James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03

by Blood's a Rover

  I have party-crashed a mélange of political poseurs. They are recreating a dank form of New York café society, circa 1930. El Morocco, the Stork Club and ‘21’ then; Sultan Sam’s Sandbox, the Scorpio Lounge and Rae’s Rugburn Room now. The skin tone has darkened, the fashions have changed, the cultural bar has been vulgarized and revitalized. These people love to see and be seen. Ezzard Donnell Jones, Joan Klein, Benny Boles, Joe McCarver and Claude Torrance club-hop most evenings. I always rate a “Right on” or “Hey, brother,” because I am a celebrity, martyr and prized commodity in one package. They sense that I want to be one of them, and I think they see my lack of one-group allegiance as a sign of coyness and of understandable reluctance. We gots to let the brother choose. Sheeeeit, brother was a motherfuckin’ pig just a few months ago.

  There has been an unsettling barrage of hate cartoons flooding the southside for the past several weeks. The chief targets have been the Panthers and US, along with street-art salvos directed at BTA and MMLF. My cartoonist and hate-tract writing friend Jomo ridicules the artistry and has convinced me it did not spring from his hand—“Not my style, brother. This is Mr. Hoover’s work for goddamn sure.” Mr. Holly disputes that—convincingly—because he’s given to blunt confirmations or denials, sees me as a brother cop on his side and would not try to disingenuously assert that the Bureau is above such tactics. Dwight Chalfont Holly, social realist, a man who calls a spade a spade and sometimes a spook, shine, dinge, coon, jungle bunny or smoke. The master of the mixed message. A critic of the LAPD’s vilely abusive conduct on the southside. A man who sadly admits that suppression never works, expresses a rather haunted respect for Martin Luther King and enjoys making me the straight man in impromptu Amos ’n Andy routines. I despise the hackneyed expression “a piece of work,” but that is Mr. Holly defined. The same phrase applies to his tortured aide-de-camp and quasi–kid brother, Wayne Tedrow—perhaps even more so. How odd that Wayne is the true killer of the two; how odd that he seems to be much less driven by racial animus and appears to be more capable of sustaining equitable relationships with blacks. I like Wayne; I’ve enjoyed the several cutout/operatee meetings that we’ve had. I’ve spread the word on how he killed the three black junkies and psycho rapist Wendell Durfee. Of course, the brothers loved it. Wayne has become the stuff of ambiguous ghetto lore already. Ooooh, that Wayne T.—he baaaaad.

  And something else.

  I arrived early for one of our meetings. Wayne was caught unprepared. I saw him looking at a photograph of a black woman. Wayne was quite obviously embarrassed. He put the photo down and gave me a look that brusquely stated Don’t Ask. I didn’t ask Wayne; I asked Mr. Holly, who replied, “Wayne goes deep with you dark motherfuckers,” and cut the topic off there.

  I did some Las Vegas newspaper research and identified the woman as a union steward named Mary Beth Hazzard. She’s a decade older than Wayne and is the mother of a long-missing son named Reginald. Reginald Hazzard is the young man in the photograph that Wayne showed me on the day we met; Wayne has been showing the photograph to almost everyone he encounters on the southside and seems determined to find the young man, come hell or high water. My newspaper research also revealed this: a West Las Vegas dope addict killed Mrs. Hazzard’s minister husband last year, then killed himself. Astonishingly, the dope addict was posthumously indicted for the murder of Wayne’s father in June of ’68. More astonishingly: the Vegas rumor is that Wayne and his late stepmother/lover killed Wayne Senior themselves.

  Wayne and Mr. Holly absorb me on several levels. They are not rogue cops à la Scotty Bennett—they are rogue authoritarians. And Wayne miraculously entered my life just as all my subtle queries on the armored-car heist had panned out fruitlessly and I found myself once again at the start-over point. In that moment, I meet Wayne. He casually asks me if I’ve heard stories of black folks receiving emeralds anonymously. He shows me a photograph of the young black man he’s looking for. The young man vaguely resembles the burned-faced man I met on 2/24/64. I feel like I’m entering a serendipitous dream state. What does all of this mean?

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/11/69. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request”/”Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.

  JEH: Good morning, Dwight.

  DH: Good morning, Sir.

