James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (15 page)

The TV was still on. Nixon did the V-for-victory thing. What a geek. He always needed a shave.

Crutch yawned and got antsy concurrent. He popped four dexies and snagged his rent-a-car keys.

Wrong turns and U-turns de-situated him. The Doral was near the Eden Roc. Wayne Junior's hotel—just two minutes out. One-way streets put him on a causeway. The bay water churned with confetti and floating Nixon signs. The exit markers confused him. Side streets sidetracked him. He smelled smoke. He heard gunfire. Neighborhoods devolved into shine shantytowns. He saw two spooks torch a '59 Plymouth.

The spooks saw him—Honky! Honky! Honky! Crutch gunned it and
hung a Uey. The spooks chased his car. A tall spook lobbed a cinder block and hit his back window. The block decomposed. The window stayed intact. The spooks yelled spook-outrage slogans and spooked on back to the Plymouth.

Crutch got his bearings. He drove fast and steered clear of smoke stench and flames. The roving spook quotient upgraded to spook winos and porch loafers. He hit a spook-free zone and made it back to the causeway and Miami Beach proper. The detour got him finger-popping
alive
. He skimmed the radio and found a soul station. He grooved on Archie Bell and the Drells with “The Tighten Up.”

He parked outside the Doral. He eyeballed the door and played the soul station. The DJ talked pro-riot Commie shit with cool spook music mixed in. Wayne Tedrow Jr. walked out at 2:49 a.m. He shagged
his
rent-a-car. Crutch tailed him.

Convention traffic was still steady. Tail cover was good. Crutch hovered two car lengths back. Wayne Junior stuck to spook-free zones and booked to Little Havana. He swooped by Jean-Philippe Mesplede's rooming house and picked up the Frogman. Crutch vibed it: another trawl for Gaspar Fuentes and Miguel Díaz Arredondo.

Flagler Street hopped. The coffee bars were open late. A radio guy did man-in-the-street interviews. Arson outside the Cuban Freedom Council—some beaners burning a straw Fidel.

Mesplede and Wayne Junior did their thing. Crutch knew it now. They ditched the car, walked storefront-to-storefront and asked questions. Crutch stayed mobile. He slow-trawled Flagler and
looked
. Mesplede and Wayne Junior did a one-hour loop and re-mobilized. Traffic was thin. Crutch hovered four car lengths back.

Wayne Junior pulled to the curb and walked to a pay phone. Mesplede stayed in the car. Crutch hit the brakes and pulled over
eight
car lengths back.

He got out his binoculars and zoomed in. Wayne Junior fed quarters to the phone slot—long-distance, for sure. Crutch got in
clooooose
. Wayne Junior's lips moved. Two seconds and
halt
—Wayne Junior just listened.

And trembled. And went pale. And hung up, walked back to the car and leaned in Mesplede's window.

More lip movement. Crutch zoomed in
très
close. The talk looked panicky. Mesplede slid behind the wheel and pulled out, peeling rubber. Wayne Junior walked to a parked taxi cab and got in the back.

The cab pulled out. Crutch tailed it. Traffic was too sparse to get close. Crutch killed his headlights and cued on the cab's taillights. They cut across this
biiiiiig
swath of Miami.

The terrain got rural. The roads got rough and swervy. The cab pulled
ahead. Crutch turned his lights on just to
see
. Dirt roads swerved up to a rinky-dink airfield. Crutch saw a two-seater prop job on the runway.

He stopped the car. He couldn't see the cab. He got out and squinted in the dark. He was discombobulated. He couldn't see shit.

Floodlights snapped on. Crutch got glare-blinded. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes. He got some sight back. He saw Wayne Junior, standing by the airplane, looking straight at him.

(Las Vegas, 8/9/68)

B
uddy Fritsch said, “I got us a suspect.”

His den was polar-cold. He served highballs and Fritos. Chuck Woodrell had the flu and kept sniffling. Dwight kept tugging at his law-school ring. Wayne was frazzled—that bumpy flight and thirty-six sleepless hours.

It was 9:00 p.m. Miami felt like a fever dream. His time zones were stretched disproportionate.

Fritsch passed around a mug-shot strip: three views of a male Negro. Sylvester “Pappy” Dawkins, age forty-eight. A lean man with a fuck-you demeanor. Inked on the back: burglary raps from '42 up.

Woodrell said, “Woooo, boy.”

Dwight said, “Hide the kiddies.”

