Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  Dwight applied print strips. Marsh mock-touched book covers. Dwight wrote queer crush notes. Smeared phone numbers, napkin rips, words half-obscured. Marsh: “I’ve got 9 inches. How about you?”

  He kept his desk neat. He worked with rubber gloves. He plastic-bagged his piecework. He brainstormed a fake diary entry.

  Think it through. Type it in. You’ve got an identical Underwood. Remember: tool-gouge the small C and J.

  You’ll be there at the convergence. Joan will insert the fake diary.

  That means more B&E runs. He might have a real diary.

  Dwight cleared desk space. He bagged the books and notes and got out a scratch pad. The Silver Hill photo was up against a lamp. Karen, Dina, Ella. Their address/phone number. “If this man is lost, please return him.”

  He covered it with a handkerchief. He mock-Marsh-ascribed:

  “My process of radicalization truly began when I realized I could not control my perceptions. Physical symptoms manifested in direct proportion to my attempts to keep them suppressed. It was as if a virus had swept through me. It was significantly more discomfiting than the panic I endured when I became fully aware of my homosexuality a decade ago. A self-hatred took hold then and a politically defined and outwardly directed hatred has taken hold now. My hatred has lingered on immediate targets—the brutish Scotty Bennett, the imperviously exploitative Agent Holly and my racist alma mater, the LAPD—and it has gradually and inexorably ascended to an ineluctable plane. I cannot halt the spread of the virus until I dose myself with the anti-toxin that only JEH’s death will create.”

  He read it through again. He covered the desk with a drop cloth and walked out to the terrace.

  Clouds top-framed Silver Lake. A haze covered Karen’s house. Their fight rescrolled. It scared Dina. Ella seemed to study it. He kicked around a notion. Ella knew things that he didn’t. Ella got them from Joan.

  Shit stirs in the spiritus mundi. Karen tells Joan about him. Comrade Tommy’s in Memphis hit day. Karen read his dreams and held him through his nightmares. Joan just understood.

  A squirrel perched on the terrace ledge. Dwight soft-lobbed him acorns. He shagged them with his paws and skedaddled.

  The door gizmo buzzed. Dwight looked through the side window. Eleanora hopped on the porch.

  Dwight ran through the front room and opened the door. Ella stormed his legs. He scooped her up with one arm. Ella play-bit his neck.

  Karen leaned on a porch post. Dwight said, “You could have broken in.”

  “I was saving it for Media.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  Ella wriggled. Dwight put her down. She ran into the front room.

  “How’d you find it?”

  Karen stepped inside. “I tracked the binocular glint. I thought, I detect a voyeuristic presence, and applied spatial geometry.”

  Dwight laughed. Karen draped an arm around him. He walked her away from the desk. Ella peeked in a cardboard box. Dwight grabbed her and whisked her off.

  She broke free and pointed. She made a What? face.

  Dwight said, “They’re throwdown guns, sweetie.”

  Karen dropped her purse and kicked it. Dwight said, “Do you love me?” Karen said, “Yes, goddamn you.”

  Inserts:

  He worked in the file section. He kept loose inside. He was nonchalant and late-night-clandestine.

  He pulled Vice files and tattle files. He found field interrogation cards and inked in Marsh Bowen’s name. Marsh at three fruit-bar sweeps, Marsh at a drag ball, Marsh at a hate-whitey bash.

  He walked to the subversive-file bank. He dropped in a chemically aged file.

  Joan created it. He supplied the perspective. A now-dead agent wrote the file, late ’66. Marsh worked for Clyde Duber then. Marsh worked against Clyde for the Black Muslims. The agent had suspicions. Clyde never knew.

  He cashed in stock. He secured Bob Relyea’s down payment. He needed Mr. Hoover’s travel schedule. Tomorrow a.m.: he flies to Media.

  He skimmed the snitch-file index. Names sideswiped him. Bill Buckley snitched neocons. Chuck Heston snitched potheads. Sal Mineo snitched rump rascals wholesale. Salacious Sal: botched bait for the Bayard Rustin squeeze.

  He found more F.I. cards. He blue-inked one in cursive. He block-printed two in black. Busy bee Marsh—’66 and ’67. Fistfights at the Klondike. Lewd shit with hippie boys at Griffith Park love-ins.

  Dwight packed up his briefcase and walked out. He saw Jack Leahy at the elevator.

