Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  “Keep going. Build a file. Learn what I can about this secondary life your son had.”

  “You wanted to say ‘secret life.’ ”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Because you’ve got one yourself?”

  Wayne sipped coffee. The cup burned his hands. Mary Beth got it fires-of-hell hot.

  “I was reading you the whole time. The entire story was news to you.”

  “We’ve never discussed your occupation. You talked to Howard Hughes and broke the color line, but I don’t know what you do the rest of the time.”

  A gust hit them. The car swayed. Mary Beth grabbed the dashboard bar.

  Wayne said, “I facilitate things for Mr. Hughes and some gentlemen with similar interests. I spend a fair amount of my time with police officers and political operatives.”

  Mary Beth sighed. “ ‘Secret life’ is a euphemism. I’m seeing a secret world here.”

  “I can’t tell you much more than that.”

  “You deal with people I’d disapprove of. Let’s leave it there.”

  Wayne messed with the defroster. It was a jumpy-hands task. The car got too cold or too hot. Mary Beth hit the Off slide and held his hand there.

  “Last summer?”

  “Yes.”

  “Three of our loved ones died. The man who killed my husband was posthumously indicted for killing your father.”

  Wayne slid his hand back. Mary Beth pinned it there.

  “We never discuss it. You always bring up Reginald. You haven’t allowed me to mourn, and you haven’t done much mourning yourself.”

  Wayne coughed. Mary Beth laced their fingers up. His legs fluttered.

  “I don’t want us to live with all these dead people. We’ve had too much of that. I’ll be spending some time in southside L.A. soon, and I’ll be putting out some feelers on your son. He’s nineteen, he’s armed, he gets popped at a town on the Nevada-California border. My instincts are telling me L.A.”

  Hailstones hit the car. Wayne jumped. Mary Beth said, “Why are you so afraid of me?”

  Dwight said, “Hoover’s slipping. The old girl is in precipitous fucking decline. He’ll be shacking up with Liberace by this time next year.”

  Wayne smiled. “You could retire and go into corporate law.”

  Dwight smiled. “You could retire and teach basic chem at BYU.”

  The Dunes lounge was mock-soothing. The mock-oasis look cohered. Mock sand drifts, mock camels at a chlorinated spring.

  Wayne said, “The Dr. Fred job. What’s the status on that?”

  Dwight tiki-torched a cigarette. “The same jigs robbed a house in Newport Beach. No fatalities, but the same glove prints and identical fibers at the scene. I think they saw Dr. Fred’s anti-spook shit. Things just escalated from there.”

  Wayne sipped club soda. “I could use some help on the L.A. end of my business. The Peoples’ Bank and Black Cat Cab have defaulted their Teamster loans, so we’re taking them over. I think Black Cat would be a good informant hub for you. I was thinking you could get Mr. Hoover to frost potential trouble there.”

  Dwight stood up. He was losing weight. His belt gun drooped to one side.

  Wayne said, “No racial slurs around me, Dwight. I’d very much appreciate it.”

  “Sure, kid. I’m not out to hurt you.”

  Home was the Stardust. He had his living suite/chem lab upstairs. He’d need to rig a missing person file space soon. He ate in the downstairs coffee shop most evenings. It brought back Janice and his night-watch cop days.

  Wayne worked on a cheeseburger. The coffee shop was integrated now. He coerced Dracula into compliance. Drac was devolving à la Mr. Hoover. Call it dope and longtime lunacy accruing. Farlan Brown confirmed the prognosis. LBJ thwarted Drac’s Vegas designs. Tricky Dick would comply. Farlan passed along gossip: the Count just suborned some key Humphrey aides. It covered him, poll-wise.

  The burger was overcooked. The black folks two booths over got rude service.

  Mesplede and Crutchfield were tricksterizing in Miami. Sam G.’s lawyers were buying out the defaulting market chain. He called the boss at Black Cat Cab this morning. A buyout chat was set for next week.

  A black family walked in. Two white waitresses vanished. The hostess pretended they weren’t there.

  Wayne walked up to his suite. The door was ajar. He pulled his ankle piece and eased the door open.

  The living room lights were on. Mary Beth was on the couch. She wore a lovely beige dress.

  “Ghetto skills and union connections. I bribed a chambermaid.”

