by James Ellroy
The flame tore up and out. They screamed and went spastic on fire.
The ammo on their belts blew up. Pieces of them exploded.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/30/70. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.
Los Angeles,
3/30/70
“Black-militant summit”: savor the concept.
I was to be the facilitating agent. Leander James Jackson would represent the BTA and Joseph Tidwell McCarver and Claude Cantrell Torrance would negotiate on the MMFL’s behalf. This august event was couched as an afternoon bar-b-q at Joe McCarver’s crib. There would be ribs, chicken, greens, booze, reefer and sweet-potato pie. Joe’s backyard would be festively decorated. His four-year-old daughter and six-year-old son would provide diversion and perhaps serve to squelch overuse of the word motherfucker.
I had possession of the dope. I would be in charge of negotiating the BTA/MMLF percentage cut and the ultimate splitting of profits. Most importantly, this was where I would shift my allegiance from Mr. Holly to Scotty.
The plan resulted from Bowen-Bennett summitry at Tommy Tucker’s Playroom. We determined that immediate action would be required. The dope split would be accomplished; the BTA and MMLF fools would leave the pad holding big poundage; Scotty would swoop down for the bust. It meant betraying my FBI-infiltrator status prematurely, thus shafting Mr. Holly and Mr. Hoover, with hopes of getting back on LAPD in a flash. If the plan meshed, both the BTA and MMLF would be fully discredited, the Feds would get their indictments and I would be reinstated to LAPD. Mr. Hoover and Mr. Holly would be furious. I had unilaterally terminated the operation, with Scotty’s assistance. Resentment would simmer and then dissipate. Scotty and I would then be free to pool our information on the heist. We would form a powerful two-man team to go after the money and emeralds; OPERATION BAAAAAD BROTHER would be considered a success. This wild swath of my young life, with all its attendant mindscapes, would assume an entirely new dimension.
I asked Scotty how he knew of my fixation with the heist, enough so to brace me on it. Scotty told me he had picked up tips that I had been making subtle queries, going back months. On instinct, he did a background check on me. Bingo: my 84th and Budlong address showed up on an old driver’s license.
Joe McCarver owned a small stucco house off 68th and Slauson. The day was warm. The backyard was comfortably strewn with lounge chairs; the kids splashed around in a wading pool. Scotty was parked in an unmarked unit, two blocks away. He had a two-way radio with dial-in capacity. All I needed was four seconds with Joe’s bedroom phone.
“This be good like a motherfuuuuucker,“Claude Torrance said as we sat down. The dope sat in the middle of a long picnic table, as if it were an altarpiece. Intergroup tension needed to be brooked before we began the negotiation, so 151 rum and spike-laced grass was served. I partook sparingly. The other three men consumed a full bottle of the rum and smoked several reefers. Joe attacked the food; I prepared the opening remarks of my mediation. Then Claude started fucking with my head.
“Brother, an’ I calls you ‘brother’ with a big muthafuckin’ grain of salt, let me ask you, brother, why’d you rat out Brother Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson to the muthafuckin’ pigs last year?”
I said something neutral. I did my conciliatory “Hey, brother, be cool” thing.
Leander stepped in; I’m sure he considered my response sissified. He said, “Listen to me, baby boy. I put a knife in Jomo and saw him bleed weak blood. He was anemic from weak thoughts and a strong appetite for evil. I put a hex on his nigger soul, and he die the next day. I have connections to Bizango-sect bokurs and the ghost of Baron Samedi. They make Jomo off himself. They send legions of red ants up the hole in his dick to eat out his eyes and his brain. That is the pure truth, baby boy.”
I held my breath.
Joe put down a chicken wing and cracked his knuckles.
Claude said, “Baron Samedi sucked my big black dick,” and spit on Leander’s shoes.
Then:
Leander pulled a gun. Joe pulled a gun. Claude pulled a gun. There was the briefest of pauses where they might have stepped back. A strong wind whipped through the backyard. A bottle toppled. The noise rang loud. That did it.
All three men had fat-clip automatics. They all fired at once, as I ducked under the table.
