James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03

by Blood's a Rover

  2.—Per the “leaders,” some key details:

  A—EZZARD DONNELL JONES, male Negro, DOB 8/24/37. Two convictions for possession of narcotics (1957, 1961). Has a mail-order divinity degree and solicits funds at southside Los Angeles churches. JONES is the “Exalted High Commissioner” of the BTA.

  B.—CORNELIUS “BENNY” BOLES, male Negro, DOB 1/11/40. One conviction for armed robbery (1964). Works as a carhop at Delores’s Drive-In in Beverly Hills. A purported homosexual and a suspect in the unsolved 1958 slaying of a male prostitute in West Los Angeles. BOLES is the “Assistant Lord High Commissioner” of the BTA.

  C.—LEANDER JAMES JACKSON, male Negro, DOB 5/4/38. No discernible criminal record. Rumored to be Haiti-born and a practitioner of Haitian voodoo. Allegedly a bunco artist (selling fake magazine subscriptions, phony land deals, no-show construction contracts), a forger (welfare checks, money orders and basketball tickets), and an arms smuggler (unsubstantiated rumors of ties to violent leftist groups in the Caribbean). JACKSON is the “Armorer” of the BTA.

  D.—JOSEPH TIDWELL McCARVER, male Negro, DOB 7/16/37. Alleged residential and pharmacy burglar, rumored to have committed over 100 burglaries since 1955. Inveterate gambler, with 26 arrests and no convictions for flimflam and bookmaking offenses. Runs a weekly dice game out of a black separatist church, with proceeds going to the MMLF. McCARVER is the “Pan-African Ruler” of the MMLF.

  E.—JOMO KENYATTA CLARKSON, male Negro, DOB 3/4/29. No criminal record, but rumored to be a skilled, job-selective armed robber. A cartoonist and the author of the anti-white, anti-BTA hate comic books sold by the MMLF. Works as a dispatcher for the Black Cat Cab Company in South Los Angeles. Rumored to have committed numerous “politically motivated” rapes as an “expression of solidarity” for “Brother” Eldridge Cleaver of the BLACK PANTHER PARTY. CLARKSON is the “Propaganda Minister” of the MMLF.

  F.—CLAUDE CANTRELL TORRANCE, male Negro, DOB 11/29/46. Numerous misdemeanor arrests: drunk driving, drunk and disorderly, petty theft, non-payment of child support, defrauding an innkeeper, vagrancy, impersonating a police officer and various gambling-related offenses. The principal player in MMLF’s Feed the Kiddies program. TORRANCE is both the “Minister of Finance” and “Minister of Extortion” for the MMLF.

  3.—Known haunts of the BTA and MMLF include the dispatch hut of the BLACK CAT CAB COMPANY, originally financed by a (allegedly in arrears) loan from the Teamster Central State Pension Fund, which marks it as a criminally defined enterprise; SULTAN SAM’S BARBER SHOP; SULTAN SAM’S SANDBOX (a cocktail lounge, Teamster loan–financed); SULTAN SAM’S PINBALL PARADISE (a game arcade/pornographic bookstore); CALVIN’S ADULT EXTRAVAGANZA (a pornographic bookstore); and the following bars and after-hour clubs: NAT’S NEST, MR. MITCH’S ANOTHER WORLD, RAE’S RUGBURN ROOM a lesbian bar owned by JOSEPH TIDWELL McCARVER’S sister RAE CHANTAY McCARVER (Teamster Fund–financed), THE SNOOTY FOX, THE SCORPIO LOUNGE, TOMMY TUCKER’S PLAYROOM and the CAROLINA PINES COFFEE SHOP on Imperial Highway. It should be prominently noted that the key BTA and MMLF personnel are rumored to have ties to THE PEOPLES’ BANK OF SOUTH LOS ANGELES, rumored to have been initially seeded by a Teamster Pension Fund loan (allegedly in arrears) and long suspected of being a money-laundering front for Negro criminals. The bank’s longtime president, LIONEL DARIUS THORNTON, male Negro, DOB 12/8/19, has no criminal record, is a noted civic booster in the Los Angeles Negro community and has long been suspected of organized-crime ties.

