by James Ellroy
Thomas Frank Narduno: robbery suspect in New York and Ohio. No convictions, no Ohio or New York paperwork extant. Joan Klein: robbery suspect in New York and Ohio. No convictions, no Ohio or New York paperwork extant. No dates listed in Narduno’s file. Ohio dates listed in Joan’s file: both 1954. Also listed: two L.A. robbery rousts, ’51 and ’53. No DR numbers or other paperwork extant.
Dwight placed Joan’s file by Narduno’s file and read both files again. Nothing went Boo! He’d telexed every big-city and mid-city PD in New York and Ohio. He got zero on Joan Rosen Klein and Thomas Frank Narduno. Joan told him a cop beat on her in Dayton, Ohio. He’d queried Dayton PD on their unsolved heists, circa ’54. There were two payroll jobs, netting sixty grand total. Masked men, no women, case closed. He’d had the file telexed. There was no mention of Narduno, Joan or left-wing suspects. Joan’s “random roundups” statement? Maybe true.
Dwight lit a cigarette and cracked the window. Wind and rain messed with his pages. He propped Eleanora up on his desk lamp.
Fuck—Joan Rosen Klein and Dwight Chalfont Holly.
A month now. The Statler, the Ambassador, the Hollywood Roosevelt. Neutral spots. The drop-front was Karen’s.
They talk and make love. They discuss the operation and avoid What Do You Want? It’s informant protocol and implicit lovers’ pact.
Joan was getting tight with the BTA. Marsh was BTA- and MMLF-friendly. They were both torqued on those cartoons flooding the Congo. Joan made the FBI for it, BAAAAAD BROTHER–adjunct. She was wrong. Most of the cartoons defamed the Panthers and US. Some defamed BTA and MMLF. He made it as amateur street art. It didn’t play as planned provocation.
Hate.
The Dr. Fred snuff—still unsolved and stonewalled by Jack Leahy. Hate and dope—the jungle was “H”-dry. Marsh Bowen dryly credited black-power consciousness.
Wind toppled Eleanora. Dwight shut the window and put her picture back up. He missed Karen. Eleanora devoured her time. What’s-His-Name was back in L.A. to assist. Karen didn’t know the whole Joan story. She might sense it. He didn’t feel guilty. He felt stretched. It was one more seeping compartment.
He grabbed the wastebasket and pulled out the Wayne photo. He did some DMV research and ID’d the woman last week. Mary Beth Hazzard. Wayne’s West Vegas snafu. The widow of the dead preacher.
He got her DMV file. He compared her driver’s license photo to the kiss shot. It was a drop-dead all-time moment. It brought him back to Joan in a rush.
“What are you thinking about?”
“A friend of mine and the woman he’s with.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s in The Life reluctantly. He’s brilliantly skilled and competent and prone to catastrophe.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you comfortable with telling me more?”
“No.”
“You’re usually the one asking me all the questions.”
“I know, that’s true.”
A trade show full-booked the Statler. Doors slammed down the corridor. Loud revelry persisted.
It was raining hard. They kept the windows open for the breeze. The room heat kicked in at odd intervals. They pulled the sheets on and off.
“Leander Jackson and Jomo Clarkson had an altercation.”
“I know. I picked Leander up at the hospital.”
“He called you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re strictly BTA now.”
“Not entirely.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Yet?”
“Yes, yet. I need a moment to work something out. I’ll let you know when it’s settled.”
Dwight yawned. His pill/drink quota hit him early. Joan said, “You should try to sleep.”
He turned off the lights. He kicked his feet out of the sheets for some coolness. Joan tossed her hair and draped a leg over him. Her head fit snug on his shoulder. He reached around and cupped her knife scar.
Four hours, dreamless. A record these days.
Joan was gone. She never left good-bye notes—just lipstick prints. This one: on their spare pillow.
He picked up the nightstand phone. He needed room-service coffee and a line to D.C.
He heard receiver clicks. He pushed the disconnect button and got three more, faint.
Dwight smiled. Bug-and-tap skills. Her curriculum vitae expanded.
He walked to the window and looked down. The porte cochere was busy. He saw a shadow dissolve. He saw smoke rings drift above the awning.
60
(Managua, 1/28/69)
This beaner bin on a lake. Statues of notable führers. Peasants, urban spics and cops with Sten guns. Threadbare overall.