  “Don’t tell me. You can’t sleep, and you’re starting to dig on the files.”

  Dwight smiled. “You’re the only Fed on earth who has ever said the words dig on.”

  “True enough, but you haven’t answered my question.”

  Dwight pushed the down button. “Dirt files are addictive. Ask you-know-who about that.”

  Jack laughed. “I haven’t spoken to the old girl in a dog’s age. I outrank you, but she talks to you much more than to me.”

  “You’re being impolitic, Jack. You’re forgetting who you’re talking about and who you’re talking to.”

  The doors opened. They stepped inside. The doors jerked and shut.

  “Is there a spot tail on me, Jack? As long as we’re being insubordinate, I’d appreciate an answer.”

  Jack shook his head. “Dwight ‘the Enforcer’ Holly. Buzzed on coffee and cigarettes for the twenty years I’ve known him, and finally starting to see things.”

  He walked into the drop-front. The phone was ringing, persistent. He dumped his briefcase and fumble-caught the receiver in the dark.

  Karen said, “Nobody dies,” and hung up.

  97

  (Los Angeles, 3/8/71)

  Ali! Ali! Ali!

  The Congo coursed with it. Bootleg broadcasts beamed from liquor stores and pool halls. They got the full TV monte. Sidewalk gangs got portable-radio squelch. Jugs and joints circulated. The groups ran ten to one hundred. Central Avenue was cooncaphony.

  Cathode light bounced out windows. Pirate hookups: Mosque 19, Sultan Sam’s, Cedric’s Hair Process. The scene ran inside and outside. Parking-lot action boomed. Stacked-heel pimps laid down round-by-round bets.

  Scotty cruised by Tiger Kab. The hut was SRO and boob tube–bright. The Krew was rapt. Fred O., Milt C., Peeper Crutchfield. Countless southside Zulus. Junkie Monkey in boxing mitts, atop the TV set.

  And Lionel D. Thornton—with a zippered cash sack.

  Scotty idled by the lot. Marsh got in. He wore crepe-soled shoes and gloves. Scotty grabbed his gloves off the dashboard. They eyeballed the hut.

  The radio fluttered. The signal cut in and out. Marsh tweaked the dial. Static and verdict—Frazier gets the nod.

  Marsh turned it off. Scotty said, “He’s got a piece.”

  “I know. Small revolver, back waistband.”

  “He’ll walk. I don’t see his car.”

  “It’s six blocks to the bank.”

  Scotty passed his flask. Marsh took a nip.

  “I lost a hundred.”

  Scotty said, “I’ll underwrite you. I won three bills.”

  “You bet against Ali?”

  “I was at Saipan. Draft dodgers fuck with my head.”

  Marsh passed the flask. “Give me the count. Jap infantry or 211 guys. Who gets the nod?”

  Scotty took a nip. “I torched an ammunition bunker. I fried a hundred Japs in their sleep.”

  “Did you win a medal?”

  “The Navy Cross. Nice, but not as big as your deal.”

  Marsh smiled. The flask moved contrapuntal. Lionel Thornton walked out.

  He hoofed it southbound. The bank doors were side-street/south-facing. Scotty said, “We’ll take him there.”

  Hut action exploded. Fuckers screamed, “Frazier.” Fuckers screamed, “Ali.” Two brothers traded blows. Fred O. broke it up. The TV set toppled. Junkie Monkey hit the deck.

  Scotty hauled westbound and cut south on Stanford. H
e cut east on 63rd Street and parked across the street.

  Marsh said, “That storage door just west of the main doors. He won’t see us there.”

  Scotty put his gloves on. “He’s four minutes out.”

  Marsh gulped. He was racy and a tad damp. Scotty sensed his pulse.

  “How’s your wig, brother?”

  “It be tight, brother. You knows I wants this.”

  Scotty winked. “Let’s go, then.”

  They walked across the street. The door well concealed them. Marsh checked his watch. Scotty heard footsteps.

  Closer now. Louder. There’s his breath, there’s his shadow, there’s the jangle of keys.

  There’s the key in the lock, there’s the click, there’s the door sweep.

  They jumped.

  They smothered him. They dog-piled him. They pushed him inside. The cash sack flew. Scotty hand-muzzled him. Marsh grabbed his piece. Thornton kicked and wriggled. Marsh caught a shoe in the face.

