Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  I’ve stopped making queries on the armored-car heist. My lust for the money and emeralds has been subsumed by a survivor’s instinct. I’m sitting still for now, but Wayne and Mr. Holly are demanding results. Mr. Holly has been talking up the BTA as a heroin conduit. He wants me to proffer the notion to my BTA brothers, who are too motherfucking dumb to score heroin at a yard sale at a poppy farm in Thailand, which Mr. Holly can’t quite grasp.

  I’m scared. I’m sitting still. I’m waiting. I’m wearing that vest. I’m studying dead-straight men and practicing their moves and masculine craft in my mirror.

  Per dead-straight, there’s one bright spot in my life right now: my crazy Haitian friend, Leander James Jackson. Leander loves me, but he’s stone straight, so tough luck there. He had that knife fight with Jomo—which Wayne and I provoked—so he loves me for my alleged snitch-out, which resulted in Jomo’s death. I told Leander that I didn’t do it. Leander laughed and said, “Baby boy, I don’t believe you.”

  Leander loves 151 rum and reefer and enjoys recounting his days in la belle Haiti. He tortured dissidents for the Tonton Macoute, practiced voodoo and took a sharp left turn. He assisted a group of rebel invaders and fled the island one step ahead of the noose. I wish I could tell him, “Baby boy, I’m frightened, so I’m sitting still these days.”

  I have one friend, many nameless enemies and two enemy friends hovering close. Wayne knows that I have the Bent. I don’t want Mr. Holly to know it, or to know that pictures of him and that strange woman Joan haunt my dream state. It would kill me if Mr. Holly knew.

  72

  (Santo Domingo, 5/3/69)

  ELECTRIC CHAIR.

  He couldn’t shake the picture. Shit kept reminding him. He found that golf-course bunker. La Banda left a black guy strapped in. His palms had melted on the electrodes. The restraints burned him bone-deep.

  Crutch waited at the airport. Sam G.’s flight was due. The VIP lounge was up and going. The seats were thronelike. They had that ELECTRIC CHAIR look.

  The flight was late. Drac Air always ran tardy. The lounge featured Führer art. Oil paintings of the Midget hogged wall space.

  Crutch fretted. Wayne was due back soon. He had skim money for the casino build. Wayne laid down that no-dope law. Tiger Krew defied it four times. Four runs to Puerto Rico. Four layoffs to Luc’s guys in Port-au-Prince. Subsequent sales to Haitian hopheads.

  Sam’s flight was late. Sam might have Gretchen/Celia in tow. Crutch volunteered for the chauffeur gig. Froggy found that hinky.

  His case was popping. He ID’d his murder vic: María Rodriguez Fontonette, aka “Tattoo.” He saw that list of massacred Haitians. He memorized the names. It might supply leads. He gave Froggy an update. Froggy scoffed at him. “This is simply your voyeur fixation run amok. Kill more Communists and obsess on fewer women.”

  The Drac Air flight descended. Little kids ran up and tossed leis. It was the Midget’s idea. He went to Hawaii once.

  A baggage cart whizzed by. It looked like a mobile ELECTRIC CHAIR. The electrodes liquefied the guy’s skin. Rich beaners played golf overhead.

  His case was all voodoo. That be baaaad juju. Beware the Zombie Zone.

  Sam G. said, “For all his crazy nigger shit, Wayne is a fucking white man. He’s got the stateside funnel running like a charm. We’re pushing skim from our Vegas hotels through this nigger-owned bank in L.A. We’ve got Tiger Kab and the jig clubs for the residual wash. Wayne’s been keestering Hughes and running our Teamster buyout gig like a fucking virtuoso.”

  No Gretchen/Celia—that was a bust. The caffeinated Sambo was an equal drag. They toured the Santo Domingo sites. Sam was impressed. The foundations were poured. The first two floors were erected. La Banda bullwhipped the slaves and fed them bennie-laced Kool-Aid. Work proceeded faaaast.

  They drove up to Jarabacoa. The Autopista was rife with rickshaws and Haitian refugees. Sammy got spooked. The shines were machetemauled and wore chicken-head hats. Luc and the Cubans waited in Jarabacoa. Crutch pre-warned them: Don’t mention Big “H” to Big G.

  Sam said, “I’m having dinner with Balaguer, and I’m going to have to castigate him about all these evil boogies in plain view of the tourist trade. Batista was excellent in that regard. The downtrodden knew not to fuck with the white visiting class and the light-skinned beaners who ran the show. I am going to make that precise comment to El Jefe.”

