by James Ellroy
Spontaneous combustion. Toxic booze/dope levels cited. A quickie coroner’s inquest stamped it case closed.
He was feeling better. His appetite was returning. The throbs and kinks all over his body were starting to abate.
Wayne cruised the Strip. It was dusk and too hot to live. He saw heat-dazed picketers outside the Dunes and the Sands. He saw picketers waving their signs outside the Frontier. Most were black, some were white, all were plain thrilled.
He parked and walked to the picket line. He caught snippets of a joyous gobbledygook.
The Hotel Council caved. It was sudden—who knows why—it allegedly came from Howard Hughes.
Wayne stood there. The picketers ignored him. An LVPD goon squad lounged at the curb. They wore helmets and twirled their nightsticks. They plain seethed. Buddy Fritsch kicked at scattered cigarette butts and seethed the worst.
The picketers whooped and leaped and tore the tops off their signs. Wayne saw Mary Beth Hazzard raise one fist.
Buddy Fritsch saw him and teetered on over. He reeked of afternoon vodka and breath mints.
“Hey, killer. Want to smoke a few jungle bunnies while you’re here?”
Wayne winked at him. Buddy winked back. The picketers looked over. They started nudging each other. Wayne smiled at Buddy and let the moment build.
“Times like this make me wish you were back on the ’ole LVPD. We could use a coon kill—”
Wayne gut-punched him. Buddy gasped and folded and went green in the face. The other cops froze. The picketers froze. Wayne grabbed Buddy’s necktie, pulled him close and elbow-slammed his face. Wayne ripped his badge off his shirt and hurled it.
Buddy wobbled and stayed up. His face was all blood. Wayne let go of his tie. Buddy hit the pavement face-first. A bunch of the picketers cheered.
The cops stayed frozen. Wayne looked at the picketers. Mary Beth Hazzard stared dead at him. Wayne blew her a kiss.
32
(Los Angeles, 9/8/68)
Crutch Senior lived behind Santa Anita. He ruled a cardboard-box encampment. Winos and racetrack bums. Hooverville updated. Bet all day, booze all night. The California Lifestyle Supreme.
Crutch came with gifts: a good-bye C-note and a Reuben sandwich. Hey, Dad—I’m a dead man. I know all this top secret shit.
Fred Turentine called him yesterday. Fred Otash found some bug-tap debris in suite 307 and traced it back to him. Fred O. leaned on Fred T. Fred T. gave Crutch up for the bug job. Fred T. convinced Fred O. that he wasn’t there, it was only doofus Crutchfield. Fred T. showed Crutch his broken fingers. “Kid, I don’t know what you heard, but you better run.”
He read the St. Louis papers. Seven dead at the Grapevine. Tavern “Hoodlum brawl escalates.” He did some checking. James Earl Ray’s brother was part owner. Killers. His Frogman pal on the grassy knoll. Bug talk: Sirhan & King, Memphis & Dallas.
The campground was behind the parking lot. The geezers lived in stereo boxes rain-treated with shellac. A big tarp covered twenty-odd Magnavox Mansions. Empty bottles covered the common yard.
Crutch knocked on Crutch Senior’s box. Crutch Senior crawled out with a racing form and a short dog. Crutch gave him some room. Crutch Senior stood up, whipped it out and took a big piss. He aimed straight at Crutch’s shoes.
“Hello, Dad.”
Crutch Senior squinted. “Donald, right?”
“Right.”
“The kid I had with Maggie Woodard.”
“That’s me.”
“I remember Maggie. She was from Bumfuck, Wisconsin.”
“Yeah, she’s the one.”
“She was a good lay.”
“Come on, Dad. That’s not nice.”
Crutch Senior re-zipped. He was fifty-four. He wore a sweat-soaked Beatle suit and a Beatle wig. He was half-dead from open-sore cancers.
“You’re in the shit and you need a touch. Sorry, but I’m tapped.”
Crutch displayed the C-note and Reuben. Crutch Senior grabbed the bill and ignored the sandwich. He killed the short dog and tossed it on the empty pile. He swung the racing form and swatted Crutch in the face.
“You never found Maggie. You told me you would, and you didn’t. I laid her the first time on Pearl Harbor day, and you never found her.”
Bluff.