  4.—As I detailed in my previous confidential telex, our infiltrator will be LAPD OFFICER MARSHALL E. BOWEN, a gifted impersonator with previous subversive-group penetrations financed by CLYDE DUBER ASSOCIATES. I am currently creating a scenario for OFFICER BOWEN’S cosmetically proffered expulsion from the LAPD, perhaps to be shaped by OFFICER BOWEN’S hostile relationship with SERGEANT ROBERT S. BENNETT, an LAPD Robbery Division detective much feared and despised in South Los Angeles. I have researched SERGEANT BENNETT and consider him to be the perfect foil for this scenario. I have set up a meeting with LAPD CHIEF TOM REDDIN and LOS ANGELES SAC JACK LEAHY to discuss OFFICER BOWEN’S expulsion/immersion. Along with us, they will be the only law-enforcement personnel privy to this information.

  OPERATION BAAAD BROTHER now stands at on-go status. I await your comments.

  Respectfully,

  SA Dwight C. Holly

  35

  (Los Angeles, 9/13/68)

  Dwight read files. A radio spritzed the news. Nixon and Humphrey grubbed for votes and seesawed poll-wise. Jimmy Ray and Sirhan Sirhan fomented in custody. Local grief: two ski-masked coons robbed a Brentwood home of cash and jewels.

  The drop-front was file-full. It was file-saturated and file-fucked. He needed four more cabinets. He was file-fucked dick-deep.

  He read carbons from the ATF and St. Louis PD. Confirmed anew: the “Grapevine Tavern Slaughter,” case closed. One non sequitur: that surprise victim.

  Thomas Frank Narduno, forty-five years old, out of New York. The odd man there. Bug devices found on his body.

  Dwight checked Narduno’s FBI file. It was sketchy. Narduno traveled in lefty circles. He was a two-time robbery suspect: Ohio and New York. No arrests, no convictions. He vibed fringe fool or Red recidivist. His Grapevine connection was superfluous now.

  Relief.

  He was relieved. Mr. Hoover was relieved. Mr. Hoover was still pissy underneath it. He kept rehashing Dwight’s rest cure. Silver Hill, ’57. The old poof was three beats off now. He called it “Happy Hills, ’58.” It didn’t matter. The old poof had a file on it—stashed, indexed and extortion-ready.

  He had a file coming: Joan Rosen Klein, potential informant. Central Records was telexing it. The pages were heavily redacted. Fat ink strokes blotted names, dates and locations. Karen implied that Joan might be difficult. Forewarned is forearmed: see the file before you meet her.

  Dwight yawned. His sleep was shot, his nerves were thin, nightmares revived as daytime vignettes. He raided a Bureau evidence room and copped some sedatives. They goosed his one drink a night and one pill a night only. It fucking helped.

  The chief was late. Dwight schmoozed with Jack Leahy. Jack did Mr. Hoover shtick. The old girl was buying antiques with lover boy Lance. Jack was spot-on. He had the mince and the wrist action. It was risky shit. Jack was a tough read. He was half G-man, half Mort Sahl.

  Dwight laughed. “Guerrilla humor. Funny shit at the Improv, risky shit at the L.A. office.”

  Jack cleaned his glasses. “Twenty years and civil service. I’m snitch-proof.”

  “I saw you do Hoover as Oscar Wilde when you were a rookie.”

  “Then, I guess I’m just lucky.”

  Dwight smiled. “Or you’ve got an agenda, or you’re just a fucking kamikaze.”

  The office was cop-blah: gray walls and flags up the ying-yang. Reddin pre-announced himself with Aqua Velva fumes. He was a big guy. He slapped backs and crashed behind his desk.

  “Jack, it’s been too long. Mr. Holly, I’ve been hearing about you for years.”

  Jack lit a cigarette. “Dwight ‘the Enforcer’ Holly. A blunt man with a politically dubious girlfriend.”

  Reddin yukked and waved faux wolfsbane. Jack winked. Dwight figured el jefe was good for five minutes.

  “We want to sheep-dip one of your Negro officers, Chief. A young Wilshire Division patrolman named Marshall Bowen. My intention is to put him into the Black Tribe Alliance and/or the Mau-Mau Liberation Front. It’s a long-term Cointelpro aimed at discrediting the black-militant movement. I’ll be running it autonomously. Apologies in advance, but Mr. Hoover wants you bypassed on summary reports and memoranda.”

  Reddin flushed. “I like to know what’s going on with my men.”

  Dwight lit a cigarette. “Mr. Hoover insists, sir.”

  Jack said, “He’ll be working out of my jurisdiction. This is a bit of a slap in the face.”

  Reddin drummed his desk. “We’ve got plants in the Panthers and US. We share our intelli
gence with outside agencies when requested, which leads me to say I don’t like the one-way aspect of this.”