  Wayne reholstered. Mary Beth said, “Your laboratory smells more toxic than Reginald’s ever did.”

  Wayne shut the door and pulled a chair up. Their knees were close. He slid the chair back. Mary Beth moved closer in.

  “Why do you carry a gun?”

  “I wish I didn’t have to.”

  Mary Beth opened her purse. “I got something very strange in the mail today. It was sent anonymously. The oddest thing. It was wrapped in a newspaper clipping about my husband and Pappy Dawkins.”

  The names burned for a second. Wayne held on her eyes. Mary Beth pulled out a wad of newspaper and unwrapped it. A green stone was tucked in the middle. It looked like an emerald.

  It sparkled and glittered. Wayne stared at it. He leaned in to look closer. Mary Beth put her face up to his.

  “We can’t hold hands outside or do public things. I don’t want to know about the bad things you do.”

  They were close. He lost her eyes getting closer. She touched his lids and shut them for him. Their noses bumped as she brought him in for the kiss.

  44

  (Los Angeles, 10/22/68)

  NEGROFICATION:

  The sartorial arm of OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER. Marsh Bowen needed fashion tips. His colors clashed. He looked like a sepia lollipop. Evil niggers dressed all Black. It covered them by nightfall and offset their bright teeth.

  Dwight slipped Marsh three C-notes. “New threads. I want to see you with that Eldridge Cleaver look. You be steppin’ out o shadows like fuckin’ Dracula to announce yo wicked intent.”

  Marsh palmed the money. They idled outside the observatory. A telescope bank looked south. L.A. was smoggy and harshly lit. Griffith Park broiled.

  “You’re a fine mimic, Mr. Holly.”

  “Your people make it easy.”

  “I’ll take that as a personal complim—”

  “Here’s the compliment you’ve been so persistently anxious to receive. You have acquitted yourself brilliantly to this point, chiefly because your altercation with Scotty Bennett had mo muthafuckin’ soul than I ever could have hoped for, and as such you are the heroic black man of the L.A. ghetto moment, which allots us a very short interval for you to be recruited by the BTA and/or the MMLF. You cannot join up, Officer. Your actions must draw them to you or you will arouse an undue level of suspicion. You’re an actor, Officer. You have the actor’s instinctive need to ingratiate, so you require stern direction to shape your performance. I doubt that you possess a moral core, so let me bypass the idea of that sort of compass to guide you. You must appear bold and exercise great caution. You must judiciously rat out your new friends and benefactors and make sure that there are other snitch suspects for the information you have proffered. Use your discretion pertaining to any lowdown you might have on major crime pending. No homicide, no armed robbery, no sex shit on women or children. And do not give your former brethren in the LAPD a context in which to kick yo black ass, because they most assuredly will.”

  Marsh swiveled a telescope and looked southbound. He always made his face blank and rode out confrontations. He always did offhand shit to hide his fear.

  Dwight jerked the telescope. The eyepiece banged Marsh. He regrouped and went instant blank-faced.

  “Here’s your target list. Get next to Ezzard Donnell Jones, Benny Boles, Leander Jackson, J. T. McCarver, Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson and Claude Torrance. Call me every fourth day at the ph
one drop until I find you a cutout. Start hanging out at Black Cat Cab and Sultan Sam’s Sandbox, start attending the Friday night crap game at the barbershop on 58th and Florence.”

  Marsh smiled. It verged on a simper. I’m above all this.

  “Is there anything else?”

  “Yes, there is.”

  “And that is?”

  “It’s this. You’re undoubtedly the luckiest nigger on God’s green earth.”

  “Because you’re my director?”

  “Because you’re too publicly notable for Scotty Bennett to kill.”

  Joan handed him the shells. Six spents with baffling treads attached. She drove a ’61 Karmann Ghia. The plates looked counterfeit. The headliner was trashed from poor upkeep or backseat fucking.

  The Elysian Park cutoff. Near the LAPD Academy. A sweet view and an implied threat.

  Dwight said, “How do I know they’re the right shells?”

  “Because you trust me?”

  It was chilly now. Joan wore long sleeves. Her knife scar was covered. Dwight missed the stimuli.

  “You were on it faster than I thought you’d be.”