  Thornton tried to bite. His mouth couldn’t move. Marsh rabbit-punched him. Thornton lost all breath. Marsh grabbed the keys and inside-locked the doors. Thornton kept thrashing. Scotty swooped him over his head and threw him twenty feet.

  The cocksucker flew. His whole body cartwheeled. His feet brushed the ceiling. He landed by the front teller’s cage.

  He screamed. Marsh pulled a standing lamp over and tossed light on his face.

  The floor was dark. The lamp was a funnel spotlight. You got Thornton’s face, that’s it.

  He screamed. Scotty stepped on his neck. He stopped screaming. His mouth was bloody. The crash landing took out his front teeth.

  Scotty nodded. Marsh said, “We’re interested in the ink- and non-ink-stained cash and the emeralds. You know what we mean. We think you have information that might assist us.”

  Thornton thrashed. Scotty stepped down harder. Thornton stopped thrashing. Scotty pulled out his reserve flask. Pastor Bennett’s confession brew: bourbon and Valium chips.

  Marsh palmed it. Marsh grabbed Thornton’s hair and jerked. Thornton’s mouth went wide. Marsh poured him a jolt. Thornton almost tossed it. Marsh stepped on his face and kept it in.

  Scotty nodded. Marsh withdrew his foot. Thornton gulped air. Thornton said, “No.”

  Marsh slapped him. Thornton bit at his hand. Scotty grabbed his hair and pulled him behind the teller’s cage. Marsh unfurled the cord and carried the lamp over.

  The teller’s cage was dark. The lamp was a funnel spotlight. Marsh framed Thornton’s face. The cage row got backlit.

  Scotty said, “You can’t win here. You can make this easy or hard.”

  Thornton dribbled blood on the floor. A bug skittered over. Marsh stepped on it. Thornton sucked in a breath.

  “White-trash cracker. Uncle Tom piece of shit.”

  Scotty nodded. Marsh pulled a sap and whipped Thornton’s knees. Thornton bit through his bottom lip and stifled a scream.

  Marsh said, “Sergeant Bennett and I have pooled our information on this matter. We know that you’ve laundered at least a small portion of the heist money. Would you care to comment?”

  Thornton spat blood and loose tissue. Thornton crawled to a wall post and propped himself up. Thornton shook his head—no, ixnay, fuck you.

  Scotty pulled the lamp closer. Marsh tilted it for more glare. Thornton was mouth flap–bloody. Marsh grabbed the flask and poured in a jolt.

  Thornton tried to retch. Scotty grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Marsh relubed him.

  Gargles now—blood, bile and blend. It started to seep out. Marsh mouth-clamped Thornton and forced it back in.

  He shook his head—nyet, nein, no. Marsh removed his mouth clamp and sap-whipped his legs.

  “Sergeant Bennett and I have developed separate information that we’ve decided to share. We were both there that morning. It would be foolish for us not to cooperate.”

  Thornton shook his head. A loose tooth flew. Scotty unclamped his hair. Thornton proned out and back-swallowed blood. He shook his head—nein, nyet, nyet.

  Marsh said, “I had a neighbor. He was an elderly black physician. He attended to a heist-gang member who had been left for dead by the leader of the gang. The doctor received twenty thousand dollars in ink-stained cash as a payment for his services. He gave the money to you and told you to leak it prudently out to the community. The surviving gang member recovered and has not been seen since. Would you care to comment?”

  Thornton wide-eyed it. His brain pulse went visible. Fucking brilliant Marsh. Scotty thought, Oh, you kid.

  The cage was hot. Scotty was wet. Marsh was wet. Scotty saw a wall unit and hit the switch.

  Cold air whooshed. Thornton sucked it up. Marsh sapped his knees. Thornton screamed. The wall-unit rattle blended in.

  Marsh raised the sap. Scotty shook his head. Thornton blinked lamp glare out of his eyes. Scotty moved and provided shade. Marsh squatted by Thornton and sap-tickled his chin.

  “Sergeant Bennett and I believe that the surviving gang member was a young chemist named Reginald Hazzard. I have a theory that I have not yet shared with Sergeant Bennett. I think that perhaps young Hazzard found a way to partially or fully obscure the ink markings and that perhaps you—a seasoned money launderer—ended up with the laundry list for all of the cash. Would you care to comment?”

  Thornton wiiiiiiide-eyed it. It was truth serum–valid. Marsh, you genius cocksucker. The gang leader braced the Laundryman independently.

