James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (74 page)

A waiter served gin fizzes and pretzels. Their booth faced the door. Scotty insisted. He knew faces quicksville. He had cop total recall.

Fred O. picked a hangnail. Peeper scratched his balls. Silky Sal was depressed. He was a coal burner. He craved Marsh's deep mine shaft.

The waiter split. Sal said, “I met you before, Sergeant. It was on this movie shoot.”

“I know.
Southside Crackdown
. I took my kids to see it. My daughter had the hots for you. I told her, ‘That guy's a fruit fly, you're shit out of luck.' ”

Sal yukked. Fred yukked. Peeper did not. Peeper was always off in his head. Yonder windows loomed.

Scotty snarfed pretzels. “Lay it on me. Why won't this stupe come around?”

Sal shrugged. “Marshey's a tough nut. He's got his tight little world all figured out, and he doesn't appreciate interruptions. He's got his cop thing and his speech thing and his art thing. And now all he talks about are these trips he took to Haiti.”

Hel-lo
.

Softball. Easy lob, easy catch. Marsh was holding back. Haiti adjoined the D.R. The emeralds shipped from there. Haiti meant Reggie and the stones
.

Sissy Sal blathered. Scotty tuned him out. Peeper fidgeted. Note the sweaty hands and neck.

Scotty chugalugged his drink. “You keep pressing, Sal. I'll get you some Quaaludes. A little Soul Train on the stereo and va-va-va-voom.”

Sal tee-heed. “It's not like
I
don't want it. Marshey is a stone fox. I call him ‘the African Queen.' ”

Fred O. clutched his belly. Peeper howled out loud. Pretzel gack flew.

Scotty said, “This is all between us white men. You cannot go to Dwight Holly. This is
our
fruit shake.
His
fruit shake is old news.”

Hel-lo
.

Sal flushed at “Dwight Holly.” Peeper residual twitched.

Sal twirled his spit curl. “I only saw Mr. Holly way back when.
My
Fed guy was always Jack Leahy. He was bugging me with questions on
Southside Crackdown
. Remember, Sergeant? You were, too. Armored-car heist this, armored-car heist that, as if this girl would know
anything
about that kind of action.”

Hel-lo
.

Peeper blinked at “Leahy.” Peeper blinked at “heist.” There's Peeper's darty eyes and light sweat.

Scotty glared at Sal. Sal wet his lips and smirked. Fred O. picked his hangnail. The charged air whizzed by
him
. Peeper gulped and
re
gulped. His Adam's apple did the Frug and the Peppermint Twist.

Scotty walked to the can. The cold tiles beckoned. He leaned his head on the wall. Okay, okay, okay—let's logic this out.

Leahy. Heist questions
then
. Peoples' Bank ruckus
now
. Jack went in with the bank team. He was in on the heist. He's got the big money now.

“
Haiti” meant Marsh goes
.

(Los Angeles, 12/5/71)

D
ashboard frieze: all-new photos.

His ink-scorch spree got him one hot lead and four fake IDs. He tracked the names to mug-shot numbers. He got four new Joans.

Williamson, Goldenson, Broward and Faust. Joan in 1949. Joan three, five and seven years later.

She's younger, she's darker-haired, she's still short of fierce. She's always defiant. She's blinkyeyed sans glasses. Her shoulders are smoother. Her jaw hasn't set in as harsh.

Crutch stared at the pictures. The summit just concluded. He tracked Scotty's brain waves. Scotty picked up on Haiti and Marsh.

He kicked the key and cruised south. Clyde had work. He had Tiger Kab gigs. His case was breaking out and breaking back in on him.

Dwight Holly called and warned him. Do nothing, Dipshit. Celia was looking for Tattoo's killer, just like him. Scotty was going after Marsh, post-fucking-haste.

He drove through Hancock Park. He daylight-peeped windows. There was no kick extant.

Christmas was coming. His mother would send a postcard and a five-spot. He'd buy Dana Lund a gift.

He drove by the wheelman lot. Phil Irwin and Buzz Duber waved. Chick Weiss pawed a mulatto whore.

The babe limped to the service bay. Mud-shark Chick scowled at her. Crutch pulled up and idled. Chick leaned in the car.

“You look blue, boychik. You should join Voyeurs Anonymous.”

“Fuck your mother.”

“I tried to once. She rejected me and packed me off to law school.”

A warm wind kicked on. Crutch aimed the AC vent at his balls.