No Hughes flights in. They took La Nica Air to Xolotlán Airport. It was winter muggy. Kids swarmed the cab and hawked baseball cards. Parrots swerved and shit-bombed monuments.
Traffic was slow. Exhaust fumes were thick. The cars ran to pre-’60s belchers. Most street names noted dates: Calle 27 de Mayo to Calle 15 de Septiembre. Froggy said it all pertained to quashed revolution.
Side show, getaway, breather. Nicaragua was a no-sale deal and a sterile stopover. The D.R. was next.
One bright spot loomed. Froggy had a line on an ex–marine colonel. The guy was here now. He lived in the D.R full-time. He’d been in Santo Domingo since the ’65 war. Froggy’s merc network set up a meeting later.
The guy’s name was Ivar Smith. He agreed to write the pro-D.R. report to Wayne and the wops. Smith called the Frogman yesterday. He said he knew four anti-Castro Cubans. They were eeeeevil. They’d looooove to do wet work out of the D.R.
The cab swerved around a peon with an oxcart. Froggy picked his nose and tossed chump change at beggars. Crutch fingered his lapel pin and re-ran some recent head tapes.
D.C., inauguration night, the Hay-Adams. There’s Sam G. and Gretchen/Celia. Mesplede knows Sam. Mesplede does not know her. Two-second intros, auf wiedersehen.
He told Froggy later: it’s that thieving babe. Froggy shrugged and said the one word: “Cuba.”
A parrot zoomed down and landed on the window ledge. Crutch fed him Fritos out of the bag. He re-punched his replay button and spooled back to Christmas Eve.
Horror House, the hidey-hole, the Commie meeting ledger. The date: 12/6/62. The names: Bergeron, Narduno, Joan.
The Hollywood Chamber of Commerce owned the house then. Three Commies got access. He went by the Chamber and chatted up a clerk. Bum news: the house went unrented in fall/winter ’62.
The parrot ate all the Fritos and squawked for more. Crutch tried to pet him. The cocksucker bit his hand and flew off.
He foot-tailed Sam and Gretchen/Celia to the Willard Hotel. They had separate suites there. He burgled Gretchen/Celia’s suite the next day. He located her address book. He brought an evidence kit and dusted the cover right there. He got one Joan Rosen Klein latent.
The book pages were coded: weird letters, numbers and symbols. He Minox-photographed every page and put the book back where he found it. He took a biiiiig risk and told Froggy what he’d done. Froggy called a CIA pal in Virginia. A code-breaking manual should arrive in Managua this week. He checked outbound D.C. flights. Sam went back to Vegas. Celia Reyes: Santo Domingo–bound.
“Donald, your hand is bleeding.”
“A parrot bit me.”
“Was it red?”
“Yes.”
“Then you should have killed it.”
The Hotel Lido Palace was lake-close. United Fruit guys hogged the bar and talked golf and oppression. The jukebox played the Chiquita banana song non-stop. UF ran Nicaragua and deployed their Somoza-family puppets. Dissent was a persistent woe akin to parrot shit. UF had a snitch network and a police force. Their mandate: rebuff Red revolt.
Crutch and Froggy settled in and moseyed down to the bar. The waitresses wore hoop skirts and banana-bunch hairdos. Froggy said the c
ountry was on Red Alert. Commies were bug-bombing fruit fields. Puppet Man Somoza had pledged reprisals soon.
They glommed an outside booth by a koi pond. Cats perched and drooled for fish dinners. They pawed and snapped and never got close. The koi had sonar and radar.
Ivar Smith was a tall guy in golf togs. He was a gasbag right-winger fueled on pre-noon Singapore Slings. He was the D.R.’s boastmaster general and welcome wagon. He ran a security firm. It assisted Bossman Balaguer’s goon squads. Balaguer craved those U.S. casinos and ached for a fat tourist trade. Yeah, I’ll write that report. The D.R. is ripe fruit. Yanqui, sí, Commie, no. We want your biz.
Pay me. I’m the conduit. I’ll grease Balaguer. The CIA contingent—all boozed-up snatch hounds. Balaguer was a subtle fascisto. He raped pubescent tots in private and evinced public decorum. He was anti-Trujillo that way. The D.R. boded tourist bonanza. Smith’s boys and the La Banda thugs ran pesky jigs back to Haiti routinely. Balaguer had a dual agenda: circumvent due process and eugenically bleach the country three shades lighter. The casinos would attract the swells. Smith’s boys and La Banda would serve as street cleaners and dump trucks.
