James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (48 page)

Wayne pointed over. “Who is she?”

Sonny said, “She hangs out with the BTA and she dances up a storm. I don't like them glasses, though.”

Junior said, “I think her name is Joan.”

Wayne watched Joan. Sonny and Junior ignored him. He built himself a head space. The club went quiet. Wayne synced the music to her movements. He thought he tasted voodoo herbs and klerin booze. Sensory wisps—a flashback for sure.

Joan cleaned her glasses on her shirttail. Her eyes went soft without them. A shiv extended out from one boot.

She slouched a little. Her movements were fluid. She blew artful smoke rings.

The music tone shifted. Joan stopped swaying. She put money on the table, got up and split.

Wayne got up. Darkness covered him. He followed Joan out to the rear parking lot. She got into a '59 Chevy. The plates were mud-streaked. She was a tail-savvy pro.

She pulled out and hit Manchester westbound. Wayne shagged his rental car and idled forty yards back. Joan drove middle-lane slow. She deployed her signal lights and played good citizen. She turned onto the Harbor Freeway northbound. Wayne zoomed up and dawdled back.

It was late. Traffic was scarce. Wayne leapfrogged to look innocuous. They passed through downtown and Chinatown. The Pasadena Freeway ran them north. Joan cut onto the Golden State westbound. Wayne caught up and fell back. Joan bombed through Atwater and skirted the Glendale off-ramps. She veered right and hit an Eagle Rock exit. Wayne laid back and watched her taillights. She stopped outside a bungalow court on a hill.

Wayne stayed put. Joan parked the Chevy at the curb and unlocked the Dodge next to it. The lights went on. She U-turned and headed straight at him. He saw her face in the windshield. The front plate was mud-smeared.

Her turn signal flashed. She cut east on Colorado Boulevard. Wayne lagged slow, caught up and fell back. They drove through Pasadena. Joan turned north on Lake Avenue. Pasadena bled into Altadena. They ran up toward the San Gabriel Hills. Wayne let two cars buffer-zone them. He stuck his head out the window and fixed on Joan's taillights.

She turned left on a side street. Wayne floored it, turned and braked back. Joan parked and walked up to a small shingle house. Someone
opened the door and let her in. The Eagle Rock location vibed
safe house
. Ditto this pad.

Wayne parked and ran over. The house lights were on. He squatted and ducked around to the driveway. He caught shadows inside. The window shades were half up. He stood and looked in.

A small living room. Stacks of rifles and handguns piled on furniture. Blankets draped over them.

Carbines, M14's, scope-mounted Rugers. Automatics and revolvers in a box.

Jomo Clarkson walked in. His head was sutured and gauzed. Joan followed him. They talked soundless. He looked agitated. She looked calm. The closed window killed audio.

Joan took off her coat. Wayne saw the knife scar on her right arm.

CLICK:

That file Dwight sent him. No picture attached. He burned through redacted type. He found one KA name and told Dwight. He shredded the file. He couldn't recall the KA name. The
CLICK
felt solid and
INCOMPLETE
.

Joan and Jomo talked. Wayne pressed up to the window. He caught audio hum, no words formed, he couldn't read lips.

He saw a gas station down the block. He ran for the phone booth—

Dwight sipped coffee. “The late-night call-out. I'm starting to get used to it.”

Canter's Deli on Fairfax. The 3:00 a.m. clientele: cops and ultra-soiled hippies.

Wayne said, “Who's Joan?”

Dwight raised his hands—beats me—disingenuous, unconvincing.

“Is she Joan Rosen Klein? I treated the redactions on her file last year, but I never saw her picture.”

Dwight reprised beats me. Wayne slapped the table. Their coffee sloshed and spilled.

“Tell me about her.”

Dwight shook his head. Wayne slapped the table. The bread basket flew.

“She's got a knife scar on her right arm.”

Dwight fucking smiled. Wayne balled his fists. Dwight touched his hands—son, don't do this.

“I saw her with Jomo Clarkson. 1864 Avondale in Altadena. It's a safe house. There's a fuckload of guns.”

Dwight fretted his law-school ring. It dropped off and fell in his lap.

“Keep going.”

“Jomo's been talking up a roll he's got. He's a heist man and an anti-white-tract writer. Fred Hiltz, remember? The hate-tract king gets offed, and BHPD tags it ‘unknown black suspects.' ”

Dwight got up and ran. Wayne grabbed his ring off the floor.