It was very close range. The noise was horrible. Leander shot and killed Claude. Joe shot and killed Leander. Leander shot and killed Joe as he was going down. The three men were on the ground by the table. They were technically dead, but still twitching. They kept firing and sending shots out. The children screamed and tried to run. Stray shots and ricochets hit them. I saw the little girl’s brains blow back into the wading pool.
I curled up, covered my head and waited for more shots or death-throe noise. There was none. I looked around and saw the three dead men and two dead children. It was over in less than ten seconds. I had an epiphany. It was instantaneously realized mindscaping. I immediately prepared a tableau for my heroic, trial-by-fire redemption.
The house and backyard were flanked by vacant lots on three sides, which gave me both privacy and time to work. Calmly, I pulled my gun and shot the dead Claude Cantrell Torrance in the head. Just as calmly, I shot the late Joseph Tidwell McCarver and Leander James Jackson. Finishing up, I took the three guns out of their hands and fired off random shots. I smudged the grips, then calmly placed the guns back in their hands.
Sure—they fired on each other. But I assumed control and took them all out. Too bad about the kids. I tried to sweep them to safety, but ricochets caught them first.
I walked through the yard and stretched the bodies out in convincing cross-fire positions. I wiped up the drag marks with paper towels and checked out the scene. I ran into the house and stiffed a faux-panicked call to Scotty.
His siren kicked on instantly; I heard it from two blocks away. I walked slowly back to the yard.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/1/70. Los Angeles Herald Express article.
BLACK-MILITANT BLASTOUT
Two days ago, a backyard barbecue in South Los Angeles erupted into violence and three men and two children lay dead. Initial news reports attributed the killings to a high-stakes narcotics deal gone bad. It now appears to be much more than that.
The three adult victims—Leander James Jackson, age 31, Joseph Tidwell McCarver, age 32, and Claude Cantrell Torrance, age 23—were rabid black-militant activists, LAPD Sergeant Robert S. Bennett told reporters at a press conference. The two murdered children—Theodore and Darleen McCarver, ages six and four, were McCarver’s two offspring with his common-law wife. Sergeant Bennett went on to reveal that there was a sixth person in Joe McCarver’s backyard: former LAPD Officer Marshall E. Bowen.
“You may recall Officer Bowen from an encounter he had with me on October 1, 1968,” Sergeant Bennett said. “Officer Bowen’s actions resulted in his being fired from LAPD. In reality, the encounter and the subsequent firing were just a ruse to allow Officer Bowen to convincingly infiltrate the Black Tribe Alliance and Mau-Mau Liberation Front, two deadly black-nationalist groups intent on selling heroin to finance their subversive activities.”
Officer Bowen assumed the microphone. “Jackson, McCarver and Torrance had extensive criminal records and Communist ties,” he said. “I had been gathering evidence against them since my fake firing from LAPD a year and a half ago. The purpose of the barbecue was a ‘dope summit meeting’ and the culmination of my work as an FBI infiltrator. Regrettably, a verbal argument escalated into a gunfight. I ran in and attempted to lead the two children to safety, but stray bullets got to them first. At that point, I entered into gunfire with Jackson, McCarver and Torrance, as they were firing at one another.”
FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover praised Officer Bowen’s “brilliant work in throwing a monkey wrench into the activities of two Communist-aligned organizations.” Newly installed LAPD Chief Ed Davis announced that Officer Bowen will return to the Los Angeles Police Department as a sergeant and will recei
ve the LAPD’s highest award: the Medal of Valor.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/2/70. Milwaukee Sentinel article.
ODD RUMORS FROM DOMINICAN REPUBLIC
The Dominican Republic has been comparatively peaceful since the 1965 civil war, a brief military engagement that ended nearly five years ago. The U.S. Marines, satisfied at the quashing of potential Communist revolt on the island, had left. An interim leftist dictator had been deposed, and centrist-reformer Joaquín Balaguer has been in power since 1966. But for the past several weeks, dire rumors have resounded from within the “D.R.,” as it is popularly known.
None of the rumors have been factually substantiated, but they have been persistently similar, leading some American journalists to wonder if the events are connected.