Yeah, Haiti was close. The Massacre River formed the aptly named dividing line. Smith riffed off Haiti and voodoo. Papa Doc Duvalier raped Haiti like Trujillo raped the D.R. They called Trujillo “the Goat.” He blitzkrieged Haitian settlements within the D.R. It was race shit. Pale-skinned Dominicans have Spanish roots. They hate ink-black Haitians, with their chicken-fucking religion and French affect. The Haitians have leftist allies. There’s a Commie group called the 6/14 Movement. Smith and La Banda suppress it for kicks and grins.
Wooooo—six Singapore Slings and still on!
There’s a small town on the north D.R.-Haiti shore. A corrupt Tonton Macoute man runs it. It’s a good Cuban-ops staging point. Secluded inlets up the wazoo.
Smith segued to those eeeeevil Cubans. They were in Managua now. They were all stone killers. They’ve got a boocoo heroin CV. They conduit stolen pharmacy dope through a group of UF stockholders in Miami. There’s some ex-CIA in the group. A big member: Dick Nixon’s pal, Bebe Rebozo.
Bad apples. They target pharmacies owned by comsymps. They pulled jobs in Guatemala and Honduras. They’re allegedly ripping off a pharmacy here tonight.
Smith faded out talk-wise. His face went rumdum red. Mesplede took over.
I want to meet the Cubans. I can get them construction-boss jobs. I have heroin credentials. I want to stage anti-Castro ops.
Smith staggered out of the bar. He pulled a banana off a waitress’s head and bit in, peel and all.
• • •
The phone book was en español. Crutch pulled out the page listing farmacias. Managua was Podunk-size. Six drugstores, no más. The city was laid out grid-style. Calles and avenidas crossed. He’d never seen a pharmacy rip-off. Froggy was snoozing. Let’s check out the Cubans at work.
The desk clerk gave him a street map. Downtown Managua was small and walkable quicksville. It was peon-packed. Mamacitas cooked meat pies on bar-b-q’s built from chain links and trash cans. It was pigeon meat. Pigeons perched everywhere. Kids shot them with BB guns and tossed them in paper sacks.
Some nice trees, a lake breeze, garish-colored buildings. Jackbooted cops with barbed wire–wrapped saps.
The grid made it easy. Crutch found four pharmacies fast. They looked innocuous: bright walls, narrow aisles, white-coat spics at back counters. Big cardboard ads for Listerine and Pepsodent. No rob-me vibes.
Crutch schlepped down Calle Central to Avenida Bolívar. Little spic-lets waved dead pigeons. Crutch tossed them American dimes and watched the brawls that ensued.
Número 5: a joint with a big red cross and a jumbo Coke machine. No vibe. It was pushing 6:00, closing time—trabajo, finito.
Crutch turned down an alley. Eye magnet: Gonzalvo Farmacia. A quiet little place with a big, loud poster.
Diseased kids begging. Nixon with fangs. Bright red Commie slogans. Mucho exclamation points.
Four cholos across the street, in a ’55 Merc. Yeah, they look eeeevil. Their sled looks satanic. Lake pipes, fender skirts, car-antenna scalps.
The reeeeall thing. Dark Latin hair, rawhide-cured, stitching on the skin flaps.
Crutch cut back to the main drag. He reconnoitered and found a walk path behind the building row. Four down to the pharmacy, maybe a side window loose.
He got low and crouch-walked. He hit the rear of the pharmacy and peeped windows. The back ones were barred. He saw the dope shelves and three pharmacists working. The side windows were un-barred. One was air-cracked. A big cardboard sign on an easel covered it.
Crawl space, hiding place.
Crutch cracked the window two more inches and vaulted in. His knees banged the sign. He grabbed the easel part and kept it upright.
He peered around it. The sign was for Noxzema skin cream. A good-looking chiquita salved her bare arms and went ooh-la-la. A boss type shooed out two customers. The three pharmacists stood at the counter and tallied receipts.
Prime view. There’s the clock, it’s 5:58, the four bandidos walk in.
The boss type looks pissed. The guys fan out. One guy scopes the Brylcreem, three guys walk to the rear. The boss type turns his back and tidies the candy shelf. The Brylcreem guy pulls a silencered revolver and walks straight up. The boss type turns around and goes “Oh.” The Brylcreem guy sticks the barrel in his mouth and blows off the top of his head. Silencer thud, brain and skull spray. No crash—the boss type just slides down the shelf row and dies.