(Beverly Hills, 4/14/69)

B
HPD let him read the file. Hoover's pet thug at 4:00 a.m.? The watch commander complied.

Dwight sat in the muster room. The file was abbreviated. Mr. Hoover short-shifted the case. Jack Leahy had shitcanned it, per his dictate.

One folder, nine pages, a four-page lead sheet. Numerous male Negroes listed. Mostly rat-outs by police informants and pissed-off loved ones. A general tally of male Negro heist men. No Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson, no black-militant fucks et al.

Dwight read the crime-scene report and autopsy protocol. Eyewits reported two masked Negroes. Cause of death: massive shotgun wounds. Also listed: four .38-caliber slugs lodged in the head.

Hold it
—

The protocol included bullet pix. The lab tech said all four shots blew from one gun. Soft-points, six lands, eight grooves, semi-flat projectiles.

Hold it right
—

Joan fired safe-house rounds into baffling.
He
told her to. Spent shells—right there in his briefcase.

Dwight popped it open. The bullet pile was plastic-wrapped. He found one dented .38. He grabbed the photos and ran down the hall to the crime lab.

The door was open. Nobody was there. Candy-ass PDs were like that. Dwight looked around. By the back wall: a ballistics microscope.

He walked over and put his shell in the holder. He laid the photos on the counter. He tweaked the dial and squinted. He got in close. He got a
six-land, eight-groove spread and a near-identical flathead. He checked the photos. The same gun fired both bullets, dead cert.

He heard sirens outside. He heard a radio call one room over:
Code 3, all K-cars, Altad
—

Mob scene:

The L.A. Sheriff's, BHPD, twenty black & white and plainclothes units. Bluesuits hauling out blanket-wrapped guns.

Dwight pulled up to the barricades. The street was arc-lit pink-white. Squares milled around in their pj's. Cops poured in and out of the target pad. Safe house, no shit.

The barricade guard walked up. He was a Sheriff's geek with post-teenage acne. Dwight stepped out of the car and badged him.

“Come on, give.”

“Uh … sir?”

“Tell me what we've got here.”

The geek snapped to. “Well, we got a tip on a gun stash and that homicide of that hate guy last year. It's BHPD's case, so we called—”

“Jomo Clarkson.
Where is he
?”

The geek stepped back. “Well, LAPD shagged him out from under us. This Robbery bull showed up with a peremptory warrant. He took the guy to 77th Street Station.”

Dwight got light-headed. “Is there anyone else in custody? A white woman? Did LAPD pop a woman with the black guy?”

“No, sir. This detective just hustled the colored man off real quick. We've sure got the guns, but I don't know anything about a woman.”

Dwight got in his car and burned tread in reverse. He banged the curb off a U-turn and looped side streets to the Pasadena Freeway. He attached his gumball light and hit 120. The run downtown took six minutes. The Harbor Freeway got him to the Congo. The station was a quick jump off the exit.

He parked in the patrol lot and pinned his badge to his coat. He walked past the front desk. The duty sergeant was snoozing. He heard inebriated jigs howling back in the jail.

The squadroom was upstairs. Dwight jumped the steps three at a time. The bullpen was wall-to-wall desks and walk spaces. The morning-watch cops read teletypes and hunt-and-peck typed. They looked bored. One guy waved. Dwight cut down a bisecting hallway. Sweat rooms lined the right wall.

There's Scotty.

He's eating an apple. He's wearing a brown suit and a plaid bow tie. He's looking in a double-front window.

Dwight walked over. Scotty winked. Dwight looked in the window. There's Jomo, cuffed to a chair.

Scotty said, “Don't tell me. Mr. Hoover wants the Hiltz thing chilled.”

“Why tell you? It wouldn't do me any good.”

Scotty laughed. “Would you like to watch?”

“Yes. Will you give me a concession first?”

“Yes.”

Dwight pulled out his cigarettes. Scotty took two and lit them both up.

“What happened? Tell me why we're standing here.”

Scotty tossed the apple in a trash can. “Your boy Marsh called me and snitched Jomo for some liquor-store 211's. I grabbed him before BHPD could glom him for the Hiltz job, which I think he's good for. Funny thing, though. I talked to Marsh on the phone, and it sure didn't sound like him. More-fucking-over, it sounded like a woman was whispering in the guy's ear and telling him what to say.”