  Headless hens impaled on cane stalks. Blood-marked trees. D.R. cops with leashed mastiffs. Wetback spooks sprinting.

  Sam said, “This needs to be curtailed. If folks want a scary thrill, they can take the Mr. Toad ride at Disneyland.”

  A shine in a chicken hat hitchhiking. He’s got zombie eyes. He’s jacking off. He’s got a two-foot dick.

  Sam pulled Crutch’s sidearm and fired at him. The shot blew wide and nailed a tree-lynched bird.

  Crutch kept it zipped. Sam said, “This country needs a Billy Graham Crusade. You bring the Reverend Graham in to create a sanctified mood, then all the converts backslide at the crap tables. Shit like that can flourish in a properly suppressed climate.”

  Jarabacoa was a-go-go. Three floors were up. The slaves worked rápida-mente. The Midget’s contractors pushed them. The Cubans dispensed discipline. The whole group swigged Kool-Aid. It created conviviality. Luc brought his three pit bulls. They wore sequined collars and pointy voodoo hats attached with strings.

  Crutch slurped Kool-Aid. The buzz hit him quick. The Krew lounged at a picnic table. Luc nuzzled his dogs. Sam pointed to Luc’s emerald ring.

  “What is it about emeralds?”

  Luc said, “Say what, baby man? Please tell me what you mean.”

  Sam yawned. “I mean, there’s people who dig gemstones in general, and people who only dig emeralds, and when they dig emeralds, they dig emeralds in a big way.”

  Luc smiled. “I understand this. There is a tradition of emerald worship both in Haiti and the D.R. Emeralds represent ‘Green Fire’ in voodoo text. They shine light on a dark history.”

  Sam yawned wide. “My girlfriend Celia’s Dominican. She can talk emerald lore up the ying-yang.”

  Crutch volted off “Celia.” Luc bristled weird.

  “And what is Celia’s surname? Je m’appelle Celia who?”

  Sam said, “Celia Reyes. She’s meeting me at the hotel later, which means I should scram.”

  Luc re-bristled. Crutch re-volted. A pit bull went aaaa-oooo!

  THE EYE, THE HANDS AND FEET.

  The melted skin, the bloody stumps, the knife blade. The Cuban beach and the dead kids’ faces. The wires crack. The lights go out. The black guy screams.

  He woke up in a new locale. Sweat pooled in his headphones. It was dark outside. He checked his watch—8:14 p.m.

  Bug job—quick and ad lib.

  He got Sam back to Santo Domingo. He had booked him at the El Embajador. Sam got suite 810. Sam popped a Seconal and hit the bedroom. Crutch booked suite 809, high-risk.

  He bored a hole through to the 810 living room. He ran a wiggle wire in. He bored a second hole and wall-clamped it. He attached a mini-mike. The baseboard dust blew back into his suite. The wire/mike was minuscule. It looked like spic maintenance on the fritz.

  Celia was due soon. Luc hinked on her name. Emeralds. Green glass on the body of María Rodríguez Fontonette.

  Crutch yawned. He was whip-whoozy. He did his work and Seconaled off the Kool-Aid for a nap. Note to Sam and Celia: if you talk in the bedroom, I’m fucked.

  He fucked with his amplifier. He got next-door static and ten minutes of zilch. There—click—the bedroom door opens.

  Sam yawned. Sam did that oh my cabeza/I’m jet-lagged thing. Click—the TV’s on. Spanish jabber, fuck that, he turns it off.

  Crutch adjusted his headphones. Sam yawned—oh my cabeza, sleeping pills come with a cost.

  Pop—a door opens. Squeals, baby-baby’s and huggy-kissy sounds. Spanish words—the bellman bows and scrapes. Pop—he’s out the door. Voice garbles—
Sam and Celia. Fizz/pop—someone opened champagne.

  Glasses clink. Plop-on-couch sounds. Two minutes of oh-baby garbles and smooches. Celia’s looooong breath of it.

  Crutch readjusted his headphones. He got static, squelch and Sam: “Emerald,” “colored guy,” “called it ‘Green Fi—’ ”

  The feed fritzed. Shit—all undertones. Crutch perked his ears and got half-audibles. He started to get a subtext.

  Sam’s pussy-addled. He’s thirty years older, he’s a wop doofus, Celia’s playing him.

  Glasses clink. A match scrapes. Celia coughs and exhales. Sam puts out half-audibles. Sam says, “Your silly emerald thing.” His tone’s patronizing. Celia puts out third-audibles. She says something garbled and “emerald intrigue.”

