Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  “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.

  The flask went back and forth. The oration continued. Crutch rode the world’s greatest buzz.

  15

  (Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

  The night nurse took a break to play the slots downstairs. Wayne ran into her in the casino. She said, “You look ill—I’ll bring you something.”

  He took the stairs up and burned off excess steam. He still smelled like charred paper. The suite was unlocked. He walked into Janice’s bedroom.

  The lights were on. The IV pole and drip bag were down on the floor. The tube was still attached to Janice’s arm. The needle was half in, half out.

  Two empty vials on the nightstand. Seconal and Dilaudid. A brief note: “Whatever your plan—please, not on my behalf.”

  Wayne sat with her. Her nightgown was still damp. The picture blurred with ’64. He came home and found Lynette. Wendell Durfee had come and gone. A winter storm leveled Vegas. He sat with Lynette and listened to the rain.

  Janice died clutching the bedsheets. Wayne pried her fingers loose and folded them on her chest.

  West Vegas hopped at 2:00 a.m. The bars were air-cooled. The shacks weren’t. Folks stayed out late to cool off.

  Wayne cruised in. He passed the Wild Goose, the Colony Club and the Sugar Hill Lounge. Memory Lane. The ALLAH IS LORD signs. Night owls cooking bar-b-q in fifty-gallon drums. Streets named for presidents and designated by letters.

  He had Pappy Dawkins’ address. It should be off Monroe and J. He scanned faces. Everybody was black. Parked cars with running headlights. Air-conditioned junkers. Beat the heat. Run the vents all night and sleep.

  There’s the place: a fuchsia-colored cinder-block dump on plywood struts.

  Wayne parked and walked up. The lights were on. The door was open. The front room was furnished with scavenged car seats. A dozen fans pushed air around.

  Two Negro men sat there. They were side by side on Chevy leather. Pappy looked older than his mug shots. The other man ran fifty-plus and wore a clerical suit.

  They noticed him. They made him. Wayne made their little blinks. The fans churned up a stink: cat piss and stale marijuana.

  Wayne shut the door. The smell compounded. Pappy said, “Sergeant Wayne Tedrow Jr.”

  Wayne coughed. “Not any longer.”

  “You mean you ain’t with the police or you the only Wayne Tedrow left?”

  “Both of those.”

  The other man said, “He wants something. You should let him get to it.”

  Pappy twirled an ashtray. “Reverend Hazzard’s trying to reform me. He visits me once a month, whether I asks him to or not. I say to him, ‘This white motherfucker here killed three brothers awhile back,’ he probably say, ‘Turn the other cheek.’ ”

  Wayne spoke to Hazzard. “This won’t take but a minute.”

  Pappy hurled the ashtray. It knocked a fan over. The breeze went haywire. Some nesting moths stirred.

  “Reverend Hazzard believes you turn the other cheek, but I most emphasizedly do not, unless you wants to bend down and kiss the cheeks of my coal black ass.”

  Hazzard touched Pappy’s arm. Pappy grabbed a stray shoe off the floor and hurled it. A fan capsized. A breeze hit the back wall. A Scotch-taped pic of Malcolm X flew.

  “Reverend Hazzard says, ‘Forgiveness be next to godliness,’ but I most emphasizedly do not, unless you wants to start by apologizing for killing Leroy Williams and the Swasey brothers and any other extraneous niggers that you also might have killed along the way.”

  Hazzard said, “Pappy, please.”

  Wayne said, “Sir, I apologize.”

  Pappy grabbed another shoe. “And that’s all you got to say?”

  “No, there’s more.”

  “Which includes what?”

  Wayne’s legs fluttered. “Some cops are trying to hang a case on you. I don’t want to see it happen. I’ll get you some money, but you’ve got to get out of Vegas.”

  Pappy whooped. “Leave all this? On your white motherfucking say-so?”

  Hazzard said, “Pappy, let him talk.”

  Pappy whooped falsetto. “Not until I’ve had my fun and extricated my pound of flesh, starting with, ‘Hey, Junior, you apologize again.’ ”

  Wayne said, “Sir, I apologize.”

  Whoop—“One more time now. I’m starting to enjoy this.”

  Wayne shook his head no. His legs almost caved. Pappy threw the shoe at him. He stepped aside. Pappy reached in his pocket. Wayne threw himself on the floor.

  Metal flashed. Wayne ate rug grit and pulled his ankle piece. Pappy fumbled a snub automatic. Reverend Hazzard froze. Pappy rolled off the car seat and aimed down at Wayne.

  They fired simultaneous. The floor exploded by Wayne’s face. He aimed through plaster dust and squeezed the trigger slow. He hit Pappy mid-chest. Pappy spun and jerked the trigger. His hand spasmed. He sent shots every which way.

  They hit the fans. Soft points—the blades diced and ricocheted them. Bullet shards became shrapnel pellets. They burst wide and tore out Hazzard’s throat. He gasped and pitched off the car seat. Wayne aimed up and squeezed slow. The shot hit Pappy mid-face. He fell backward. His head hit a whirring fan and sent red up and out.