Fritsch said, “He's a residential burglar with rape-o tendencies. He was in custody near Barstow on the night Wayne Senior died, which don't make no difference to us. He's got no alibi for that night, and it's a little two-man PD. I can buy both them boys off.”

The strip recirculated. Woodrell said, “Katy-bar-the-door.” Dwight said, “Electric chair, sweetheart.” Wayne shut his eyes and passed the strip back.

Fritsch slurped his highball. “Washoe County makes him for two burglary snuffs, so it ain't like he's a contributing member of society. He pulls B&Es all messed-up on goofballs, so he'll make a piss-poor witness.”

Woodrell nibbled Fritos. “I like him. He's five seconds out of the trees.”

Fritsch said, “I got a print transparency. We can roll it through a blood sample and pre-date it.”

Dwight rubbed his neck. “How much?”

Woodrell said, “Fifty on my end.”

Fritsch squirmed. “Uh … twenty for me? And I'll take care of the Barstow boys out of that?”

Dwight nodded. “I'll tap you-know-who. He wants to see this covered.”

Wayne said, “No.”

Fritsch froze mid-slurp. Woodrell froze mid-bite. Wayne said, “No more.”

Woodrell sighed. “This is just about the biggest favor you'll ever get in this lifetime.”

Fritsch sighed. “Don't be a Bolshevik, son.”

Woodrell laughed. “Mr. Sensitive. With the niggers he's got on
his
résumé.”

Wayne looked at him. “Stop right there. Don't make me take this any further.”

Woodrell flushed and got shaky-kneed. Fritsch said, “Sweet Jesus.” Dwight pointed to the two of them and the door. They caught the gist and walked out. Dwight stood up and hauled Wayne upright. Dwight grabbed his shirtfront and slapped him.

It stung. It raised blood dots. Wayne popped pain tears. It was a love tap by Dwight Holly standards.

“It's for Janice. It's for both of us and everything you've put your hands on. It's for this fucked-up hole we're both in.”

Wayne wiped his nose. Blood pooled in his mouth. His tears dried quick.

“This has to happen, so you let it happen,
and you do not fold on me
. I need that from you, and I may need you for the Grapevine. Otash went to St. Louis, we'll need to talk to him about it, and we might have to go in at some point.”

His blood tasted funny. Dwight held him up. His legs were gone.

“I need you to stand in. I need your father's mail lists, and if push comes to shove with the Grapevine, I want you there.”

Wayne nodded. Dwight let his hands go. Wayne weaved and stayed up.

The sheets were moist. Her gown was damp. Her pulse ran weak-steady. Wayne flicked the dial and fed dope to the tube.

Heroin. His compound. A morphine-base synthetic.

Janice unclenched. Wayne wiped her brow and toweled the sheets
half-dry. The night nurse was sleeping in the living room. Janice was all sweat and chills.

Wayne took her hands. “There's something that has to be done to give us some safety. When you hear about it, you'll know. It wasn't my idea, and there's no way around it.”

Janice shut her eyes. Tears leaked. She pulled her hands free. They felt weightless, all veins and bone.

Wayne flicked the dial. Dope flowed bag to tube to vein. Janice went out, shuddering.

Her pulse was weak-normal. Wayne arranged her hair on the pillow. He grabbed the bedside phone and dialed Mesplede in Miami.

Three rings. A sleep-slapped “
Oui
?”

“It's Wayne.”

“Yes, of course. My American friend in duress.”

“Do something for me.”

“Of course.”

“There was a kid tailing me in Miami. I don't know what it's about, but it's trouble.”

“Yes? And your wish?”

“Early twenties, medium-sized, crew cut. He's driving an Avis rent-a-car. The plate number is GQV-881.”

“Yes? And your wish?”

“Find out his business and clip him.”

The vault was twelve miles east of Vegas. Wayne Senior had dubbed it the “Führer bunker.” It was a scrub-covered cement square sunk in a sand drift. It was straight out I-15.

Wayne brought a flashlight, a gas can and a Zippo lighter. The location was a mile off the interstate. The vault held copies of all Senior's hate tracts and his subscriber lists.

Wayne parked on a turnaround near a Chevron station and walked into the desert. It was 106° at midnight. Sand sucked at his feet and slowed his walk to a trudge. It was slow slow motion. He thought about Dallas the whole time.

He got there. He pulled off scrub branches, unlocked the door and hauled hate lit out. Titles jumped off covers. He saw
Miscegenation Generation
and
Jew Stew: A Recipe Book
. He saw
Pope Pontius: How Papists Rule the Jewnited Nations
. He saw doctored pix of Dr. King and little Negro kids. He saw facsimile editions of vintage Klan kodebooks.