He worked out the plan yesterday. It predicted the knock on his door and the death sentence. Yeah, he put it all together. But, it was all instinct. Bug sputter, squelch, static and some words mixed in. He knew. They knew he knew. Fred O. would tell the others. Wayne would be pissed at the Frogman. Froggy let him live. It would blow up from there.
It was too big and played too preposterous. Clyde wouldn’t believe him. Scotty Bennett wouldn’t believe him. He could go on The Joe Pyne Show and air his inside scoop from the Beef Box. Joe Pyne would scoff at him. Some left-wing Jews and paranoid hippies might believe him. The hebes would turn on him in a hot tick. He was pro–Cuban Freedom Cause. The hippies would scoff at his crew cut and Scotty Bennett tie. No hippie girls would shoot him some trim.
Bluff.
He put the fail-safes in place yesterday. He devised the plan off his one ray of hope. They didn’t know his bug gear was defective. They knew they talked assassination. They would not recall exactly what they said. They did not know how credible his testimony would play.
Crutch waited at the Vivian. The pad was near-empty. He moved his mother’s file and his personal shit to the Elm Hotel yesterday. His case file was there. Buzz knew the location. He’d find the files and pursue or not pursue all relevant leads.
He waited. He skimmed old Car Crafts and Playboys. He went to I. Magnin’s yesterday. He bought Dana Lund a beautiful cashmere sweater. He had it gift-wrapped and placed a valentine card in the box. He didn’t sign his name. He told Dana that he’d always loved her. He had to run now. He killed two men and knew some things that he shouldn’t.
Magnin’s delivered the gift. He parked across the street. He watched Dana open the box and read the card. The sweater delighted her. The note seemed to scare her. She looked around and slammed her door in a rush.
Joan Rosen Klein was out in the ether. He couldn’t get her a good-bye gift. It broke his fucking heart.
Crutch skimmed the November ’67 Playboy. Kaya Christian smiled from the foldout. She was his aptly named sweetheart. He knew her from Trinity Lutheran Church a million years back.
The southbound view beckoned. Crutch walked to the window and looked out. He saw Sandy Danner’s house and Barb Cathcart’s house and Gail Miller on Lon Ecklund’s front porch.
All those shrubs that served as his perch spots. New shrubs blocking windows he’d peeped.
He leaned out the window. He caught smog in the air. He leaned too far. He started to drop. He heard noise behind him. A force slammed him down and pulled him back up.
He was on the floor. He was foot-pinned. He was blurry-eyed, half there and half not. He smelled oil on metal and knew they’d greased the door lock.
The half there expanded. The blur decreased. A full there came on. He saw Wayne Tedrow with a silencered gun and the Frogman holding a pillow. He clutched his Saint Christopher medal and prayed the Gloria Patria.
Their feet were dug in. The Frogman sweat-oozed nicotine. Wayne said, “You dipshit cocksucker.”
Froggy dropped the pillow on his head. Crutch thrashed it off and gulped in air to say it.
“I’ve got four tape copies, plus depositions. Four bank safe-deposit boxes. I show up in person, six-month intervals. They verify me at the sites with photo and fingerprint checks. If I don’t show, you know what.”
Wayne looked at Mesplede. Mesplede looked at Wayne. Wayne picked up the pillow and foot-mashed it down on his head. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t hear. No voices, no gunshot, no pain or white clouds. Breath spurts and heartbeats—dear God, am I dead?
Then light and air and the model airplane dangling from his ceiling. Then some breath. Then Wayne’s gun with the silencer untapped.
&
nbsp; A red Fokker triplane. Historically cool. He built it and sniffed the glue the day JFK got whacked.
Crutch said, “I want in. I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”
33
(Los Angeles, 9/10/68)
“You were talking in your sleep.”
“What was I saying?”
“I thought I heard ‘at least’ and ‘vicious.’ ”
Dwight rubbed his neck. It always knotted at the same spot. He got a dream aftershock: Memphis and blood spray redux.
Karen sat up and leaned over him. She was sleep-puffed and lush. She crossed her legs and sat Indian-style. He scooted down and kissed her knees. He heard Dina one room over, talking to her stuffed frog.
“Tell me again, and convince me. My simple presence here is not screwing that little girl up forever.”
Karen took his hands. “Only if she grows up and joins the FBI.”
“There’s some left-wing parenthood thing going on here that eludes me.”