“Get me a rope job.”

Chick said, “Nix. Phil's my guy. I've got that donkey-dick Filipino on retainer, so I can't stretch my overhead to accommodate your ennui.”

Crutch laughed. Chick said, “Get out of here. Do something dumb and brave, so the world will think you get laid.”

He drove by Tiger Kab. LAPD had some jail trustys there. They wore tiger-striped jumpsuits. They did coerced wash-and-wax jobs. Redd Foxx served them soul-food plates.

He was avoiding it. He couldn't just let it go.

Milt C. saw him and waved. Junkie Monkey waved one paw. Crutch waved back and cut west to Stocker.

The pad was nice. Baldwin Hills was top-end colored. Ray Charles and Lou Rawls lived down the street. He Tiger-kabbed them both.

Crutch got out and rang the doorbell. Marsh Bowen opened up. He was in uniform. His Medal of Valor pin glowed.

Marsh did a double take. Oh, yeah—Clyde Duber's kid.

Crutch said, “Scotty knows you went to Haiti. I think you'd better run.”

(Washington, D.C., 12/7/71)

H
arvey's was packed. He waited at the bar. Howard Hunt was late. The lunch crowd table-hopped.

Ted Kennedy and John Mitchell. Veep Agnew with a multi-table joke. Dwight caught fragments. A lion was fucking a zebra, ha ha.

He was jet-lagged and up-for-days shot. He had lunch with Jack Leahy yesterday. It was nails-on-blackboard raw. They did not discuss the Operation. Joan told him about it. He approved of it and wanted it. His looks signaled sanction. That much was clear.

Jack came to talk—his terms solely. He said he went back with Joan. He said he got the money out. They did not discuss the heist. Jack said he hated Hoover like Joan did. Dwight asked him why. Jack said, “I'm not telling you.”

Hunt was late. It pissed him off. Karen and the kids were here. Dwight sipped coffee and scanned the restaurant. Ronald Reagan walked in. He got ooohs, aaaahs and jeers.

He'd worked three days straight with Joan. They combined the fake-diary excerpts with Marsh's real-life text. It was now seamless. They deleted the Lionel Thornton murder. It would throw huge heat on Scotty and induce him to talk. The omission might convince him to stay silent. Joan had been close to Lionel Thornton. The omission would spare his family.

The new text revealed Marsh's heist fixation. He partnered up with the equally fixated Scotty and pursued fruitless leads. Marsh was now all greed and perversion. He came to political grievance late. He was pawn and puppetmaster. His psyche had disarticulated sixteen million ways. Cops took him in and gave him an identity. Cops told him to retain it while
he assumed an antithetical one. The search for the money and emeralds went nowhere. He didn't know who he was, where he was or what to do. He decided to kill a public figure to make it all click.

Howard Hunt walked in. Dwight waved him over. The barman saw him and built a martini.

He took two sips and packed a pipe. He cleaned his glasses with his necktie.

“I can't stay for lunch.”

“I didn't expect you to.”

“It's warm out. The spring's going to be a bear.”

Dwight passed him an envelope. Hunt palmed it and lit his pipe.

“So?”

“This summer. The Watergate. Your call on the exact timing and the personnel.”

“The old girl turned him down. I've heard rumors.”

“The Man likes me. Let's leave it at that.”

Hunt drained his martini. “You're in charge?”

Dwight shook his head. “Look in the envelope. There's a drop-phone you can call. The Man has a thing for Cubans. You've been here before. It's all drops, cutouts and flash paper. I'm walking away from it now.”

Hunt put down a five-spot. Dwight handed it back.

“It's on me.”

“Dwight ‘the Enforcer.' Ever the gent.”

“Nice seeing you, Howard.”

Hunt put on a golf cap and walked outside. The door swung wide. Sunshine hit the bar and the table floor. Two big guys ushered in a frail old man.

He shuffled. His clothes fell off him. His glasses slipped down his nose. Liver spots, palsy, slack neck. Half-inch mincing steps.

The old man looked over and saw him. He had filmy dark brown eyes. Nothing clicked outward. Dwight blinked and refocused. Mr. Hoover dead-eye stared.

The bodyguards eased him to a table. It took three minutes to walk fifteen yards. He looked around the restaurant, unfocused. Nobody noticed him. People table-hopped around him. A waiter brought pre-cooked food out.

