Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  He waited. He got a little squirrelly. His brain said Go while his body said Sleep. Marshall Bowen stepped out the door at 3:09.

  He walked to the corner and hit a main drag. Crutch cut him ten seconds’ slack. He U-turned the car and made the intersection. Bowen was three storefronts down on the left.

  Crutch idled the car and watched. Foot traffic was brisk. Bowen poked his head in cocktail-lounge doors and kept walking. Some cops were out, smoking and lounging. Some longhairs turned the far corner and saw them. Crutch got a good view of it.

  Bowen looked in windows and dawdle-strolled. A longhair held up a Coke bottle. A longhair stuffed a rag into it and lit it. All the longhairs tripped on the flame. A longhair hurled the bottle straight at the fuzz.

  It broke short of them. The explosion was a dud. The longhairs yelled “Off the Pigs!” jive and ran away, laughing. Marshall Bowen turned around—Hey, now, what’s this?

  The cops charged him. He put his hands up—no, please. The cops hit him and pummeled him in one big blur.

  21

  (Chicago, 8/26/68)

  Chemistry set.

  Wayne stood in Farlan Brown’s bathroom. Mirrored walls threw his own image back. He looked all wrong. You’re too old, too thin, too trashed.

  He grabbed a sink cup. He mixed airline scotch with opium chunks and a crumbled Valium. He stirred it with a toothbrush end and quick-guzzled it.

  The effect hit him mid-body and worked its way up to his head. The required tingle occurred. He braced himself on the sink ledge and checked the mirrors. The required reversal occurred.

  He walked into the living room. Drac’s elves were all there. Head count: Brown and Mesplede. Six strongarm guys for Sam Giancana and eight off-duty cops. On the floor, dead center: a big steamer trunk full of hurt.

  The goons and cops sat mingled. Brown and Mesplede stood behind the wet bar. They sipped breakfast Bloody Marys topped by celery sticks. Mesplede had passed out French cigarettes. The whole suite was smoke-swirled.

  Brown nodded—your show, Wayne.

  “Amphetamines, hallucinogens and hashish. Get it to the kids and make sure there’s no reporters around when you do it. There’s some plant evidence. You’ve got subversive literature and bomb-making diagrams. There’s at least fifty Class-A felony pops in that trunk, every kid you pop will roll over on two dozen more, and you’ll all get back at the Democrats for having their show in your city.”

  A few cops clapped. A few goons whistled. A cop passed Mesplede a file and mouthed the words “They’re here.” An obese goon cracked his knuckles.

  Brown slapped his knees. Mesplede waved his celery stick.

  Chemistry set—Wayne mixed a bedside cocktail. Nembutal and Jack Daniel’s—a pro chemist’s assuredly safe dose.

  It went down warm and sat there. He stretched out to wait for the curtain. It was his sixteenth calculated dosage since West Las Vegas.

  He’d stop soon. The compounds he cooked at Lake Tahoe would last him through next week. He was tapering his sleep jaunts off now. Tahoe topped out at twenty hours–plus. He kept up with Carlos and the Hughes group by scrambler phone. I’m recuperating in the woods. I’ve got a bum disk.

  They bought it. They attributed his missing beats to illness. Dwight sealed the output on the killings. Word would seep over time. Two more dead shines—no one would care.

  The curtain started spreading up. He saw the black woman dressed in black as the light slipped.

  22

  (Las Vegas, 8/26/68)

  Freddy O. described the Grapevine gestalt.

  It was a shitkicker joint with a north-woods ambience suffused with far-Right detail. Glowing Hamm’s beer signs. Polyester-flocked fir trees. Beaver pix taped above the urinals. Gun mags stacked everywhere. Racist-cartoon napkins—Sambo, stay out.

  Dwight and Freddy floated in the Golden Cavern pool. The water was fjord-cold. They had the deep end to themselves. Freddy described the loose-talk gestalt.

  It emanated from six lowlifes: Brundage, Kling, DeJohn, Currie, Pierce, Luce. They were stickup guys and pill pushers prone to right-wing hijinx. They were stone juicers and dope fiends. They stuck to themselves. They closed the Grapevine every night and stayed after hours to talk shit. They had keys to the joint. The proprietors trusted them to leave cash for their booze and lock up when they left. They were not ATF surveillance targets. That was good. ATF would not investigate their mass homicide.