There has been a rash of demonstrations by left-wing groups in Santo Domingo, most particularly the Castroite “6/14 Movement.” Government sources have said that this is not unusual; free speech is encouraged within the D.R. and thus the demonstrations are in no way anomalous. The sites of four hotel-casino buildings financed by U.S. interests were rumored to have been sabotaged two weeks ago, which government sources also denied. Add on the murder of an American man by members of an anti-Dominican voodoo sect and the discovery of the charred bodies of one French man with radical right-wing ties and four Cuban exiles allegedly backed by wealthy Americans in the Miami-based exile community, and you have the stuff of great conspiracy talk.
CIA Station Chief Terence Brundage told correspondents: “It’s just that. Talk, and nothing else. You’ve got a bunch of unrelated rumors and no more.”
This assessment was seconded by a spokesman for President Balaguer. “All poppycock,” he said. “The casino sites were not sabotaged. Structural flaws brought them down, and we are back in discussion with our American investment group, which is anxious to start rebuilding soon.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/3/70. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request/Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.
JEH: Good morning, Dwight.
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: You sound glum, while I am elated. I have not been in such a mood since 1919. You were there at the dock with me, Dwight. We waved bye-bye to a truculent Emma Goldman.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Young Bowen soared in the end. And I do not condemn him for his “end run” with the LAPD and the outsized Sergeant Robert S. Bennett. Our sepia seducer wanted his job back, and who can blame him for that?
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: The BTA and MMLF have momentarily eclipsed the Panthers. The Bureau has gotten a million vats of good ink. Both groups are headed toward mass indictment. It is a vivid explication of Negro moral turpitude, replete with dead pickaninnies to tug at your heartstrings.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: You sound glum and screechily high-strung, Dwight. You should—
DH: I need to foist a bluff under your name and President Nixon’s, Sir. If it comes back to you, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d offer confirmation. And I will never ask you for another favor.
JEH: Glum and impertinent. A Dwight Chalfont Holly that I have never heard before.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I’m flying high, Dwight. My answer is resultantly yes. We put the BTA and MMLF down like foaming-mouth dogs. I’m telling it like it is.
DH: Thank you, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Dwight.
DH: Good day, Sir.
85
(New Orleans, 4/4/70)
U-turns and wrong turns. Mis-marked cul-de-sacs. The road map was ten years outdated.
Signs sent him down exits and back to cloverleafs. He dodged road debris and loafing hard hats. It was hot. Things looked florid. The world moved slow as he ran breathless.
Dwight cut down an access road. Finally—signs to the Town & Country.
He was full-fucked shot. He stayed alone with it. Karen was back east and Joan vanished. It was full-time overtime. He saw the crime-scene pix. They looked bogus. LAPD bought or went along with Marsh Bowen’s version. Dipshit sent him a note.
“Dwight—I saw Marsh with Scotty B., two nights before the shootings. They looked friendly. It surprised me, so I thought you should know.”
The road was potholed. Wetlands pressed up on both sides. Dwight pulled into a clearing. The motel was L-shaped and sandblasted pink. Three golf carts sat outside the office.
Dwight parked beside them. The office door was open. A golf ball dribbled out and rolled down the steps. It was a stop frame. It ran heat-sapped slow. Everything he saw looked scary.
He locked up the car and walked over. His suit wilted. He saw Santo, Sam and Carlos in golf duds.
The office was knotty pine. The Boys sat in beanbag chairs and poured liqueurs from cut-glass decanters. Carlos pointed to a chair and the door. Dwight complied. Santo slapped a wall unit and roused cold air.
Sam said, “Dwight’s too thin.”
Santo said, “This is not a man bearing glad tidings.”
Carlos said, “We’ve got good news. Let’s hope his bad news don’t intervene.”
Dwight sank into his chair. Air swooshed out of it. He felt weightless.
Santo sipped anisette. “Dwight H. at a loss for words. What’s this I’m seeing?”
Sam sipped Galliano. “He’s been eating crow. He’s lost weight on the all-crow diet.”
Carlos sipped XO. “He’s a man who’s suffered a loss. Wayne T. torched the building sites and robbed us blind for God knows what reason. He’s coming to grips with all the grief caused by that Mormon cocksucker.”