  “Again, sir. Mr. Hoover insists.”

  Jack went limp-waisted. “If Mr. Hoover insists, Mr. Hoover insists.”

  Reddin smirked. “I’ve read Intel sheets on the BTA and MMLF. They’re buffoons.”

  Dwight grinned. “We’ll paint them with a broad brush. The Panthers and US will get tarred, as well.”

  Reddin lit a cigarette. “They’re all tar babies.”

  Dwight laughed. Jack futzed with his ashtray. Reddin said, “All right. You’re saying it’s a publicized expulsion scenario, which will hopefully drench your boy in ghetto cachet.”

  Dwight nodded. “Right, and I’m thinking it will derive from a pre-existing personal feud between Officer Bowen and Sergeant Robert S. Bennett.”

  Reddin rolled his eyes. “Oh, Jesus, Scotty.”

  Jack said, “That psycho cocksucker.”

  Reddin slapped his knees. “Jack doesn’t like Scotty. Scotty threw his weight around on that armored-car job we had a few years back, and it ruffled Jack’s feathers.”

  Dwight put out his cigarette. “Give it up, Jack. You ran the Bureau’s end for a week.”

  Reddin said, “With Scotty, a week can be an eternity.”

  Jack rubbed his eyes. “Why Bennett and this Officer Bowen? What sort of ‘pre-existing feud’?”

  Dwight rocked his chair back. “Some ink-stained bills from the armored-car job were circulating in the ghetto. Marsh Bowen innocently passed one, so Bennett leaned on him. Bowen got on LAPD over Bennett’s objections.”

  Reddin said, “Jesus, Scotty and that case.”

  Jack said, “All right, I’ll concede the viability of the context. The cast is great, and the script options are enticing.”

  Dwight smiled. “Here’s the kicker. I don’t want Bennett informed. The scenario has to play out without his knowledge.”

  The desk phone rang. Reddin took the call sotto voce. Jack said, “You’ll copy me. Right, Dwight? For old time’s sake?”

  Dwight said, “No.”

  Tail job—all Niggertown.

  Dwight drove a rent-a-car. Scotty Bennett drove an unmarked cruiser. It was a comb-the-Congo caper. Scotty threw his weight around. He exuded white-oppressor panache.

  The fucker was huge. The bow tie and crew cut were a swinging caveman touch. Dwight frogged four car lengths back. Scotty canvassed liquor stores and scrounged free booze. Scotty waved to hookers and tossed Tootsie Rolls to little colored kids. Scotty drove by the Panther HQ and zoomed up on the sidewalk. A spear-chukker clique ran inside.

  Scotty hit a parking-lot crap game and shuck-and-jived with the brothers. Scotty logged ghetto scuttlebutt. Scotty dispensed chump change to winos. Scotty greased his snitches with ten-spots and pistol-whipped a freaky nigger hassling an old lady. Scotty donated a case of gin to the Mighty Redeemer Church. Scotty frisked an informant, found a hypo kit and beat his black ass with a beaver-tail sap.

  Darktown sizzled. It was mid-September hot. The shines wore warm-weather plumage. Lots of tank tops, porkpies and purple newsboy caps. Listless layabouts lapping up Schlitz Malt Liquor.

  Scotty cruised by the Peoples’ Bank of South Los Angeles. Dwight saw the prexy: Lionel Darius Thornton. Scotty drove by the BTA and MMLF fronts. The badass door guards wilted.

  The hump sucked up fear and hate wholesale. He was a stone shit magnet.

  The tour wound down at 4:00 p.m. Scotty hit the Harbor Freeway, the 101 and the Western Avenue exit. He double-parked outside a topless dive called the Rabbit’s Foot Club. Dwight single-parked and foot-tailed him in.

  A stacked redhead gyrated onstage. Pensioners and hippie boys leered at her. Scotty bowed and waved. The redhead walked backstage. A stacked blonde replaced her.

  Scotty walked backstage. Dwight walked back and lingered by some curtains. He heard small talk and an unmistakable blow job. He walked back to his rent-a-car and waited. Scotty split the Rabbit’s Foot Club nine minutes later. He shagged his cruiser and U-turned eastbound.

  Dwight frogged him. Scotty took Hollywood Boulevard to Sunset to Alvarado south. Bam—east on 7th Street. Next stop—Vince & Paul’s Steak House, 7th and Union.

