James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03

by Blood's a Rover

  Dipshit, Peeper, pariguayo. Add “snitch” to that. Scotty knew he’d tipped Marsh Bowen. The winks meant you’re dead—but not yet.

  Safe House.

  He rented a shack in the Hollywood Hills. He stored his files, books, herbs and chemical gear there. It’s safe there. He’s not safe there. He flops at the Vivian and his downtown pad sporadic. He sleeps in his car. He rents motel rooms ad hoc. He does rope gigs for Clyde and Chick. He feels safe when he’s following people. He feels un-safe when he stops.

  Marsh went somewhere. He cruised Baldwin Hills all winter and saw surveillance traffic galore. Scotty staked out Marsh’s house. Dwight staked out Marsh’s house. Some IA cops scoured the crib in late January. Dwight warned him: Do nothing, Dipshit. Dwight knew most of what he knew. Dwight might or might not kill him. Scotty sure as shit would.

  Safe House.

  Deferred execution.

  He couldn’t run. L.A. was L.A. He only felt safe here. His case was here. He kabbed people and followed people here. He blew up right-wing street signs here. He knew how to live here. He couldn’t run anywhere else. L.A. always gave him urgent shit to do.

  Gretchen/Celia tried to track Tattoo’s killer. The late Leander James Jackson helped her. He found four of Jackson’s known associates. They said Leander was hipped on the case. They said he kept no records. A chick named “Celia” shared his fixation. They phone drop–communicated. The Tattoo deal commenced with bad Haitian gre-gre.

  Safe House.

  His gear is safe there. He’s not. It’s funny and fucked-up. He just turned twenty-seven. He looks way older. He’s got gray-streaked hair and a Commie brand on his back. He can’t talk to the people he cares for. He follows them instead.

  He follows Dwight Holly. Joan seems to have left him. Dwight sits in the pad near Karen’s house, for days at a stretch. The boxes and gear are gone. Dwight waits by the phone. He picks up the receiver every half hour. He watches Karen’s house with binoculars. He lights up on her little girls.

  Dwight stays immobile. He’s got to stay moving. He follows Karen sometimes. She’s led him to lunch dates with Joan.

  Following was easy. Mobility was his strong suit. Cars were camouflage. His zhlubby kid look supplied cover. Bug-tap jobs were easy. He knew how to drill, bore and thread. Eavesdropping was tough. People could see you and sense your intent.

  He got close to Joan and Karen. They sipped coffee and chain-smoked at a joint on Hillhurst. Joan said she had “the money.” That encouraged her. She was worried. Celia was lost in Haiti or the D.R. Joan had severed ties with Dwight. It pertained to “the Operation.” The phrase made Karen wince. Joan said “safe house” twice. Joan said Dwight would never be able to find her.

  They were such good friends. He heard New York in their voices. Karen was red-haired and didn’t look Greek. It was cold lately. Joan wore sweaters. He couldn’t see her knife scar.

  He snapped a sneak photo. Joan was forty-five years, four months and seventeen days of age.

  He taped it to his dashboard. He’s always moving. All of his pictures are safe.

  114

  (Los Angeles, 1/22/72–3/18/72)

  Gone.

  Joan took their forged documents and marking tools. Jack retired from the Bureau. He posted his resignation letter in the squadroom. It was respectful. It thanked Mr. Hoover and praised his leadership. Please send my pension checks to my P.O. box in rural Oregon.

  Marsh ran to Haiti and was murdered there. LAPD IA questioned him. He did not mention Sergeant Robert S. Bennett. He praised Sergeant Bowen’s performance on OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER. The cops said Marsh was a homosexual. Dwight acted surprised.

  They’re gone. She’s gone. She cleaned out the fallback and left the phone line intact. It’s a bootleg listing. She’s the only one with the number. If the phone rings, it’s her.

  Tell me things.

  Tell me what that man did to you.

  No, I’m not going to.

  Her hatred superseded the heat of his conversion. Jack held whatever hate he had close. Their rage eclipsed his shame and guilt. Their hurt cut deeper. He couldn’t kill the man. They went off to do it their way. They couldn’t use Marsh. They’d find a new fall guy or do it sans subtext. He won’t intercede. They know it. If Joan calls, he’ll say it.