He stripped the shelves. He lugged paper and ink-smudged his arms
black. He saw hate headlines. He saw pornographic hate cartoons. He saw lynching photos with gag captions.

He built a big hate pile. It stood eight feet high. He doused it with gasoline. He sparked the Zippo and put the flame down.

The pile flared straight up and out. The big black sky went red.

(Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

T
he sky went red to orange. Dwight stood by the service pumps and watched.

The blaze backlit the desert floor and the highway. He saw Wayne's car on the turnaround. His tail-job-on-instinct got him
this
.

Two pump jockeys stood around, gawking. A hot wind blew smoke their way. Dwight walked to a pay phone, fed the slot quarters and dialed direct to L.A.

The smoke was thick with paper bits. Dwight felt the sting. Karen picked up immediately.

“Hello?”

“It's me.”

“You're not supposed to call when he's in town, goddamnit.”

Dwight said, “Talk slow to me. Just a minute, please.”

Karen said something back. He didn't hear it. His eyes were all wet and fucked-up. He couldn't tell if it was the smoke or his crazy love for Wayne.

(Miami, 8/10/68)

S
moke and fire. The spooks refused to quit. Gunshots, sirens and a 4:00 a.m. light show.

Crutch pulled into the Avis lot. The clutch on his rent-a-car blew. The gears were stripped. The car lurched and lugged. He called ahead. The desk guy said, Screw the riot. You come right in.

Half-tracks rolled down Biscayne Boulevard. The governor called in the Guard. There's a string of cop cars and a six-seater Jeep. Fuck, the driver's smoking a joint.

Smoke and fire. Swamp heat. This orange sky edging toward mauve.

The car lurched and died by the gas pumps. Crutch got out and stretched. Heat and fumes smacked him. His head hurt. He'd been working the bug post full-time. He'd been up since God knows—

Someone/Something pushed him. He tumbled back in the car. His head hit the shift knob. His arms hit the dashboard. The Someone/Something pinned him down. He/It was all black.

Then the knee on his back. Then the gun in his face. With the silencer barrel-threaded and the hammer half-back.

“Why are you surveilling Wayne Tedrow? Be honest. Evasion will decree an even more horrible death.”

The French accent. The Frogman. Frog couture all black.

“I repeat. Why were you surveilling Wayne Tedrow?”

Crutch tried to pray. The words hit his brain jumbled. His piss tubes swelled. He held it in. The weight on him helped. He remembered his lucky rabbit's foot and obscure Lutheran Church lore.

“I repeat.”

His shit chute swelled. He held it in. The weight on him helped. He opened his mouth. He squeaked and got some sounds out. God or some unseen fucker fed him word soup. He saw his mother. He heard “Dr. Fred,” “Howard Hughes,” “Grapevine plant,” “million dollars.” He heard “Dead woman,” “missing woman,” “knife-scar woman,” “green stones.” He heard “Please don't kill me” six billion times in six seconds.

He shut his eyes. His tear ducts swelled. He held it in. Biting his tongue helped. Six billion years went by in six seconds. He saw his mother and Dana Lund six billion times. He tried for prayers and dredged up hymns.

The weight eased up. He clenched his tubes, chutes and ducts and stayed dry. He smelled brandy. The scent touched his lips strong. He opened his mouth. He dipped his head and took the pour. His throat constricted. He opened wider and let it roll in. He opened his eyes and saw the Frogman.

“I have been prone to sympathetic lapses before. You must affirm my perception of your youthful willfulness and capacity for acquiescence.”

Crutch crawled into the passenger seat. His heartbeat kept multiplying. He was head-to-toe sweat. The Frogman stretched out in the driver's seat. He nipped off the flask and passed it back. Crutch chugged brandy and looked out the window. There's more smoke, sirens and riot cops—the spooks just won't quit.

Mesplede said, “I may ask you to report information to me.”

Crutch nodded—yessir, yessir, yessir.

The flask went back and forth. A sync settled in. Their eyes stayed locked while the Frogman monologued. It was all CUBA. It was
le grand putain
Fidel Castro and the Cuban Freedom Cause. There was JFK's Bay of Pigs betrayal. There was LBJ's Commie appeasement. There was America's sissified accommodation and the Caribbean as a Spreading Red Lake. There were brave men willing to die to quash the Red Tide.