“She likes you more than she likes What’s-His-Name. Let it go at that.”
“I don’t understand the fucking world you live in.”
Karen kissed his fingers. “You understand it all too well. Your accommodations acknowledge my world and grant it an offhanded respect.”
Dwight reached for his cigarettes. Karen grabbed the pack and tossed it on the dresser.
“Don’t tempt me.”
“All right.”
“And explain yourself. Connect ‘at least’ and ‘vicious.’ ”
That knot again—Dwight kneaded and rubbed.
“A friend said it. The full quote was ‘At least they were vicious.’ ”
“Who was he referring to?”
“Babe, please.”
“Mr. Hoover? The cops in Chicago?”
Dwight laughed. It made his neck throb. Karen tickled his legs and built on the laugh and made the hurt stop.
“All right, I’ll tell you. He was referring to a dissolute band of right-wing thugs.”
Karen grinned. “I like your friend. What’s his name?”
“No comment.”
“Is he a cop?”
“He used to be.”
“Is he as tall and good-looking as you?”
Dwight grinned. “Emphatically not.”
Dina said good night to the frog. It came through the wall plain. Dwight knew she wanted them to hear it. Karen bowed and put her hand on her heart.
“I think I’ve got a line on Joan.”
“Quid pro quo, then. Blow up an extra monument and try not to get caught.”
Karen curled around him. Dwight pulled off her barrette and let her hair go. He said, “Do you love me?” She said, “I’ll think about it.”
34
(Las Vegas, 8/11/68)
The union folks congregated at Sills Tip-Top. Wayne studied their MO. She’d show there sooner or later. It took him four cruise-bys.
Sills was crowded—the lunch trade and no empty booths. It was up in shitsville North Vegas. The color line was blurred there. The joint was quasi-segregated. Whites ate on one side, blacks on the other.
Wayne walked in. Mary Beth Hazzard was over on the black side. She was sitting with four union friends. They were all black. Wayne recognized them from his picket-line show.
Two people noticed him. A man nudged Mary Beth. She noticed him and whispered all around the booth. The people got up and walked out. They passed Wayne en route. They lowered their eyes.
Wayne walked over and put his hand out. Her hand was firm and dry. He said, “Mrs. Hazzard.” She said, “Mr. Tedrow.” Her eyes clicked to the opposite seat. Wayne took the cue and sat down.
They looked at each other. It was still. It made the restaurant noise subside. People started looking at them. It was still. Eyes just clicked their way.
Mary Beth touched her coffee cup. “I read about your father. You have my condolences for your loss.”
The union folks had left their coffee cups and saucers behind. Wayne cleared a space for his hands.
“Thank you. My father treated union people horribly, so your condolences affirm your good manners very nicely.”
“I wasn’t fishing for compliments, Mr. Tedrow.”
“I know. I’m just hoping you’ll accept the one I gave you, and not consider it condescending.”
Mary Beth smiled. Wayne felt a million eyes click.
“And my condolences for your husband.”
“Condolences accepted. But in the spirit of candor, I’ll add that Cedric was recklessly fervent and had no business being alone with Pappy Dawkins at 2:00 a.m.”
Wayne glanced around for a waitress. Two waitresses caught it and looked away. A little black boy draped himself over his booth and stared at them. Two little white girls pointed.
“You’re very nervous, Mr. Tedrow. If you’re thinking of ordering coffee, you might want to reconsider.”
Wayne smiled. “And besides, they won’t serve me.”
“They will if you make a big-enough fuss.”
“Or put on a big-enough show.”
Mary Beth smiled. “Your show at the picket line was memorable. It begs the question of what you were trying to say, but I won’t press you on that.”
Wayne fidgeted. Mary Beth pushed her coffee cup over. Wayne warmed his hands on it.
“I want to thank you for your part in settling the strike, Mr. Tedrow. The rumor is that you convinced Mr. Hughes.”
Wayne said, “Yes, I did.”
“And your motive?”
“You mean, my motive given my history?”
Mary Beth touched the coffee cup. “I don’t judge your history as harshly as most black people around here would.”
Wayne touched the coffee cup. His hands almost touched hers. She left her hands there. He pulled his back.
“And why is that?”
“You killed those men while you were looking for Wendell Durfee, so you get a pass from me on that one.”
Peeple looked at them. A big fat black guy and a tall, skinny white guy flat-out fucking gawked.