  He black-bagged chez Marsh one final time. He checked the hidey-hole. The diary was gone.

  He called Bob Relyea and told him they’d aborted. Keep the money and buy yourself a new sheet. Bob was relieved. Dwight, it had snafu written all over it. Bubba, it’s still percolating. Stick close to your TV.

  He kept replaying D.C. It helped that Karen was there. He saw Mr. Hoover. He forgave Marsh for what the man made him. Nobody dies was no leap.

  He goes to the office. The fallback phone and the drop-front phone never ring. Mr. Hoover hasn’t called. Nixon hasn’t called. Peeper Crutchfield tails him and loiters outside. The kid knows everything except It’s All Over. Son, I don’t have the will to kill you.

  He took Karen away for her birthday weekend. They stayed at a cottage and made love a great deal. She’d seen Joan. He knew it. She never mentioned her name.

  She plays the string quartets every night. He stands on the terrace and listens. He holds Joan’s red flag. Karen leaves a light on for him.

  115

  (Los Angeles, 3/19/72)

  Sultan’s Sam’s. The Sandbox at 8:00 a.m.—far-out surreal.

  Scotty had a key. Sambo snitched for ATF and LAPD. Sambo hosted retirement bashes. Redd Foxx performed for instant bail release. Redd worked the room like a mofo. He was a closet white-pig groupie.

  The booth section needed a sweep-up. The bandstand was a scrap heap. The Soul Survivors left all their shit onstage. The walls were lime velour. They absorbed cigarette smoke. The rugs were deep shag. They absorbed piss.

  Keep it short. Summitry was brevity. Hold your nose, shake hands and split.

  Scotty sat in a back booth. He lit a cigarette, took two hits and snuffed it. He left the door ajar. Dwight Holly walked in.

  The dim light hit him. He eye-adjusted in the doorway. He got his bearings. He saw Scotty and joined him.

  Their knees brushed under the table. They scooched around and created some space.

  “Thanks for coming.”

  “I wouldn’t have missed it.”

  “It won’t take long.”

  Dwight said, “We’re both good negotiators. I think we’ll get there fairly quick.”

  Scotty twirled an ashtray. Leftover butts spilled.

  “You’ve told the others, right? You’re negotiating for them?”

  Dwight shook his head. “We’ll cut the deal. I’ll make sure that they accept it. We all know it has to end. If you’re reasonable, we’ll get it done today.”

  Scotty tipped his hat. “I thought you’d pat me down for a wire.”

  “I thought you’d feel me up for an ankle piece.”

  Scotty laughed. “It took so goddamn long for it all to fall together.”

  “Mr. Hoover got some things going. I’ll concede that.”

  “Just to let me know I’m not crazy. The heist was Jack Leahy, Joan Klein and that burned-up colored kid. It was all nutty political shit.”

  Dwight smiled. “That’s about it.”

  Scotty said, “I’m giving you a walk on the emeralds.”

  Dwight said, “That’s white of you.”

  “Leahy got the cash out.”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?”

  “Slightly more than seven million.”

  Scotty cracked his knuckles. “It’s all been washed? There’s no more ink stains?”

  Dwight nodded. “Clean, non-consecutive bills. Fives up to hundreds. It’s the best-looking money you’ve ever seen.”

  “I want half.”

  Dwight shook his head. “40%.”

  Scotty said, “45.”

  Dwight said, “Deal.”

  The room felt itchy and toxic. The
velour was shredded. Scotty felt particles eat his skin.

  “Let’s talk about Peeper. He’s a side issue here. I think he knows a lot of it.”

  Dwight said, “I’m sure he does.”

  “He’s been around forever. He knows all the players. He’s potential grief we don’t need.”

  Dwight nodded. Scotty said, “He goes.” Dwight said, “No sale. I’ll up you to 50, but I don’t want him hurt.”

  “Lets rethink this. The 50 is generous, but I have to insist.”

  “No sale. I’ll give you another concession, but I’m not folding on him.”