Dwight said, “I know you have plans. I only need a few minutes of your time.”
Santo sipped anisette. “You’re right in that regard. Time is a commodity we are currently short of.”
Sam sipped Galliano. “I’m writing a book about Wayne. It’s called Death of a Coon Hunter.”
Carlos sipped XO. “Some Reds fried Tiger Krew. I’m betting they went out shooting.”
Santo switched to Drambuie. “They were too zealous for my taste. Tell it like it is. They were right-wing nuts.”
Sam switched to schnapps. “Dipshit is the last man standing. He was off peeping windows when the Krew got barbecued.”
Carlos sipped XO. “Why mourn recent history? Balaguer’s back in the fold and picking our pockets anew. This time we won’t hire nigger-lovers or neo-Nazi mercs with sidebar agendas.”
Santo sipped Drambuie. “White stiffs love to lose money in lush tropical locales. It’s the Age of Aquarius, baby.”
Sam said, “Let the sun shine in.”
Carlos said, “Right on, brother. Let it all hang out.”
Dwight shook his head. “No foreign casinos. That’s straight from President Nixon. The D.R. was a goddamn big fuckup. It’s not going to happen again. The president is emphatic. You’ll find him cooperative in every other way, but your casino plan is dead as of now.”
They stared at him. They did double takes. It went stop frame and triple time.
Carlos threw his glass at him. It hit the wall and cracked. Santo and Sam threw their glasses. They fell short of the chair. Too-sweet booze splashed him.
Dwight got up and walked out. His legs caved. He fell into the car. He saw a bed and a lawn at the end of a tunnel.
86
(Los Angeles, 4/5/70)
The lot.
Old home week.
Back in the fold.
Dipshit, pariguayo. You killed the guy who killed JFK. You offed umpteen Reds and had boocoo adventures. You’re twenty-five. You’ve got gray-flecked hair and lines on your face. Your back is all sliced up.
Crutch sat in his sled. The old crew circulated. Clyde and Buzz Duber, Phil Irwin and Chick Weiss. Bobby Gallard and Fred Otash.
He got more are-you-all-rights and you-don’t-look-so-goods. Fred O. evil-eyed him. Freddy was in on the King-Bobby hits. Freddy knew h
e knew. It was all stale bread now.
Biz circulated. Chick sent Bobby and Phil out on a rope job. That producer at the Ravenswood was priapic. Wife #3 craved Splitsville while hubby craved Greek meat.
Hey, man. Weren’t you embroiled in some cool shit in the Caribbean?
Not so cool. I should have stayed home.
He cut the villagers loose. They did a big-white-bwana number and ran into the brush. He torched Tiger Kar and walked back to Santo Domingo. He packed up and got the fuck out of Dodge.
The Boys never braced him. He got to L.A. and dismantled the fail-safes. He re-clicked with Clyde and Buzz and went back to tail jobs. Buzz buzz-bombed him with questions. He downplayed everything. Buzz asked him about his case. He said he gave it up.
A rainstorm came on. The guys perched in their cars. He was eight days back. Clyde saw that he was fucked-up and ladled work on him. He deployed that heavy-hung Filipino across all gender lines. He kicked in doors and snapped mucho pictures. Sal Mineo needed gelt and consented to pork a woman. The deal died with Sal’s soft dick. It felt wrong. It should have jazzed him. It scared him, instead.
Everything scared him.
Nothing clicked in safe. He had his pad at the Vivian and his file pad downtown. They felt unsafe. He picked at his mother’s file and his case file. That felt unsafe. He peeped Hancock Park. Julie Smith was married, pregnant and out of the house. Dana Lund had a dimwit boyfriend. She’d aged as much as he had.
Crutch tapped the ignition and ran the radio. He heard a song burst: “Faces come out of the rain.” It spooked him. It was voodoo-derived. The song was aimed at him. It was raining now. He squinted out the windshield and tried to read faces. Zilch—just pedestrians with umbrellas.
He sees signs everywhere. He stays up all night or sleeps too long. He has these kid crying jags—Dipshit, pariguayo. He sees shit involuntarily. They’re Zombie Zone re-takes with L.A. backdrops.