Dwight touched his ring. It was gone. Scotty stubbed his cigarette out on the wall. Jomo spat at the mirror space. The glob hit a bolted-down table. Jomo squirmed in his bolted-down chair.

Scotty opened the door. Dwight followed him in. They pulled chairs up and loomed over Jomo. The fucker was floor-bolted and chair-cuffed in tight.

“I want to talk to a lawyer. Get me one of them frizzy-haired Jewish guys that work for the Panthers.”

Scotty said, “Mr. Holly's a lawyer. He'll advise you of your rights.”

Dwight said, “You have the right to confess and avoid physical punishment. You have the right to tell Sergeant Bennett exactly what he wants to know. I'll require prompt answers to my questions, as well. If you cooperate, we'll give you a pack of cigarettes and a candy bar. If you resist, we'll kick the shit out of you and dump you in the queen's tank.”

“This is fucking humbug shit! I know the law!
Miranda-Escobedo
passed in 1962!”

Scotty said, “
Miranda-Escobedo
doesn't apply here. This is a kangaroo court, and you're the kangaroo.”

Jomo spat on the table. Scotty pulled a rubber-hose chunk from his waistband. It was ten inches long and friction tape–gripped.

“Over the past seven months fourteen liquor stores have been robbed in southside Los Angeles. You match the general description of the suspect. A confidential police informant called me today. He gave you up for
the crimes, and I found him credible. I would advise you to confess. If you require legal counsel, you may address your attorney.”

Dwight said, “Confess.”

Jomo said, “Marsh Bowen snitched me. First, he whups me, then he snitches me. You see the stitches on my head? That ex-pig motherfucker did that. You think I'm not gonna get no get-back when I get out of here?”

Scotty flexed the hose chunk. “Son, I would love to see that happen. Marsh put some hurt on me as well, and I would love to see him get his comeuppance.”

Jomo squirmed. His cuff chain rattled. The cuffs were tight-ratcheted. His wrists bled.

“Marsh snitched me, right?”

Scotty said, “That's correct.”

“So let me out of here. Give me a skate on them chump-change 211's and I'll get us both some get-back.”

Dwight said, “Confess first. We'll get you a day pass to get your shit in order. I've got a Jew lawyer buddy. He'll plead you out. You'll do a year at the honor farm, tops.”

Jomo spat on the table. “Fuck your mother. You a fascist cockroach and a minion of the pig power structure. Your mama sucked my big black dick.”

Scotty winked at Dwight. Scotty circled the table and stood behind Jomo. Scotty stroked Jomo's Afro with the hose chunk.

“Confess, son. It's in your best interest to do so.”

Jomo said, “Fuck you.”

Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed. Perfect kidney shot.

Dwight said, “Confess.” Jomo spat on the table. Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed louder. Perfect kidney shot.

Dwight said, “Confess.” Jomo retched for air. Scotty placed a sheet of paper on the table. Dwight skimmed it. The fourteen 211's were listed.

Scotty said, “Look at the list and nod your head. We'll consider it a confession.”

Jomo spat on the table. Jomo said, “Fuck you.”

Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed. Perfect kidney shot.

Dwight said, “He looked at the list. As his lawyer, I'm calling it a confession.”

Scotty bowed. “I agree. I'll write it up later, and Mr. Clarkson can sign it when he's capable of holding a pen.”

Jomo dripped bile. Blood was laced in. His head lolled. His cuffs cut deep. His eyes did funny things.

Scotty said, “I have a good deed in mind.”

Dwight said, “Tell me.”

Scotty fondled the hose chunk. “We could get BHPD a clearance on an old case of theirs. We could get you a clearance on that safe house and those guns.”

Dwight thought of Joan. “Forget the safe house. My people might get compromised. Let's concentrate on the Hiltz job.”

“Hiltz job” tweaked Jomo.
Say what? Whazzat? Don't know no Hiltz job
.

Scotty said, “Last September 14, two male Negroes pulled a string of residential robberies and in the process killed a wealthy hate pamphleteer named Dr. Fred Hiltz. I believe that you were Male Negro #1. I think you should confess to those crimes and reveal the identity of Male Negro #2. Mr. Holly, how would you advise your client?”

Dwight said, “Confess.”

Jomo spat blood on the table. Jomo said, “Fuck you.”