  A horn blared outside. Dwight jerked a bit. He was thin. His chest was bulked off-size. Odds on a load-stopper vest.

  “We can’t have him peeping around and coming around with his hand out. The little fucker just will not desist.”

  Dwight said, “No.” He jerked a little. His shirt stretched. The vest fabric showed underneath.

  “I have to insist. It’s a rough go now, but you’ll thank me some day.”

  “No. Let’s start over again. I’ll up you to 55 and give you one more free one. I step up, you step back, it all works.”

  A horn blared. Dwight jerked. His hand dipped under the table. Scotty gripped the table ledge. Dwight watched his hands. Scotty read his mind. He’s thinking cross-draw or side-draw/vest or no vest?

  Their eyes clicked. Their eyes held. Their hands disappeared.

  Dwight fired. The shot ricocheted under the table. A seat cushion exploded. Scotty ducked and rolled low. He saw Dwight’s legs and gun hand. He pulled two throwdowns. Dwight fired twice. He hit the booth post and Scotty’s vest. Scotty flew back and bounced forward. The impact double-visioned him. He pushed the table up and over. Dwight fired. The bullet caromed and tore out his neck. The table fell on him. He gouted blood and shot wide. Scotty rolled out of the booth and fired two-handed. He hit Dwight in both legs and the groin. He shattered Dwight’s gun hand.

  Dwight fired. A wall section ripped. Dwight dry-fired. His fingers didn’t work. The gun didn’t work. Blood covered the cylinder and the trigger. Scotty rolled close and kicked the gun out of his hand.

  Dwight spat blood in his face. Scotty pulled his vest up and gut-shot him. The air was cloud-thick. The cordite fumes stung.

  Scotty got his breath and his legs. He pat-checked himself. Okay—no grazes, no hits. They both shot revolvers. No stray shells extant.

  He pulled out a roll of tiger-band C-notes. He tucked it in Dwight’s coat pocket. He rubbed his own chest. He felt the slug vest-embedded. Okay—you can walk now.

  He did it casual. He stroooooled. He saw the mailbox on the corner and dropped the envelope in.

  Snitch-out. Anonymous. Written in ghetto-ese. The L.A. Office would get it. Jack Leahy would see it. Rogue Fed D.C. Holly. He suborned and offed the Bostitch brothers. Look close, don’t act. The Enforcer’s good for the Peoples’ Bank.

  Low clouds over darktown. Powder fumes out the door. A rainbow due south.

  Lawdy—it’s 2/24/64 redux.

  116

  (Los Angeles, 3/19/72)

  He was running prone or rolling aloft. His back grew legs and propelled him. He didn’t know how this could be.

  Green walls tumbled. A red film held his eyes away. His right arm pulsed. A green man ran with a bottle and stayed in front of him.

  I think I get it.

  He remembered crawling and the sidewalk and the old black guy. The picture in his pocket. Her phone number on the back.

  The green walls grew white lights. His legs were wheels. The red film dissolved and let faces in. More green men with bottles. Not the faces he wanted to see.

  You know who you are. One last time, please.

  He started grabbing and blinking. The red returned. He brushed things and knocked over things. He heard them crash. His hands were weightless. They were more like wings.

  His legs stopped rolling him. Someone wiped the red away. Someone grabbed his hands and squeezed life in them. He saw river borders around Karen.

  She said, “They are your children, Dwight. I swear it is true.”

  The rivers compressed and swam over her. She pushed through them and held in close. He reached for it and found it and got it out full voice.

  “Do you love me?”

  The rivers came in darkening. The green walls faded to pinpoints. She said, “I’ll think about it” as the lights stopped.

  117

  (Los Angeles, 3/23/72)

  Uncle Gibb’s Liquor—again.

  The southside record holder. Twenty-nine 211’s since 1963. Old Gibb always shook his head. “Mr. Scotty, I gots a dark cloud over me.”

  The tip came in an hour back. It was a solid phoner. A colored lady heard street talk. Two no-good boys with shotguns. Mr. Scotty, you stop this.

  Scotty perched in the alley. The back door was adjacent. He brought his civilian wheels. He’d bag them going in.