“Why, Mrs. Hazzard?”
“Because Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers supplied the dope that killed my sister. Because Wendell Durfee raped me on April 19, 1951, which makes me inclined to forgive your rash behavior and like you just fine.”
Wayne looked at his hands. They jerked and spun the coffee cup. Some coffee spilled on Mary Beth’s hands. She didn’t seem to notice. She kept her hands there.
“I read about your son. The missing-person part, I mean.”
“He was a brilliant boy. He knew a great deal about chemistry.”
“I’m a chemist.”
“Yes, I was told that.”
“Were you inquiring about me?”
“Yes, I was.”
“Why?”
Mary Beth pulled her hands back. “You’re pushing me. Don’t ask me to say things I’m not ready to.”
Wayne looked around the diner. The whole goddamn room was looking their way.
“You described your son in the past tense. Do you think he’s dead?”
Mary Beth shook her head. “There’s times I do, there’s times I don’t. Sometimes dead’s easier, sometimes it’s not.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Yes, I miss him terribly.”
Wayne said, “I’ll find him for you.”
Part II
SHIT MAGNET
September 12, 1968–January 20, 1969
DOCUMENT INSERT: 9/12/68. Internal FBI memorandum. Marked: “Stage 1 Covert”/”Director’s Eyes Only”/“Destroy After Reading.” To: Director Hoover. From: SA Dwight C. Holly.
Sir,
OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER now stands at the on-go stage, with the drop-front and preliminary operating funds secured, police agency paperwork on our target groups and their members assessed and our infiltrator selected and ready to be placed in an operational context both plausible and provocative. Bureau informant #4361 has supplied me w
ith the name of a potential confidential informant (female), and I have requested her Bureau file from Central Records and will study it thoroughly before any attempt is made to facilitate a meeting. THE BLACK TRIBE ALLIANCE (BTA) and MAU-MAU LIBERATION FRONT (MMLF) occupy the identical political and criminal universe, which I will summarize, along with criminal/political summaries of the groups’ “leaders.” As previously stated, the groups are criminally inclined, staffed with career criminals and are determined to achieve their goals through criminal means. They are political rivals, and as such, our goal must remain fixed: to create inter-group dissension that will result in criminal charges and serve to discredit the entire black-nationalist apparatus.
1.—Both groups operate along near-identical lines. They employ storefront offices that serve as recruitment hubs, social clubs and gathering places for local Negroes and visiting radicals, thus photo surveillance may prove useful at some point. Both groups distribute anti-white, anti–Los Angeles Police Department literature and hate literature besmirching rival black-militant groups, most often vulgar pamphlets in the comic-book style. Both organizations recruit on campus at local high schools and junior high schools. Both organizations extort local merchants for food to deploy in their Feed the Kiddies programs and liquor for their weekly pay-to-attend “political mixers,” in reality drunken parties that often result in brawls. Both organizations have female followers—i.e., “groupies,” who act as prostitutes and donate most of their earnings to the “cause.” Both organizations are rumored to have “safe houses” where visiting radicals and members fleeing criminal proceedings are allowed to hide out. Unlike the BLACK PANTHERS and US, there have been no known instances of BTA and MMLF violence directed at police officers. I will direct both our infiltrator and informant to notify me immediately should they learn of any such planned provocations. Both organizations are rumored to be planning excursions into the narcotics trade, although I seriously doubt that they possess the expertise required to be successful at it. They are both, to date, small-time in their organized criminal designs, although their individual “leaders” and followers quite often possess major felony records. BTA members are suspected of burglarizing a series of pornographic bookstores in the LAPD’s Wilshire Division; MMLF members are suspected of participation in a series of employee-assisted faked robberies of all-night Jack in the Box drive-in locations. The profits from these criminal actions were allegedly donated to BTA and MMLF operating accounts. A BTA member allegedly operates a still and produces 190-proof corn liquor; an MMLF member allegedly scalps counterfeit tickets to the local games of the Los Angeles Dodgers and Los Angeles Rams. Again, these criminal enterprises create operating expenses for the BTA and MMLF and spotlight the inherent criminality of their members. The exposure of endemic criminal activity is essential to our derogatory profile of the groups and will provide a pithy courtroom commentary when our operation concludes and highly publicized legal proceedings begin.