbed a cowering Jew merchant. The buck had a mammoth crotch bulge. The hebe had clawed feet and a rat tail. The banner read GENOCIDE IS THE SACRED MANDATE OF ALLAH!!!!!

“The schvartzes eat this shit up. You wouldn’t believe the market all this black-militant tsuris has created. I’ve got a whole sideline going. It’s shvoogie prison tracts, allegedly written by these radical shines in San Quentin. You know who really writes them? This kike nigger-lover guy I play golf with.”

Crutch sneezed. The hate hive reeked of mildew and cat piss. That dizzy spell revived.

“Gretchen Farr. Tell me what you talked about. Tell me what she told you about herself. Tell me-”

“We didn’t talk, we shtupped. We went soixante-neuf and did the beast with two backs. We did not waste appreciable time with discussion.”

“Sir, can you give me anything I can-”

Hiltz pulled the lid off a king-size clothes hamper. The inside was crammed full of C-notes. The tally had to veer toward a half mil.

“Here’s the enduring mystery, schmendrick. She only nailed me for fourteen G’s. I know, because I count my gelt every night. You want my opinion? Gretchen was subtle. The cunt ganef nailed me for what she thought I wouldn’t miss.”

Crutch looked in the hamper. Hiltz grabbed a bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket.

“Lunch is on me. Find her, and I’ll get you a threesky with Brigitte Bardot and Julie Christie. Believe me, I’ve got that kind of clout.”