  Crutch pulled off the headphones and stuck the wire points in his ears. He got a volt charge and more volume. Celia said, “The construction sites. How’s the work going?” Sam bragged and monologued. No full words formed. His tone said it plain.

  Celia’s tone ditto. She’s probing, she’s mollifying, she’s leading him. Three words in six minutes: “footage,” “access,” “security.”

  The audio died. Crutch eyeballed the wire hole. He had to see.

  Tiger Klaw lolled in Luc’s inlet. The voodoo slaves built a nice berth for her. Luc lounged on the foredeck. His dogs snoozed under the bridge. Scalps drooped from the front antenna. They bore the Tiger Krew paw brand.

  Crutch hopped on board. Luc was effusive. He was snorting smack and voodoo-herb speedballs. Crutch perched by the machine-gun nest. Luc flexed his nostrils and fed his head.

  Crutch said he couldn’t sleep. He was in the neighborhood, blah blah. Luc said, “You are pariguayo. You are always looking and thinking. This means you think of questions to ask. You are a very young man out of his depth in a horrifying region, where your questions will often be met with unpleasant answers. I do not begrudge you a very long drive at a very late hour to talk to me, baby boy.”

  A dog ambled over. Crutch ruffled his coat. The dog nuzzled him.

  “I’m a bit of a history buff, and I know you’ve been here quite a while.”

  Luc wiped his nose. “I have been here since time began. I have carried the visage of dogs, chickens and men. I know the histories of both countries on this island and would be happy to share my knowledge with you. Was there some knowledge you specifically require?”

  “I was thinking of the 6/14 invasion. I know there’s a story there.”

  “I know the story. Take a drive with me and I’ll tell it to you.”

  Luc owned a ’61 Lincoon. The paint job was a Haitian history show. Black demons impaled white Frenchmen. Luc’s dogs raped their wives. Baron Samedi’s cloak covered the hood and wheel wells. Papa Doc Duvalier smiled on the trunk.

  It was hot. Luc put the coonvertible top down and ran the air coonditioning. Bugs bombed the car. Luc offed them with voodoo-herb bug spray. One puff killed the cocksuckers. Two puffs vaporized them.

  They drove through inner Haiti. Villages blipped and vanished. Darkies in whiteface blipped out of the haze.

  Luc ran his brights. The Lincoon had heavy-duty tires. They kicked big rocks out of their way.

  Crutch shut his eyes. He kept seeing demon wisps in the shadows. Luc motor-mouthed.

  “The 6/14 insurgents were skilled in Haitian voodoo and had voodoo-chemistry skills. A Marxist ideologue named María Rodríguez Fontonette was supposed to dose the water supply near the invasion sites along the D.R. coast, in hopes that it would induce a mass spiritual awareness in the Dominican peasantry. Herbs and blowfish toxins in non-lethal quantities, baby boy. She wanted to bring ecstasy to the peasants and create spiritual chaos with the police and army contingents. Alas, she betrayed the rebels to the Tonton and the Policía Nacional. Thus, we were able to quash the invasion. Most of the insurgents were killed. Some were captured, imprisoned and executed, a very few escaped.”

  Crutch opened his eyes. A whiteface ghoul capered in their headlights. Crutch shut his eyes quick.

  “There was a woman named Celia Reyes, right? I saw how you reacted when Sam mentioned her. She had a friend. An American woman with dark, gray-streaked hair.”

  Luc lit a cigarette. “Oh, they escaped, baby boy. They were among the few.”

  “Emeralds. Sam said Celia loves emeralds, and you said emeralds have this significance.”

  Luc turned on the radio. A low chant in French built. Luc said, “Emeralds do as emeralds do, baby boy. They are a power unto themselves.”

  Crutch opened his eyes. They bombed south. The coast air evaporated. The bugs got bigger. Luc drove with his knees and bug-bombed them two-handed. The bugs dropped dead all over Crutch. He went eek and tossed them out of the car.

  They entered a village. It was small: two mud huts, six graveyards, two taverns. Luc said, “We should visit a friend of mine. He is a bokur. He would enjoy meeting you, baby boy.”

  Crutch said, “Groovy.” Luc slowed down and idled up to a tavern. A light was on. A voodoo-sect flag flew out front. It matched the flag on Luc’s Lincoon. Luc parked and ushered Crutch inside.

  A fat darky stood at a tonic bar. He had two Mixmasters churning goo and four hot plates stewing shit in saucepans. Luc bowed to the darky. The darky bowed to Luc. They spoke in French. They touched emerald rings. Luc said, “Il est ‘pariguayo.’ ”

  The darky poured steaming brew in a goblet. Crutch grabbed it and chugalugged.