  A waiter brought Freddy a Cuba Libre and Dwight an iced tea. They floated and talked. Freddy said it’s a three-man job. Dwight said no, four. Wayne knows a French-Corsican merc. The guy sounds perfect. Let’s bring him in.

  Freddy agreed. A zaftig blonde slinked by and provided diversion. Dwight slathered on more suntan oil. They discussed the meet on the thirtieth. We’ll have Wayne and the merc then. We’ll finalize.

  Dwight said, “It has to be self-contained. Those six fools and nobody else. It’s late, they’re there alone, they’re talking crazy political woo-woo and it all explodes.”

  Freddy said, “I agree. St. Louis PD comes in, works the crime scene, does the tests and says, ‘That’s that.’ All the numbers match.”

  Dwight said, “We’ll have to fire audibly. We want a barrage of overlapping shots to be heard and noted. We can’t use silencers, because they’ll leave tube fragments on the spent rounds.”

  Freddy said, “I agree. They all carry pieces routinely, but we won’t have time to disarm them and kill them with their own guns. We’ll need to bring in weapons with a traceable St. Louis origin.”

  Dwight said, “I agree, and that’s your job. You’re the St. Louis guy on this, so you 459 a few gun stores or pawnshops and steal some pieces the investigators can trace back. And revolvers, Freddy. I don’t want any automatics jamming up on us.”

  Freddy sipped his Cuba Libre. “I agree. We pop them, we plant the guns they shot each other with, we pull their existing guns and move the bodies around to match the blood spill. That part of it is all crystal clear.”

  Dwight sipped iced tea. “We’re in and out in under four minutes. You said they always blast the jukebox, right?”

  “Right. The world’s worst Okie music, and loud.”

  “That’s good. It’s partial cover on the shots, and the neighbors are used to racket at all hours. We goose the volume on our way out, which ups the chance that some local will stiff a noise-complaint call and some doofus patrol cops will respond and find the bodies.”

  Freddy hovered under the diving board. “We need one more key detail.”

  Dwight said, “Cocaine. They scored some pure shit and went nuts behind it. We leave some lines on the counter. We get Wayne to liquefy a portion of it. We get some small-gauge insulin needles and stryinges and boot them full of coke postmortem. We can inject them between their toes, and the marks will be too small to be noted at autopsy.”

  Freddy said, “It’s tight and localized. It’s a categorizable white-trash multiple homicide for all fucking time, and it’s ‘case closed’ in twelve hours tops.”

  Dwight nodded. “We’ll make it convincing. And don’t worry about Wayne, he’s solid.”

  Freddy laughed. “We’re worried about him, but he’s the stone killer.”

  Dwight laughed. “We’re just lucky the dipshits are white.”

  A waiter walked a blinking phone up. Freddy got out of the pool and futzed with the cord and receiver. Dwight shut his eyes and tuned out the sun.

  Freddy said, “It’s for you. Your guy Bowen’s in custody in Chicago.”

  23

  (Chicago, 8/26/68)

  The Frogman slipped Crutch a hash brownie. Their driver was an on-duty cop. The riot-zone Chicago tour boded all-time blast.

  It was Mesplede’s idea. He ran into Crutch in the lobby. Crutch was up for it. Bowen was in jail. Buzz was working the listening post. Observe History, sure.

  Mesplede told him to steer clear of Wayne Tedrow—“You should be dead, mon ami.” Crutch agreed. Mesplede reass
erted: “I may ask you for bug-tap dirt on Wayne someday.” Crutch re-agreed. History kept finding him: Miami, now this.

  The red-flag boys. The no-bra girls. The cops with stubbed cigars. The nymph chicks tossing bouquets at National Guardsmen.

  The cop driver swigged Old Crow. His cruiser was air-conditioned. They got the picture show devoid of night heat.

  The street brawls. The hurled rock/nightstick action. The longhaired kids all bloodied. The kid minus one eye. The kid holding his teeth.

  Mesplede said, “I will concede the war is unpopular. I will concede its protracted nature, but I will never concede its utter necessity.”