The pharmacists keep working. One guy walks up with Ipana toothpaste. One guy walks up with Clearasil. One guy walks up with Vick’s VapoRub. The pharmacists catch the drift. One man starts weeping. One man clutches his saint’s medal. One man tries to run.
The Ipana guy pulled his piece and shot them all twice. They fell in a clump. Their shrieks and gurgles got jumbled up. The Clearasil guy jumped the counter and made for the heavy-dope vault.
Blood dripped off a shelf of asthma products. The VapoRub guy dipped his finger in. He found a white wall space. He wrote “MATAR TODOS PUTOS ROJOS.”
Crutch walked back to the Lido Palace. Wobble legs got him there. The heist guys were in and out quick. He left his hiding spot shaky and sobbing. He stole a Coke and some Bromo and chugged it to keep his bile down. He wobble-walked to the bar, had three scotches and weaved up to his room.
Someone had placed a brown-wrapped box on the bed. The postmark was Langley, Virginia. He unwrapped it. Froggy delivered—here’s the code-breaking book.
He got out his pix of Gretchen/Celia’s address book. He arrayed them on the desk. He skimmed the codebook and turned to the table of contents. He saw a “Symbol Index” listed. He turned to it. Lots of fucking symbols, alphabetically described. The geographic and political distinction in bracketed text.
Crutch scanned his Minox pix. Gretchen/Celia’s symbols: stick figures circled with X marks and artful slashing backgrounds. He skimmed the codebook. No numbers or letters corresponded to Gretchen/Celia’s numbers and letters. He went back to the “Symbol Index” and started at A.
He hit the H listings. He saw “Hexes” and “Haitian Voodoo.” He saw numbers linked to drawings linked to letters. A few of the numbers and letters matched Gretchen/Celia’s shit. He saw variants of her stick figures and X marks. He read the text: “The voodoo priest’s depiction of spiritual chaos while a subject/victim is hexed.”
Horror House, last summer. The markings there, the symbols here, the derivation expressed.
Call it: Gretchen/Celia’s pages were a paper curse and a voodoo book of the dead.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 1/29/69–2/8/69. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.
Los Angeles
It was a minor knife fight with major political implications for two extremely minor political groups. But, I facilitated it and it occurred on Wayne Tedrow’s first day as my cutout.
Jomo suffered minor lacerations a
nd Leander received chest bruises when Jomo’s knife blade snapped off. Wayne got Jomo to Daniel Freeman Hospital; he was stitched up and released within a few hours. I got Leander to Morningside Hospital. He confounded the doctors by swallowing several Haitian herb pills in the emergency room. The placebos calmed him down somewhat. Jomo is MMLF; Leander is BTA. Which way do I jump? My personal dilemma, certainly. As always, I abut that maddening disjuncture: the viable construction of black identity and the dubious construction of revolution, as implemented by criminal scum seeking to cash in on legitimate social grievance and cultural trend.
I now sense this: Mr. Holly knew I would succeed as his infiltrator because I am too smart to accede to the rhetoric of revolution and too hip to buy the simpleminded reactionary response. Mr. Holly understands that ambivalence shapes performance and that actors are, in the end, self-centered and solely concerned with their performing context. He’ll let me walk a thin ideological line and actually risk a black-militant conversion, because he knows how selfishly motivated I am. Brilliant Mr. Holly. A nonpareil talent scout with a superb eye for acting ensembles. Casting Wayne Tedrow as my cutout plays to my strengths and Wayne’s strengths and has paid off immediately. An ex-cop with enormous racial baggage is overseeing Tiger Kab; the brothers think he’s rogue and rather dig him. And nobody suspects that he’s FBI-adjunct.
Both men are pressuring me: Wayne wants me to align myself unilaterally with either the BTA or the MMLF; Mr. Holly wants me to somehow facilitate the dope-pushing arm of OPERATION BAAAAAD BROTHER, an aspect of my duties that Wayne disapproves of with almost Calvinistic fervor. Heroin is scarce around here; I credit some form of black consciousness for its relative scarcity, if not black militancy itself. Thus, I cannot rat out BTA or MMLF members for the procurement or sale of it anytime soon. There have been more southside liquor-store robberies, replete with rumors of black-militant suspects, but my subtle queries on that topic have yet to turn up names. I’m hoping the Jomo-Leander fracas will fester among the BTA/MMLF leadership and produce some exploitable discontent. In the meantime, I’m making the scene.