  It burned. It tasted like dead leaves and fungus. His vision blurred and came back 20-20. He burped odors from his last ten meals and stumbled over to a chair.

  The room went round, square and rectangled. Fun-house mirrors warped out of the walls. They rolled pictures at him. He couldn’t discern details. Luc laughed. The darky said, “Pariguayo, oui.”

  Crutch squinted. His eyes framed a back wall. It was plastered with anatomy charts. Internal organs were highlighted. Pins extended from them.

  Crutch re-squinted. A skull morphed into Wayne Tedrow’s face. He got up to jab pins in Wayne’s eyes. His arms and legs wouldn’t move.

  Luc laughed. The darky laughed. Luc said, “Le pauvre pariguayo.”

  He saw his mother’s face and Dana Lund’s face. He saw Dana naked with Chrissie Lund’s eyes. He saw THE ELECTRIC CHAIR, THE HANDS AND FEET AND THE EYE. He tried to talk. His vocal chords froze. He tried to stand. His legs walked away from his body and ran outside. He tried to move his hands. His fingers melted. He saw ten thousand snapshots of Joan.

  Luc said, “Pariguayo.”

  The darky said, “La poudre zombie.”

  Crutch tried to scream. His mouth dissolved into the 3rd Street tunnel under Bunker Hill. Luc and the darky grabbed him and dragged him into a back room. He tried to resist. His arms turned into bird’s wings. They dumped him. They locked the door behind him. Rats roamed the floor. He tried to roll away from them. They crawled on his back and pinned him prone. He saw Joan. He started crying. His tears turned different colors. The rats scurried to his face and started licking. He saw their fleas and the open sores on their bodies. Their tails coiled and flicked saw teeth at him.

  He couldn’t move. La poudre zombie. He saw Joan. He heard mumbles next door. Words in French formed. He saw the girls in his high school French class. His teacher said, “Donald, you’re a bright boy. Learn to listen, learn to speak.”

  The rats nibbled at him. He saw printed French words and heard Miss Boudreau translate. He heard “emeralds,” “suspects,” “kill him.” He heard “Laurent-Jean Jacqueau,” “America,” “changed name.”

  “Trujillo and Duvalier.” “Emeralds.” “Lost in America.” “Celia.” “1964.” “The boy wants the stones.”

  The words stopped, the mumbles re-started, black-and-white pictures appeared. Clyde Duber’s office, Scotty Bennett’s dashboard frieze. Crime pix—THE ARMORED-CAR HEIST.

  Crutch heard footsteps. Crutch heard a gun hammer cock. A rat walked over his face. Crutch willed his mouth open. The rat look
ed inside. Crutch pressed down and bit its head off.

  The rat thrashed. Crutch kept biting. The blood and fur taste did something to him. The door opened. Luc and the darky walked in. Luc’s .38 was pressed to his leg.

  Crutch laid there. The rat squirmed and died in his mouth. Luc and the darky got close. Crutch reached up and grabbed the gun. Rats skittered all around them. Luc and the darky froze. Crutch aimed and blew their nigger brains out.

  73

  (Santo Domingo, 5/6/69)

  Joan.

  The plane taxied in.

  Backdraft toppled the Midget’s welcome signs. Wayne woke up. He still had his satchel—four hundred grand cuffed to his wrist.

  The dream was fragmented. He saw Joan three weeks back. The dream played most nights since. Factual club noise and music. Fictive knife-scar imagery.

  He returned Dwight’s ring. Dwight refused to discuss Joan. His guess: she was his informant. Joan taught at the “Freedom School.” Reginald Hazzard attended. Wayne went back to the Freedom School and re-checked the records. There was nothing on Reginald. His little click clicked in, finally.

  The Freedom School was listed in Joan’s Fed file. He’d shredded the file. Dwight refused to get him a new copy. Another click clicked. There was something else he’d forgotten or missed.

  Wayne deplaned. His limo was waiting. The smoked windows shut out Tijuana-by-the-Sea. He ran a national records check on Joan Rosen Klein and got nothing. He laid out southside queries. The consensus: she’s a BTA hanger-on and a boss chick with a past.

  The limo crawled. Balaguer’s “Urban Renewal Plan” flatlined traffic. The ditchdiggers wore jail denims. They took mincing steps. Their shackled ankles bled.

  Mary Beth was problematic now. His workload kept them parted. His search for Reginald torqued her. She was up front. You work for the Boys. You run bag to dictators. He cajoled and mollified her. He euphemized and lied. She just plain seethed.