  JEH: Wayne Tedrow and the sullen Negress Mary Beth Hazzard. I would be remiss in not expressing my horror and delight.

  DH: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Guilt assumes many forms. Mrs. Hazzard is not a comely Negress in the Lena Horne mode. She is undoubtedly given to phrases like “power to the people” and predisposed to the music of Archie Bell and the Drells.

  DH: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: You are being deliberately obtuse this morning, Dwight. You went through a spell like that when I deported Emma Goldman in 1919.

  DH: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: Sirhan Sirhan is on trial and the formal James Earl Ray proceedings should begin in April. Would you say the Bureau is covered there?

  DH: Yes, Sir.

  JEH: And the Dr. Fred Hiltz homicide?

  DH: Again, Sir. We’re covered. Jack Leahy has the case buried.

  JEH: Jack Leahy is the Alger Hiss to my HUAC and the Costello to my Abbott. He is a traitor and an unfunny nightclub comedian who has ridiculed my penchant for antiques.

  DH: Yes, Sir. No one has ever quite figured Jack out.

  JEH: He was your partner in ’23. You worked the Milwaukee Office with him.

  DH: Yes, Sir. I remember.

  JEH: I’m appalled by those hate cartoons circulating in South Los Angeles. I want you to determine their origin immediately and send me copies of all such works of filth extant.

  DH: I’ll get on it, Sir.

  JEH: Wayne Tedrow as Marshall Bowen’s cutout. Do you still defend the choice?

  DH: Vehemently, Sir.

  JEH: Why, pray tell? Because the dusky widow of the preacher he killed has imbued young Wayne with a surfeit of soul?

  DH: Yes, Sir. In part.

  JEH: And our Congolese cuties the BTA and MMLF? Will they cooperate with our agenda and push heroin sooner or later?

  DH: I think they will, Sir.

  JEH: And the infant daughter of informant 4361?

  DH: Lively and healthy, Sir.

  JEH: And your newer informant/inamorata?

  DH: She’s in my thoughts, Sir.

  JEH: As you are in mine, Dwight.

  DH: Thank you, Sir.

  JEH: Good day, Dwight.

  DH: Good day, Sir.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/13/69. Pouch communiqué. To: Wayne Tedrow. From: Colonel Ivar S. Smith, USMC (Retired). President, ISS Security Limited, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Marked: “Hand Pouch Deliver Only”/”Destroy Upon Reading.”

  Dear Mr. Tedrow,

  This letter follows up your colleague Jean-Philippe Mesplede’s recent trip to the D.R. to view casino-site locations and to discuss the possibility of building said hotel-casinos in this country. I am pleased to tell you that President Joaquín Balaguer is very anxious to have your businesses here and has pledged considerable resources in an effort to convince you to come. A brief history will give you a sense of the D.R. and our island neighbor Haiti and will, above all, convince you that this is a safe place for American tourists and your overseers and their hotel-casino personnel.

  The D.R. comprises the eastern two-thirds of the island of Hispaniola, and Santo Domingo, discovered by Columbus in 1492, is considered to be the oldest city in the Western world. Innumerable coups involving Spain, France and Holland led to the current Dominican secession from Spain; numerous battles between indigenous Negroes and the French resulted in independence for Haiti. Relations have remained strained between the D.R. and Haiti; this stands as the case today. Haiti, however, exists in a state of dire poverty, while the D.R. is developing into the very model of a safe and sane, pro-U.S., anti-Communist republic.
The Haitian border is heavily patrolled by Dominican forces, assisted by agents of President Balaguer’s personal intelligence unit La Banda, in collaboration with my security firm. Informant networks have been recruited by the above agencies; the Haitian population of the D.R. and illegal Haitian immigration into the D.R. has been well interdicted and suppressed. The Haitians are a primitive race of people, heavily reliant on their practice of voodoo and made tractable by their addictive use of klerin liquor and mind-altering herbs. The president of Haiti, François “Papa Doc” Duvalier, came to power as a voodoo proponent and keeps his people suppressed by allowing voodoo to flourish. His private police force, the Tonton Macoute, are recruited from voodoo societies and enforce voodoo as President Duvalier’s chief means to retain the societal status quo and keep himself in power. Under Dominican President Trujillo’s rule (1930–1961), there were several Dominican army slaughters of unruly Haitian émigrés; on June 14, 1959, a Castroite group called the 6/14 Movement staged a failed invasion of the D.R.’s shores. The brief 1965 Civil War was, in fact, a farce, sternly resolved when President Johnson sent in a marine contingent to restore order to a nation seeking to establish free elections. A leftist named Juan Bosch was fraudulently elected and held power briefly. A truly free election was held in 1966. Bosch was deposed and pro-U.S. President Balaguer was honorably elected. The last official marine unit withdrew from the D.R. on 8/19/68.