  Thornton pissed his pants and shit his pants. Fey Marsh stood up and went phew.

  Scotty winked. The wall-unit blew ice chips. A cockroach dipsey-doodled through the blood spill.

  Marsh said, “Reginald Hazzard.”

  Thornton sobbed and spit blood.

  Marsh said, “Who sends the emeralds to the black people in need?”

  Thornton rolled out of the lamplight. Marsh kicked him in the back. Scotty shook his head. Marsh went What now? Scotty pulled his penlight and wide-dialed the beam.

  Marsh pulled out a roll of duct tape and sealed Thornton’s mouth. Scotty cuffed his right wrist to a wall pipe. It went telepathic: let’s toss the place.

  They worked with two penlights and Thornton’s master keys. They sifted, dug, pored, overturned and upended. They triple-tossed the place.

  They opened every office drawer and cash drawer.

  They checked every cupboard.

  They scanned every shelf.

  They pulled up every rug.

  They cut open every padded chair.

  They went through every closet.

  They broke every light fixture.

  They scanned every surface, plane and cubbyhole for vault-combo stats.

  They did it once, twice, three times. They mini-checked all the fucked-up debris.

  Marsh said, “There’s nothing here.”

  Scotty said, “Yes, there is.”

  “Man, he’s not that stupid. He’s got a spot at his house or a stash hole someplace.”

  Scotty shook his head. “He’s complacent. He launders out of here. He’s got to have records he can tap into. He’s got a vault somewhere.”

  Marsh ran back to Thornton. He was Mr. Clean and the Laundryman. Now he’s all shit, blood and piss.

  Marsh slipped on sap gloves. Twelve ounces per—lead palm and finger strips.

  Marsh said, “You tell me now.” Marsh flexed his hands. Marsh punched Mr. Clean in the back.

  Thornton sobbed and curled up tight. Scotty ran over and eased Marsh back.

  “No. Don’t. Be calm now, brother. We hit the walls first.”

  Marsh went limp. Yes, brother—okay—yes, yes.

  Scotty let him go. Marsh crashed into the wall unit. Scotty ran to the storage closet and grabbed a crowbar. Marsh goofy-grinned.

  They banged the walls.

  They ripped and gouged the walls.

  They took turns swinging.

  They threw sweat. They got drenched. They took turns to catch their breath and k
ept swinging.

  They hit Thornton’s office walls and the break-room walls and the teller’s cage walls. They hit the bank proper walls and kept swinging. They ripped out baseboard and timber. They ate plaster dust and chips. They heard Thornton moaning and coughing. They swung and ripped and traded shots and weaved on their feet.

  They hit the rear hallway. Scotty leaned back, dead limp. Marsh took the first swing. A wall chunk fell out. A cloth ledger dropped in his hands.

  It was plastic-wrapped and tape-sealed. It was twelve-by-eight and paper-packed. Scotty tore the cover off. Marsh scanned the first page. It was all bisecting columns and numbers. Dates on the far left. The first one: 4/64.

  They wiped their eyes. They turned the pages. They saw dates, figures and number-coded designations. They saw the day-by-day/held-at-bank sums. Final figure: seven mil plus.

  Marsh said, “The heist cash was seed money. He launders it and lends it. They started with two, and it stands at seven now. That’s what they’ve got here. It’s an on-the-premises tally.”

  Scotty said, “There’s a vault.”

  The ledger was leather-lined. Marsh knife-slashed the edges and reached in and around. A piece of paper slid out.

  Schematic drawing. A black box. Numbers noting size and placement. A tuck-away. Maybe here, maybe not. A secret vault. Not the main vault.

  They walked back to Thornton. He was sitting up. His blood was sticky-thick and crusting. He made a little tooth pile. Plaster dust covered him. His sweat made it mud.

  Scotty said, “Where’s the vault?”

  Thornton shook his head.

  Marsh held up the drawing. “The vault. The combination.”

  Thornton said, “No.”

  Scotty kicked him in the leg. Thornton flipped him the bird. Marsh bent the finger back and broke it. Thornton mouth-muzzled a scream.

  Marsh grabbed the crowbar and ran to the hallway. Scotty checked his watch—three hours inside. Thornton spit a tooth in his lap. Scotty winked at him.

  “I’m always amazed when bright guys like you go the hard way. We should all be celebrating now.”