Dwight had him head-on. A short space stood between them. He stepped away from the bar. He built a big, simple frame.

Mr. Hoover looked over. Dwight waved. Mr. Hoover stayed blank.

One bodyguard cut up his steak. One bodyguard fed him. Ted Kennedy noticed him and looked away. Ronald Reagan smiled and waved his way. Mr. Hoover dead-eyed it. Saliva dripped down his chin.

Dwight walked three steps closer. It built a clearer frame. Mr. Hoover coughed. Saliva pooled on his plate. A waiter pounced and snatched it. Dwight stepped forward. He hovered now. Mr. Hoover was very close. He looked straight at Dwight and never saw him.

The girls skipped around the monument. Dwight and Karen held hands on a bench.

“Have you told them Washington was the father of our country?”

Karen smiled. “Your American history is not my American history.”

“I might dispute that now.”

“Given recent events, I might concede the point.”

The lawn was full of nannies with strollers and kids kicking balls. A little boy saw Dwight's belt gun and grinned.

Karen said, “We've been together for seven years.”

“I know. You'll be forty-seven in February.”

“Take me somewhere for a weekend. I'm bracing myself all the time. You're doing something irreparable. I want a few moments with you first.”

Dwight tucked a knee up and faced her. Karen looked at him. He held her face. Some tears rolled. He brushed them off with his thumbs.

“I'm not doing it.”

Karen leaned away from him. Her tears rolled crazy. She took off her sweater and blotted her eyes.

The mauve cashmere cardigan. His first Christmas gift. She'd said, “What? You didn't buy me
red
?”

“Why?”

Dwight said, “Nobody dies.”

He had a big suite at the Willard. Bureau-vouchered digs. The bathroom featured a walk-in shower.

Room service sent up a bottle of bourbon. It made him salivate. He carried his briefcase and the jug into the bathroom. He dumped the diary pages in the shower and poured the bourbon on top.

He lit a match and dropped it. The shower stall contained the blaze. He let the flames leap way up.

The nozzle dangled outside the stall. He kicked on the water and sprayed it all out. The pages crackled down to black muck.

A wall phone was clamped above the toilet. Dwight dialed the fallback direct. He got three rings and “Yes?”

“We're pulling out. I can't do it.”

Joan said, “No,” and hung up.

DOCUMENT INSERT
: 12/8/71–1/17/72. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen

I always know when something has ended. I opened my door, saw that silly boy on my porch and realized that many threads of my life had fully run their course. I did not ask him to elaborate on his statement; I did not tell him that I had glimpsed him here and there enough to know that he had to be a deft surveillance artist with considerable knowledge of me. His car was parked in my driveway. I walked over to grab the day's newspaper off my lawn and saw that the boy had photographs of Joan Rosen Klein taped to the dashboard. In that instant, I knew: it is over.

He drove off. I grabbed my journal from its hiding place, liquidated my bank account, packed a bag and flew here. I doubted that Scotty would come here or risk exposure of our many crimes by siccing the LAPD on me. Instinct told me that the money was in Los Angeles and Reginald and the emeralds were here. Thus, I got on an airplane and flew to Port-au-Prince.

It is very black. I am a French-fluent black man, an American, a policeman. I have the gifted actor's flair for assimilating language. I could never pass myself off as purely Haitian, but I have become proficient in Kreole French. Native people feel honored when foreign rubes attempt to speak their tongue and actually succeed at it. My proficiency and natural charm have given me carte blanche to indulge and observe.

I travel by foot and bicycle and stay in small hotels. I ask questions about Reginald Hazzard in French and English wherever I go. I describe the young black man with the burn-scarred face; I sometimes display my police credentials. Many people recall having seen Reginald, but no one knows where he is. I have all the time in the world to find him. I am not going back to America.

The Tonton Macoute has surveilled me on many occasions and has interrogated me four times. My American-cop status flummoxes them. They are
all
rogue cops and sense that I am one, as well. They have seen me distribute cash for tips on Reginald. I am certain that they know who he is and perhaps where he is now. Tonton men have told me the cautionary tale of another American policeman who felt compelled to explore rural Haiti. Wayne Tedrow was white and lacked my protective coloration. The Tonton
men have never threatened me; they have implied that black Americans with financial resources can buy their way into anonymous security and live safely in Haiti as long as their money holds out. They have further implied that this may be the case with Reginald Hazzard and have yet further implied that perhaps I should go home.