  His letter ploy worked. Dwight Holly’s death went unreported. The bank cash and Jack Leahy, the Enforcer’s low-down past. As planned—the Bureau buried it.

  Joan soon. She’d be tractable. He’d sidestep Jack and approach her direct. She’d see the sense in the split.

  It was misty. The windshield beaded over. Scotty kicked the ignition key and ran the wiper blades.

  A woman walked up. She was tall and red-haired. She didn’t quite look lost. She looked darktown-out-of-place.

  He rolled down his window. She came around the car and leaned in. He prepped a baby-you’re-lost spiel. She put her hand on the window ledge. She clicked as off-kilter then.

  She raised a little snubnosed revolver. She shot him six times in the face.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/24/72. Extract from the privately held journal of Karen Sifakis.

  The following pages will serve as my confession, should it come to that. I am not going to run. I am not going to lie if I am officially confronted. I am not going to offer personal or political justifications for the horrible thing that I did. I did it because I loved Dwight Holly to the bottom of my soul and because the other children’s name. woman he loved lacked the will to do it. I am determined to survive without Dwight and pray for the strength to do so, in our

  I performed the act in a state of rage. I did not pause to pray or summon moments of reflection. I walked to Dwight’s little bungalow and found a single throwdown gun in a box. I killed in the spirit of wanton apostasy. I refuse now and will always refuse to abdicate my personal responsibility for this act. Dwight scuttled his operation and spared a life. My persistent preaching of non-violence influenced his decision. His deeply sure rebuke of his own vile deeds compelled me to violently acknowledge the price he paid to revoke his past and seek transcendence. I could not have lived with myself had I not formed a circle back to that brave man and the woman I sent forth to teach him. The bond of the three of us must continue to flourish within me. My action was an attempt to settle all debts and hold us together, with one of us now incapacitated and one of us dead. I see through the grandiosity and speciousness of these statements even as I write them. I am past caring at this moment. I will always stand by what I have done.

  I feel the urgency of Dwight’s patrimony now. I will not dwell on whether I should have told him earlier. He knew for a conscious flicker and he will know in the world that follows this one. I will change our daughters’ names to Holly at an appropriate time.

  Dwight cared more for Marshall Bowen than he ever admitted. Bowen died in Haiti a few months ago. I am going to have his body shipped to the States and interred with Dwight’s. I will be sure that they are laid to rest near some tame goats.

  118

  (Los Angeles, 3/26/72)

  She was inside. She never left. He’d been watching for days.

  He talked to Clyde last night. Scuttlebutt was raging. Dwight Holly was dead. Some heist men shot Scotty. Clyde ran down all the theories. They were bogus. He had X-ray eyes. Only he knew what it meant.

  She stay
ed inside. He slept in his car and watched the windows. He saw her once, two days ago. She looked in the closet where the boxes used to be. She wore frayed jeans and one of Dwight’s suit coats.

  He started counting the days since he first saw her. He stopped at one thousand. He looked at the dashboard pix and got all raw. He ran up and jiggled the door.

  It swung open. She was sitting on the floor. Her face was blotchy and tear-streaked. She’d twisted some strands of her hair out. Her wrists were blood-crusted. A knife was stuck in the far wall. She wrote the word No in blood beside it.

  He almost stepped on her glasses. She squinted at him. He picked her glasses up and walked over. She pushed herself away from him and braced her back on the wall.

  He handed her the glasses. She put them on. Her eyes focused past her tears. She looked up at him.

  “Miss Klein, my name is Donald Crutchfield. I’ve been following you for a very long time, and I’d be grateful if you’d talk to me.”

  Part VI

  COMRADE JOAN

  March 26, 1972–May 11, 1972

  119

  Joan Rosen Klein

  (Los Angeles, 3/26/72)

  She’d seen him. He was a pop-up face and a blur, persistent. It was intermittent. He felt like a shape-shifter. He’d go away and reappear, changed.

  So I’ll tell you. It’s the story I should have told him.

  She cleaned up and bundled into Dwight’s tweed coat. She made them a pot of tea. Clouds rolled in low. A spring storm hovered.