  Crutch looked out the window. A hippie boy flipped him off. A hippie girl flashed her tits.

  Mesplede said, “Donald, do you believe in a free Cuba?”

  “Yeah, Boss. I do.”

  “Do you believe that the perfidy of the Bay of Pigs demands a continued response?”

  “Yeah, Boss. I do.”

  “Do you believe that Fidel Castro must be overthrown, and that the fifth columnists who have supported his regime must suffer the severest of penalties?”

  “You know I do, Boss.”

  The cop driver brought a portable radio. Mesplede reached over the seat and hit the Play button. The cop-driver skimmed the dial and found a country station. A redneck tenor sang, “I love flags and corn liquor. Peaceniks and pot ain’t for me.”

  Mesplede made an ugh face and flicked the dial. Discordant jazz—aaah, oui. Crutch made an ugh face. It sounded like a stripped-gear symphony. The hash brownie smacked his head. The outside colors shifted. Tendrils and double images appeared.

  The cop driver turned onto a side street. The big-street action disappeared. Little one-story houses, all dark and sleepy.

  Mesplede turned off the radio. The cop driver pulled over and stopped. Crutch was seeing single things as twos and threes. Mesplede got out and motioned Crutch to follow. Crutch got out and tested the sidewalk. The twos and threes returned to ones. The sidewalk firmed up his slack limbs.

  He followed Mesplede. They walked up to the door of a dank little crib. Mesplede picked the lock. Crutch dug his prowess—two jiggles off a #4 pick.

  They walked into the house. It was all dark. Air-cooler noise covered their footsteps. Crutch went straight to WOMEN in his head.

  He followed Mesplede. The air-cooler hum increased. They hit a hall and walked down it. They stopped at a doorway. Mesplede hit a switch. Light hit two spic guys asleep in twin beds.

  They stirred a little. One guy grumbled. Mesplede said, “Communists and Cuban traitors. Please kill them for me.”

  The gear music flared. Colors flared and receded. Crutch felt something cold in his hand. Crutch saw the spics all tendriled up as twos and threes.

  The other spic grumbled. Both spics opened their eyes and looked at the doorway. Both spics fumbled at their nightstands.

  Crutch raised the gun and aimed. Single images cohered. He fired with his eyes shut. The clip kicked off full automatic. He sprayed the bed. He heard silencer thunks. He smelled the blood with his eyes closed. He opened his eyes and saw two men with no faces trying to scream.

  24

  (Chicago, 8/27/68)

  The lockup was SRO. Radicals and freaks crammed up the tank space. The jail usually ran all jig. The riot had the race quotas flip-flopped.

  A jailer led Dwight down the catwalk. He inspired lots of clenched fists and “Off the Pigs!” chat. The interview room was two doors down a perpendicular hallway. Marshall Bowen was waiting for him.

  Not bad. Fit, thoughtful-looking. A good pseudo-firebrand.

  The jailer left them alone. Dwight tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table. Bowen shook his head and slid his chair back.

  Dwight turned the spare chair around and straddled it. The pose backfired. Bowen pulled his chair closer in.

  “You’re not a lawyer. You’re a policeman.”

  Dwight lit a cigarette. “I’m both.”

  “FBI?”

  “That’s correct. My name is Dwight Holly, by the way.”

  Bowen bowed mock-humble. “You’re with the Chicago office?”

  “No. I’m a national field agent.”

  “And you’re concerned that a Los Angeles policeman got severely beaten for no justifiable reason?”

  Dwight smiled. “I see no visible injuries. ‘Severe’ is an exaggeration, and you know it. You also know that you can’t file suit against the Chicago PD and win, and if you do sue, you’ll severely damage your reputation within LAPD.”

  Bowen smiled. “The booking officer saw my badge. If all this craziness hadn’t messed things up, I’d be out by now.”

  Dwight tossed a bag of weed on the table. “Did he see this?”

  Bowen balled his fists. Bowen smirked to say I get it. The reaction went levels deep.

  “There’s a threat. That means there’s an offer coming.”

  Dwight put out his cigarette. “Clyde Duber says hello.”

  “So it’s an infiltration job?”

  Dwight shook his head. “Answer some questions.”

  “All right.”

  “Tell me your reaction to all this craziness.”