  16

  (Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

  The squadroom was dead. LVPD ran a light crew from midnight on. Four detectives caught citywide squeals. They got paid to doze at their desks or shag ass.

  They slept. Dwight couldn’t sleep. The desert fire still torqued him. He went by the Golden Cavern an hour back. Fred Otash was still up. They discussed his St. Louis trip. Freddy spent time at the Grapevine. The hit rumors: still escalating. The purveyors: six right-wing fucks. The ATF surveillance: intermittent, but sustained. The upshot: we can’t go in with ATF hovering. We hold for now.

  Dwight yawned. Late-night squadrooms consoled him. They were cop still-life tableaux. The St. Louis SAC pledged a late-night teletype. Dwight chair-perched by the machine.

  The squadroom was quiet. The cops dozed. The detention-cage winos snored. The teletype machine rattled. Dwight pulled a sheet out.

  Terse and shitty news. Be advised:
ATF has Grapevine Tavern under lockstep surveillance.

  Dwight tore the sheet up and trash-canned it. A patrol cop ran in. He was a beanpole rookie type in a lather. He yelled his good news and woke the crew up.

  Body count! Somebody nailed that hump Pappy Dawkins and some shine preacher!

  • • •

  The street was sealed. Dwight badged the perimeter cop and pulled right up to the tape. Inside it: three patrol cars, one coroner’s car and two dead jigs on gurneys.

  Live jigs outside the tape: geeks in nightgowns, skivvies and pajamas. A fatso was snarfing chicken wings at 4 fucking a.m.

  Two patrol cops by the house. Buddy Fritsch in civvies, looking justifiably freaked.

  Dwight whistled long and shrill. Fritsch heard it and looked over. Dwight pointed to his Fed sled. Fritsch blew off the patrol cops and walked straight up.

  Dwight opened the back door. Fritsch got in. He had the shakes. He pulled a hip flask and took two maintenance pops. Dwight got in and shut the door. Two tall men—their knees brushed.

  “So?”

  “So, who do you think? I got me four eyewits. White man walks in, shots fired, white man walks out. He’s six-one, one eighty, pale, with dark hair. Sound like anyone we know?”

  The flask booze smelled good—heavy-sweet bourbon. Fritsch took two more pops.

  “Wayne blew his cork again. When that boy don’t know what to do, he just goes out and hunts niggers.”

  Mumbo jumbo down the block. Dwight looked over. Fatso led some Zulus in a black-power cheer.

  Fritsch sucked on his flask. “To boot, I got me a morgue call. Janice Tedrow took some pills and checked out.”

  Dwight said, “How much?”

  “No, siree. I’m sorry, but there ain’t no buyout on this one.”

  “How much, Buddy? You, Woodrell, the AG and anyone else we need to square this.”

  Fritsch shook his head. “Uh-uh. No sale. Your boy don’t get no walk on this one.”

  Dwight tugged at his law-school ring. “Give me a figure. Be generous with yourself. I’ll get you the money and let you grease everyone else.”

  Fritsch shook his head. “Uh-uh. No sale. Sorry, Wayne, but you killed two coons too many. This is 1968, son. ‘The times, they are a-changin’.’ ”

  Dwight laughed. Fritsch laughed. Dwight said, “Pick a figure.”

  “Uh-uh. No sale. This is one that you and Mr. Hoover can’t buy Junior out of.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sure I’m sure. I am absolutely, positively goddamn sure that there’s no price tag on this one.”

  “One last time, then. For the record.”

  Fritsch jabbed Dwight’s chest. “For the record, no. For the record, you put some hurt on me a little while back, and that’s all the guff I’m taking from you. You may be Mr. Hoover’s number-one goon, but I am a ranking police officer and a decorated World War II vet, and I am not eating any more shit dispensed by some Hoosier hard-on who thinks he’s tough shit ’cause he went to Yale.”

  Dwight smiled and pointed to the flask. Fritsch smiled and passed it over. Dwight took a big pop and passed it back. Fritsch grinned and stretched. His suit coat gapped. Dwight pulled off his belt gun and stuffed it under the seat. Fritsch swallowed. His Adam’s apple bob-bob-bobbed.

  Dwight pulled his Magnum, popped the cylinder and dumped five shells. Fritsch rolled his eyes—don’t shit a shitter. Dwight spun the cylinder and snapped it shut. Fritsch said, “You’re bluffing.”

  Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber.

  “How much?”

  “Fuck you. You bluff, I call. I am a ranking police officer, and this is my crime scene.”

  Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber. Buddy Fritsch shit his britches. Dwight caught the stench.

  “How much?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber. Buddy Fritsch pissed his pants. Dwight watched the stain spread.

  “How much?”

  “Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.”

  Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber. Buddy Fritsch sobbed.

  Dwight said, “How much?” Fritsch kept sobbing. Dwight rolled down the window. He heard black-power chants and saw black fists raised.

  Fritsch said, “Two hundred.”

  Dwight said, “It’s yours.”