  President Balaguer is no flamboyant Rafael Trujillo, but President Balaguer knows how to keep dissent at a low roar and understands the importance of maintaining a tidy nation that American and European tourists will want to visit. He is on superbly good terms with the military, should crack-downs or clean-ups of Haitians or left-wing insurgents be required. And President Balaguer is willing to proactively invest in your hotel-casino foray by pledging land free of charge for casino sites in Santo Domingo proper and outside of it (see addendum report for structural studies and soil-composition studies). He will grant Hughes Air the exclusive flight rights to reserved VIP landing strips at the Santo Domingo Airport, will build extra runways for the increased air travel free of charge and will supply un-skilled Haitian and Dominican peasant workers for the casino build. A construction company that he is part owner of will supply building materials at a reduced cost and my security firm and La Banda stand ready to provide 24-hour security for the building sites. I am recommending four Cuban men—WILTON MORALES, FELIPE GÓMEZ-SLOAN, CHIC CANESTEL and CRUZ SALDÍVAR—as casino-site work bosses. They are Cuban mercenaries, Spanish- and English-fluent, and have pre-existing work relationships with the operatives in my security firm and the agents in La Banda. Again, I will stress: the threat of revolt or the shenanigans of left-wing gadfly groups will pose no threat to the casino build, and the presence of unruly Haitian émigrés and Dominican peasants will be curtailed before it can reach the point where it might upset visiting tourists. As of this writing, President Balaguer is preparing an addendum incentive package as his way to say “¡Bienvenidos!” to you and your investors’ group.

  In summation, I can only state that you and your people would be well advised to say “¡Sí!” to our proposal. You will be welcomed to a country with a stable political climate, a solid economy and a leadership anxious to lend a helping hand.

  Sincerely,

  Ivar S. Smith, USMC (Retired)

  61

  (Las Vegas, 2/16/69)

  The Clark County Sheriff’s sent more paperwork. Wayne went through the folder and pinned documents to the wall.

  Interview notes—LVPD file repeats. Repeat dispo reports, smudged file carbons.

  The file alcove was overpacked—let’s move chem bins for more shelf space. Stop, here’s something—

  Wayne pinned it up. A parking ticket, 11/29/63. Fire-hydrant obstruction. 2082 Monroe Street, North Vegas. Reginald Hazzard got tagged the week before he disappeared.

  It was tri-racial turf. Nellis AFB decreed that. The commercial strip was all slot joints and one-buck buffets. They were one-race-only deals. Whites had the Shamrock, blacks had Monty’s Mosque, the Mexicans had Al’s Alamo.

  The residential streets were mixed and cut through diagonally. Wayne parked on Monroe and went walking. He’d read Ivar Smith’s report and summarized it for the Boys. The soil and structural stats were superb. Balaguer wanted their biz. He was paying them to come and build. The Boys said let’s go. Wayne called Smith in Santo Domingo. Smith said Balaguer wanted fifty grand a month personal. Wayne said okay. The Boys said okay. Wayne proposed a hands-off chit from Dick Nixon. Farlan Brown said we need a phone-chat liaison. Wayne’s candidate: Dwight Holly.

  The prez was a cop buff and an FBI washout. He loved to schmooze with tough-guy Feds. Dwight “the Enforcer”?—none better.

  The houses were all ant-sized and eroded cinder block. Windows were foil-crimped to beat the heat. Wayne started at 2082 and knock-knocked. It was 4:10 p.m. He got tri-racial residents off shift at Nellis. He smiled, he said hello, he showed Reginald’s picture. He got four no answers and fourteen straight nos.

  He kept walking. A North Vegas PD car cruised by. A cop recognized him and went Pow!