  “It inconvenienced me. I’m personally more than politically affronted.”

  “And the raw deal the Negro people in this country have received? Can you describe your take on that?”

  “I don’t think much about the Negro people. Do you?”

  “I think about them more than I should.”

  Bowen laughed. “And why is that?”

  Dwight shook his head. “Black militancy. You must have some opinions.”

  Bowen shrugged. “It’s understandable, it’s historically if not legally justified, it’s ambiguously commendable, it provides opportunities for dubious ideologues and criminal entrepreneurs.”

  Dwight bowed. “Why did you become a policeman?”

  “For the excitement.”

  “Are you enjoying your duties at Wilshire Patrol?”

  “I’m a little bored.”

  “Who do you hate more? Hard-charging white cops like me or the worthless niggers who make up the bulk of your people and who you have always felt so fucking superior to?”

  “It’s a toss-up.”

  Dwight grabbed two chair slats and snapped them off clean. Bowen did not blink.

  “I want to sheep-dip you. I want to create a scenario for your LAPD expulsion and put you into the Black Tribe Alliance and/or the Mau-Mau Liberation Front, in order to create political and criminal dissension. You will be required to work the assignment, under my direction, for any length of time that I choose. At the conclusion of the assignment, you will have the option of joining the FBI at a G-4 pay rate or of returning to the LAPD with a sergeantcy, in-grade pay status and a triple-A appraisal of promotability to lieutenant. A very wise Quaker woman once told me, ‘Take note of what you are seeking, for it is seeking you.’ If you are looking for excitement, this job will provide all you can stand.”

  Bowen said, “I’ll do it.”

  Then he blinked, fluttered and flinched.

  25

  (Chicago, 8/28/68)

  O’Hare was bad. Big arrival numbers, big departure numbers, big get-into-town/get-out-of-town volume. The terminals were refugee camps. The check-in lines and baggage lines were stay-all-day propositions. Tantrums flared. Epithets flew. Little shoves snowballed into fistfights.

  News vendors made out. Everyone read the Trib. Dig the Lincoln Park riot. Dig the Grant Park riot upcoming. News pics captured mouths poised to scream.

  Wayne read the Trib. Reporters and left-wing priests jostled him. They were baggage-line comrades. They’d spent two hours together. Let’s talk outrage—we’ll be here nine more.

  The Trib, page six: “Radicals captured with bomb diagrams. Sedition charges discussed.”

  Wayne balled the paper up and tossed it. A dykey nun with a peace-dove button scowled at him. He was trashed. The Golden Caver
n meet was two days out. The Grapevine felt imminent.

  Cabs dumped outgoing passengers and snagged incoming meat. Wayne glanced around. This one kid looked familiar—the dumb bow tie and crew cut.

  Wayne made him. The Miami tail kid, looking raw now. He told Mesplede to clip him.

  He didn’t see Wayne. The dykey nun got aggressive. She motioned two Negro nuns to cut in front of him.

  Wayne let it go.

  26

  (Las Vegas, 8/29/68)

  Butterfingers. The wires kept slipping and missing the holes. His hands were that trembly. His brain was that cooked.

  Fred Turentine said, “You got the yips, son.”

  Crutch tried to re-concentrate. Bug work: suite 307 at the Golden Cavern Hotel. The Otash/Tedrow meet was tomorrow. This was their final spot check.

  He pushed wires up the lamp base and crimped them. The pliers slipped. The lamp jiggled and almost toppled. Fred T. went whoa, son.

  He killed two men. He wasn’t quite straight with it. The Frogman was back in Miami now. He kept calling him. The phone just rang and rang. The dead spics were Commies and Cuban Cause traitors. They took lives and he took theirs, and that part didn’t hurt. The picture replay hurt. He was zorched then. The replay ran in VistaVision and Cinerama. His world was double-imaged. The pictures re-ran with double clarity and at half the speed.

  Fred caught a loose wire and re-taped it. Crutch fumbled the toolbox.

  He couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t think about his case. He kept looking at the pictures of Joan.

  27

  (Los Angeles, 8/29/68)

  The ceiling fan fluttered the sheets. The cool air gave them goose bumps. Dwight felt a contraction. He knew why—Eleanora just kicked.