  Scotty parked and walked in. Dwight cut him eight minutes’ slack. The bar was packed: wall-to-wall cops in civvies, juicing.

  Dwight nursed a 7UP and tried to look un-coplike. Scotty glad-handed, raconteured and fondled a stacked brunette.

  Scotty boozed. Scotty snarfed the free fried shrimp and rumaki. Scotty waltzed the brunette back to a storage room. Dwight lingered by the door. He heard small talk and an unmistakable blow job.

  Enough.

  Dwight walked back to his rent-a-car and waited. Scotty exited Vince & Paul’s eighty-three minutes later. Dwight tailed him home to Pasadena. His family met him on the porch. Mrs. Scotty was a stacked blonde pushing fifty. Scotty had two teenaged sons and two teenaged daughters. The kids were très tall and looked just like Scotty.

  “Do you hang out at Vince & Paul’s?”

  “Black cops aren’t welcome there.”

  “What happened to ‘Negro’?”

  “It went out last year. ‘Black’ is more bold. It’s got that tell-it-like-it-is quality that my people revere.”

  Dwight pushed his plate back. Ollie Hammond’s Steak House outclassed Vince & Paul’s. Their booth was secluded. Marsh Bowen picked at a salad.

  “It’s Scotty Bennett’s hangout. Is that why you asked me?”

  Dwight popped an antacid mint and lit a cigarette. His food had gone cold.

  “I can read people, Mr. Holly. I know you’ve been mulling over Scotty.”

  “Don’t fish for compliments. If I didn’t consider you smart and perceptive, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “But you’re wondering how adaptable I am.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I’ll consider that a compliment and move on, then.”

  Dwight tugged at his law-school ring. “The inked-cash thing. How brutal was he?”

  Marsh toyed with his fork. “He asked me questions with exaggerated courtesy and hit me with a phone book when he disapproved of my answers.”

  “Does he hate Negroes?”

  “It’s ‘black,’ Mr. Holly.”

  “Don’t correct me, Officer.”

  No twitch or flinch. Spreading goose bumps and a forehead vein tapping.

  “Does he hate Negroes?”

  “More than you, but less volubly. And I’m sure he’s killed a few more than you have.”

  Dwight flinched. “He seems to relish his time on the southside.”

  “He does, yes. He’s ‘Mr. Scotty’ south of Washington Boulevard.”

  “This decorously expressed hatred of his. Is he well known for it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Dwight cracked his knuckles. “Scotty’s the bait in your expulsion scenario. Tell me how you think we should play it.”

  Marsh did a pantomime. He squinted through a viewfinder. He framed the shot. He spoke through a megaphone.

  “Vince & Paul’s Steak House. The bar in full swing. Officer Marshall E. Bowen hits on Sergeant Robert S. Bennett’s torrid waitress girlfriend with the man himself right there.”

  Dwight stuck his hand out. Marsh let it hang there. The moment built and fizzled. They both saw how dumb it looked. They laughed at the same time.

  36

  (Las Vegas, 9/14/68)

  How suite it is.

  His killer pals lived in hotel suites. Freddy O. had the Cavern. The Frogman had new Fontainebleau digs. Wayne Tedrow had this spread at the Stardust. Dwight Holly crashed in suites nationwide.

  Crutch waited for Wayne T. His suite featured four rooms and a chemistry lab. His killer pals had college degrees. He got expelled from high school. He snapped that pic of Gail Miller’s bush and blitzed his shot at a higher education.

  Crutch waited. The foyer was velvet-flocked and gilt-mirrored. Caustic f
umes wafted from the next room. The Vegas paper sat on a table. Wayne made the headline, secondhand.

  The LVPD hung a posthumous beef on a shine named Pappy Dawkins. Said beef: the Wayne Senior snuff. “Heart attack”—bullshit. It was a sop to appease the family.

  His killer pals made headlines. His killer pals rigged headlines. The inside rumor: Wayne offed his old man.

  Crutch leaned against the wall. The flocking made him sneeze. Wayne and Froggy let him live. Yeah, he bluffed them. Yeah, he built the fail-safes. But, he had to spill.

  He’d spilled partial. He spilled that Dr. Fred Hiltz hired him. Go, kid—goose Farlan Brown and Count Dracula. It’s a thieving girlfriend gig. They grokked that part of it and believed him. He did not spill on Gretchen Farr as Celia Reyes or on Joan Rosen Klein. He did not reveal the foreign passports or Sam G.’s calls to Gretchen/Celia or the dead woman in Horror House.