  Joan lit a cigarette. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

  “I do.”

  “I’m sleeping with Ezzard Jones’ girlfriend. She’s skeptical of the BTA. You’ll hear all about it.”

  A spring-loaded sap was jammed between the front seats. The backseat was packed with leftist screeds. He smelled Joan’s shampoo and stale marijuana.

  Joan said, “I consigned the cocaine to Leander Jackson. He’s a lovely Haitian man with an unseemly fixation on voodoo. He sold a few grams already. I gave my share to the MMLF’s breakfast program. Claude Torrance was grateful. He’s invited me to a series of fund-raising parties.”

  Dwight smiled. “There’ll be brawls.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll be groped, in a demeaning fashion.”

  “I count on it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll stab the man who gropes me, with female witnesses present. They’ll groove on me and tell me stories about the men. It’s an MMLF party. Leander’s beholden to me now. He’ll be pissed when he hears I’ve been associating with the MMLF, but he won’t cut me loose, because he’ll dig the stabbing story and I’ll be the only female hanger-on who can score dope.”

  Dwight grabbed his cigarettes. The pack was empty. Joan lit one of hers and passed it to him. Dwight smelled her hand cream.

  She wore black boots. Her dress buttoned down to the hemline. The car was hot. Sweat pooled at the neckline.

  Dwight said, “Who else have you informed for?”

  Joan said, “I’m not telling you.”

  “Why is your file so heavily redacted?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Were those simply pro forma roundups, or were you at one time an armed-robbery suspect?”

  “I’m not telling you.”

  “Give me the names of some known associates. I won’t move on them. I’m just trying to get a handle on your history.”

  “Under no circumstances.”

  Dwight popped two aspirin. Joan pushed her seat back and rested her legs on the window ledge. An ankle bracelet rode up her calf, over the boot top. A little red flag on a gold chain.

  Dwight smiled. Joan smiled. They blew lousy smoke rings and fumed up the car. Two LAPD sleds zoomed by. Black dudes were cuffed in the backseats.

  Joan said, “There’s a gym teacher at Manual Arts High School. His name is Berkowitz. He’s a pedophile. I think you should reprimand him.”

  “Is this related to our operation?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like more of an explanation.”

  “People tell me things that require me to respond. In part, that’s why I’m working for you. I’m hoping you’ll be amenable.”

  Dwight said, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Joan said, “I’d like to see proof.”

  Dwight nodded. Joan drew her legs up and banged the horn by mistake. The noise was startling. They both laughed.

  They met at a coffee cave on Hillhurst. It was near Karen’s pad and the drop-front. It featured a kid’s play alcove. Dwight dug it. It made him feel quasi-married.

  Dina lounged in the alcove. Kids brought their stuffed animals. Karen kvetched her fate as the world’s oldest mother. Dwight chewed gum. He quit smoking around Karen. It tempted her. He didn’t want to mess up Eleanora.

  Karen held her belly. She looked incongruous—this lean woman with this big bulge.

  Dwight crumbled two aspirin and dropped them in his coffee. A new approach to stress headaches. Jack Leahy explained it. Vascular constriction, blah blah.

  Karen said, “Nixon’s going to win. He won’t institute instant repression or do much of anything, which will infuriate my comrades fucking up the Humphrey campaign.”

  “It’s all a little too convoluted for me.”

  Karen nibbled a sweet roll. “It’s entirely understandable to you, which means that something’s on your mind, or you wouldn’t be making such blandly disingenuous comments.”

  Dwight laughed. “My infiltrator is running cocky. I’m going to have to knock him down a notch or two.”

  Karen crossed herself. Hybrid faith. The Greek Orthodox girl gone Quaker. A waiter brought fresh coffee. Dwight crumbled fresh aspirin.

  “Why’s Joan’s file so heavily redacted?”

  “I don’t know. Have you asked her?”

  “She won’t tell me.”

  “Then let it go.”

  “Her entire KA section has been blacked out.”

  “Then some handler in her past did her a favor.”

  “She said she’d never informed Federally before. There’s things she won’t tell me, something about—”

  Karen knocked over his coffee cup. His hands got doused. His aspirin tin went flying.