  It required a proactive phone call. It recalled January ’57. He left two dead on the Merritt Parkway. Mr. Hoover rescued him.

  Dwight called from his hotel suite. He got two rings and “Yes?”

  “It’s Dwight Holly, Sir.”

  “Yes? And the most pressing emergency that you wish to discuss?”

  “Wayne Tedrow killed two Negro men. I need a good deal of money to cover it, and I’d be grateful for your help.”

  Mr. Hoover coughed. “And the amount?”

  “Two hundred cold.”

  “Is Junior in custody?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “And where would he be?”

  “I would guess Wayne Senior’s cabin in Lake Tahoe.”

  “Does he usually repose there after he kills male Negroes?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Does he watch the Soul Train TV show for upbeat entertainment and to expiate his guilt?”

  “I would guess that he brews up narcotic compounds for the purposes of sedation and sleep.”

  Mr. Hoover worked for breath. “You haven’t called me in a very long time, Dwight. It was January ’58, I believe.”

  “You’re close, Sir. It was ’57.”

  “Are you questioning my memory, Dwight?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “It was January of 1958. It was unseasonably warm that day on the Cross County Parkway.”

  That night, icy roads, the Merritt—

  “That’s right, Sir. I’d forgotten. It was so long ago.”

  “I’ll wire the funds, Dwight. I’m as soft for you as you are for Junior.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “The Grapevine Tavern, Dwight. Outlandish talk is circulating. ATF cannot lockstep the location forever. That outrageous chatter will have to be muffled at some point.”

  “I understand, Sir.”

  “Good night, Dwight.”

  He started to say “Good night, Sir.” Coughs and a hang-up click stopped him.

  The kid had lost weight. His hair had thinned. Some fresh gray was there with the brown. He went fit to gaunt in a week.

  The funeral home smelled like spearmint. Dwight caught embalming fluid as the underscent. Wayne sat beside Janice’s casket. The lid was closed. It was lustrous mahogany.

  Dwight pulled a chair up. Wayne looked at him.

  “Her golf clubs are in there.”

  Dwight smiled. “She’d appreciate the touch.”

  “I tried to warn him.”

  “I figured it was that.”

  “She was forty-six years, nine months and sixteen days old.”

  “You’re a chemist. You’d know something like that.”

  “You’re a lawyer. Tell me what this is about.”

  Dwight said, “It’s chilled. I went to Mr. Hoover. If I went to Carlos, he’d have figured you’d lost it. Everyone will know sooner or later, so you’d better get back in the game.”

  Wayne stood up and flanked the casket. He hovered and ran his fingers over the grain.

  Dwight said, “We’ve still got the Grapevine.”

  Wayne said, “I understand.”

  17

  (Los Angeles, 8/19/68)

  Scotty Bennett said, “I like your tie and your hair.”

  Crutch blushed. The tartan and the crew cut were his lucky charms. He got them the same day he saw Horror House. They prophesied all his magical shit.

  Scotty loomed. They stood in the latent-prints room. Crutch was
hand-checking print cards. He’d been at it two months.

  “Run this by me again. You saw a girl at Woody’s Smorgasburger. She drank a 7UP and left her prints on a glass, and you’ve been trying to ascertain her identity ever since.”

  Crutch blushed. “Right. I’ve been on a job for Clyde, and I’ve been ducking over here whenever I get a chance.”

  Scotty roared—kid, you slay me. He tucked a ten-spot in Crutch’s pocket. He adjusted his tie and rubbed his crew cut.

  “I’m forty-seven, you’re twenty-three. I’m a policeman, you’re not. Lose the tie and let your hair grow. You may get some.”

  The ten-spot dangled there. Scotty said, “Call Laurel. Webster-64882. Tell her I said to be kind.”

  Crutch re-blushed. Scotty winked and waltzed to the Robbery pen. Print cards jumped up and yelled Study me!

  Back to work.

  Lay out the photo blowup. Grab the magnifying glass. Lay out the next print card and notch comparison points. He had the rent-a-car print memorized. He knew every loop and whorl. He’d been through six zillion print cards since June 21.

  He studied, he tossed cards, he yawned, he stretched, he blinked. Eyestrain goo pooled on his eyeballs. He hit a fast stretch—a card a minute and—

  Then:

  A fresh card. Familiar loops and whorls. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 comparison points—a courtroom-valid tally.

  Crutch studied the card and the blowup. He wiped his eyes, he squinted, he looked. 11, 12, 13, 14—a perfect match.

  He turned the card over. He read the stats:

  “Klein, Joan Rosen/WF/DOB 10/31/26, New York City. 5′4″, 120, brown eyes/dark brown & gray hair. Distinguishing marks: Knife scar on upper right arm.”

  Her, she, that woman. She had a name: JOAN.

  She was forty-one. She was born on Halloween. Her rap sheet looked like a partial. Crutch saw arrests and no convictions. Commie beefs. Alien and Sedition Act violations, back to ’44. Two armed robbery busts—’51, ’53—no D.R. numbers for conviction.