  He got three more no answers and nine more nos. He walked by a house with an open garage adjacent. He saw a black man vat-boiling on a hot plate. He smelled tropical plants and ammonia base.

  The man waved to him. Wayne walked up. The vat fumes knocked him back. The man laughed and laughed.

  They shook hands. The man squeezed words out between chuckles. He had a French island lilt. Wayne scoped the garage. It was his lab unkempt—cheap gear and tape-marked bottles.

  Urera baccifera. Diodon holacantheus. Crapaud blanc. Theraphosidae E., Anolis colestinus, Zanthroxyllum matinicense.

  Spiny plant powders, topical irritants, ground tarantulas, lizards and toads.

  The man smiled. Wayne said, “Tetrodoxin posioning.”

  The man bowed. “You are a chemist?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you other things to tell me?”

  Wayne scanned labels. Tremblador, Desmembres, puffer fish, stinging nettle. Diffenbachia seguine—a prime spiny plant.

  “I hope you’re using these compounds for a beneficial purpose.”

  “Oh yes. If eliminating an infestation of rabid gophers in my backyard can be considered that.”

  Wayne smiled. “Then my best advice is to add more ammonia and cook the powder into an emulsion paste.”

  The man grabbed a pen and wrote French on a scratch pad. Wayne ID’d scents: alkalines mixed with herb residue.

  He pulled out his show picture. The man put on glasses and bent down a gooseneck lamp.

  “Yes, I have met this young man.”

  “When?”

  “I vividly recall it. It was right after the president was shot.”

  “And the circumstances?”

  The man dabbed ointment on a finger cut. The skin puckered and closed in an instant. Wayne smelled caustic hydroxide and something all new. The effect stunned him flat.

  “He was a pleasant young man and a knowledgeable amateur chemist. He had heard of me. He was curious about the anesthetic qualities of Haitian herbs, particularly their pain-killing and flame-retardant potential.”

  62

  (Los Angeles, 2/18/69)

  Emma Goldman, Moscow, Archie Bell and the Drells. Clogged veins abet Looney Tunes.

  The old girl was gonesville. How long could he last? How much shitwork could he assign?

  Race shit abets hate shit. Dr. King had a dream. Mr. Hoover had a comic-book jones.

  Hate cartoons and hate sonnets. “This little piggie went to market. This little piggie stayed home. This little piggie got offed by a Panther, after he sucked his big bone.”

  Dwight drove print shop to print shop. He worked off a phone-book list. A pro printed this shit. It was print-shop quality.

  It was raining. He’d hit sixteen print shops. He displayed his hate shit and ruined moods en masse. His badge and nerves induced freak
outs. Numbnuts clerks flashed the peace sign.

  Mr. Hoover dug the peace sign. It was the “footprint of the American chicken.”

  Dwight drove northeast. He was five hours in. The southside and the Miracle Mile were kaput. Hollywood was next.

  He hit a print shop on Fountain and a print shop on Cahuenga. He played his police radio between stops. The LAPD band hopped. A Stop the War march downtown. A fruit-picker march in Boyle Heights. Lots of mon-keyshines due south.

  He got “No” and “No, sir.” He headed east. He hit a print shop on Vine and a print shop on Wilton. A zit-faced kid yukked at the hate shit. A hippie chick went, “Om.”

  He hit a print shop on Vermont. He smelled maryjane and incense. Two counter kids weaved and goof-grinned. They saw him and grokked his occupation. A joint passed girl to boy. The boy ate the roach.

  Dwight flashed his hate spray. The boy said, “So? It’s not illegal.” The girl tee-heed.

  They perused the shit. Dwight spread it out for a better look-see. The girl focused on the heavy-hung buck. The boy said, “It’s a free country.”

  “Did you print this material?”

  “Yeah, sure. It’s a free country.”

  The girl tee-heed. “Well, sort of.”

  “Who brought it in? What did they look like? Who picked it up? How did they pay and/or where was it sent?”

  The girl said, “This is censorship.” The boy said, “It’s a free country.”

  Dwight walked to the door, threw the bolt and walked back to the counter. The girl chewed her lip. Dwight flexed his hands.

  The boy wilted. “It was a cash sale and a delivery to a place in Eagle Rock. This woman, strong-looking, you know, like a ball-buster chick you don’t want no part of.”