  “You’re tweaked on that woman. I know you. I’ve been reading you for months. Every instinct I have tells me that you’ve done some very bad shit lately, even by your fucked-up fascist stand—”

  Dwight heard Dina crying. She’d heard Karen yell. Dina kicked at a mound of toys and ran from the other children. Karen chased after her.

  45

  (Miami, 10/23/68)

  Hubert Humphrey deployed pidgin Spanish. Bilingual pols urged him on. The crowd was half white, half spic and all nonplussed. They were heat-wilted. The parking lot was sun-smacked and Hubert was a noon snooze. They craved cold beer and some yuks.

  Mesplede stood mid-crowd. Crutch stood at the rear. They waved to the driver of a tarp-covered truck.

  The truck pulled up to the edge of the parking lot. Crutch cued the driver. Three, two, one—the invasion force rolls out.

  Two dozen out-of-work actors. More Clyde Duber plants. “Guerrilla Troupe” hambones done up as Fidel.

  The beard, the boots, the green fatigues, the fat cigars—

  “Fidel loves Hubert! Fidel loves Hubert! Hubert loves Fidel!”

  Hubert stood there with his thumb up his ass. Eight Nixon-shirt guys jumped out of the truck and dispensed free beers. The Fidels circulated and passed out free cigars. The crowd went nuts. Crutch and Mesplede howled.

  CUBA, CUBA, CUBA—Froggy talked it trilingual and très grande non-stop. Crutch kept thinking D.R. They rent-a-carred through Little Havana. They shared a reefer. Froggy kept saying “Cessna” and “coast run.” Crutch kept seeing that photo in the library book.

  The voodoo guy. The tattoo. The pattern like the dead chick in Horror House.

  Mesplede passed the reefer back. Crutch took a last hit and ate the roach. They hit Flagler Street. The exile storefronts flew Cuban flags. Straw Castros hung from lightposts. Kids ran up and stuck pocket-knives in.

  Crutch kept it zipped. He’d been talking D.R. like Froggy talked Cuba. “Keep it zipped.” Dwight Holly told him that. He obeyed, so far. Marsh Bowen was a fruit. He kept that zipped. He bombed by Miami-Dade PD last night. He
did file checks on Gretchen/Celia and Joan Rosen Klein. Froggy asked him where he went. He kept it zipped.

  He was learning. His killer pals would respect that.

  They drove to a rinky-dink airfield outside Miami. The crew was all Cuban. They were all diced and sliced from sugarcane work. Mesplede signed some papers and rented a two-seater plane. They took off and torched a joint at three thousand–plus feet.

  Crutch got scared. The altitude cross-wired his high to acid-trip dimensions. He kept seeing people who weren’t there. His mom did the Twist with Dana Lund. Blow-job Bev Shoftel blew Sal Mineo.

  They flew low over Little Havana. Mesplede hit a lever and cut five thousand Nixon signs loose. Kids plucked them out of the air and flipped the plane off. Misplede dipsy-doodled south. They flew over a string of bridgeways and keys. Mesplede served Dexedrine chased with hash-spiked schnapps. Dig those brown cubes floating in white liquid.

  Crutch imbibed. The cocktail re-cohered him. They flew out over the Caribbean. They passed two refugee rafts and dumped Nixon signs on them. The cocktail kept Crutch un-airsick. Mesplede pointed behind the seats. Crutch saw a Tommy gun with a hundred-round drum. He popped a bullet out. The tip had been dumdum-gouged and stuffed with rat poison.

  Crutch got flutters. The cocktail had him anesthetized short of real fear. This big brown shape loomed. Froggy grinned at him. Crutch blinked. Now the shape’s a pancake-flat island.

  Froggy pushed the stick and brought them in low. They skimmed waves and water-bumped their wheels. Crutch saw the beach and some brownshirt spics ringed by sandbags. The spics were hunched over a .50-caliber machine gun. The thing had a vented barrel, feeder belts and a 360 swivel.

  Froggy diversion-dipped and dove straight at them. The spics fired over, under and wide. Froggy came in ultra-low. The spics swiveled, re-swiveled and sent off panic shots. The noise was like typewriter clack meets the A-bomb.

  Crutch rested the Tommy gun on his window ledge. Froggy got see-their-eyes low. Crutch head-counted eight. They were ducking and trying to swivel their machine gun in tight.