by James Ellroy
He glommed a partial eyeball witness six months after the heist. The guy said the lead robber was white. Okay, he’s Caucasoid. Okay, there’s the black robber rumors. Oreo teams in ’64—veeeeery rare indeed. The witness had no further description. Scotty got frustrated there. You win, you lose. He built a lead sheet on a Wells Fargo exec. It never bloomed past speculation.
The guy’s name was Richard Farr. He disappeared after the heist and the Wells Fargo B&E. Farr was half Anglo, half Dominican. Scotty culled paper on him. No lead tweakers resulted. The D.R. connection was a tweaker. Sub-tweaker: Farr might be some kind of Commie.
Scotty poured refills. Marsh took on a schoolboy look—sir, please teach me.
The investigation sandbagged. Nothing popped. Leads melted to sludge. Scotty worked the ID angle. It took years. He brought in his coroner pal, Tojo Tom Takahashi.
Tojo Tom froze flesh grafts from the scorched bodies. He isolated skin cells off one guy and lab-tested them. He found diseased leukocytes. The disease was indigenous to white men only.
Scotty did a fifty-state paper check. It took years. Paydirt, late ’69. The place: Dogdick, Alabama. The man: Douglas Frank Claverly.
Dougie had that skin disease. Dougie was a Klanned-up ex–armed robber. Exhaustive background check—zero. Yeah, but: Dougie disappeared in 1/64—one month pre-heist.
Scotty redeployed Tojo Tom. Tojo ID’d the bogus milk-truck driver. A melted good-luck ring did it. The ring was embedded in a skin cavity.
Tojo extracted the ring and lab-tested the skin cells attached. Okay, it’s a black guy. Tojo brought in chemicals and microscopes and raised words off the ring: JJL & CV.
Scotty traced the ring to Modesto. It took fucking weeks. Jerome James Wilkinson ordered the ring. He was a male Negro. He had no criminal record and no family. He worked as a strikebreaker. He vanished 1/64, one month pre-heist.
Enter Dr. Fred Hiltz. Punch line: the emeralds were going to him.
Marsh drop-jawed that one. He used to work lefty groups for Dr. Fred and Clyde Duber. Scotty said he knew that. Scotty contradicted long-held heist text.
The stones were allegedly headed to a Wells Fargo vault. The cash was a bank-deposit load. The stones were really being sent to Dr. Fred himself. A dummy corporation would hold them. A Dr. Fred stooge would play courier. Dr. Fred craaaaved the stones. There was some nutso right-wing emerald myth he creamed for.
Dr. Fred was offed in ’68. Marsh said he knew the basic facts. Scotty laid out the inside scoop.
He popped Jomo C. for that liquor-store spree. Someone pretended to be Marsh himself. The fake Marsh offered up the liquor-store snitch and a snitch on a major gun stash. That shit brought Marsh ghetto peril. Marsh knew that all too well. Marsh knew that Jomo confessed to the Dr. Fred snuff and to whacking his crime partner. Here’s the shit Marsh didn’t know.
Scotty Q&A’d Jomo with Dwight Holly present. Big Dwight heard Jomo’s Hiltz-case confession. He did not see Scotty’s second go-round.
The L.A. County Jail. The isolation cell block. Jomo’s one-man cell.
Jomo feared him now. Jomo called him “Mr. Scotty.” Jomo folded from two kidney shots.
He said a “cutout” fed him the Hiltz heist. You’ll find a bomb shelter. Steal the cash. Don’t kill Dr. Fred. Warn Dr. Fred. Tell him not to reveal shit per February ’64. He’ll know what you mean.
Jomo had no heist knowledge. Scotty determined that. Jomo clammed up. Jomo refused to state the cutout’s name. Cutout: an intelligence-agency term.
Scotty pressed. Scotty rubber-hosed Jomo. Jomo screamed and held his mud. Scotty hit Jomo too hard and killed him. Scotty rigged a toilet water–soaked bedsheet and faked a suicide.
Marsh got the shakes. Son, did I scare you? Scotty built him a highball and dumped fresh chips on his plate.
It fortified him. He spilled the rest of his tale.
Guilt-tripper Wayne Tedrow. His Find Reginald Hazzard quest. The boy looked like the third man. Marsh just checked an LVPD file. The kid had chemistry knowledge. Marsh thought about it. An old vibe resurfaced: the deep-burned bodies meant chemical skills. The pellets and chemical scaldings—Scotty agreed.
He dipped a Frito. “We have to make the Hazzard kid’s blood type.”
Marsh air-drew dollar signs. Scotty air-drew 50-50. Marsh said, “This should be fun.”
89
(Los Angeles, 12/8/70)
Chick Weiss dug Negro art. Afro stuff and island stuff. Virility statues and armless spirit guards with wings.
They cluttered up his office. Doorstops and desk knickknacks. Carved wood with deep eyes sunk in.
Crutch and Phil Irwin pulled chairs up. A Zulu god stood between them. He was half life-size. His dick was three-headed. His rhinestone eyes looked cheap.
Chick prepped a panatela. He had a black-goddess cigar prop. He spread her legs, stuck the cigar in and severed the tip. He pushed a button. Her mouth wooshed out a flame.
Phil dug it. Crutch looked away. Chick cleared space and dumped his feet on the desk.
“Camera job. Papa’s a billboard mogul and mama’s a flower-power chick. Papa’s tight with LAPD. One of his guys showed him a surveillance tape of that Griffith Park love-in. Mama’s blowing a guy by the merry-go-round. Papa hired Clyde to get the goods on him. They’re shacking at the Sunset Breeze Motel on alternate Tuesdays. I want you to get in subtle. Live film, bubbies. No hit-and-run snapshots on this one.”
Crutch stood up. Phil stood and hangover-weaved. He bumped the Zulu god. Some sequins dropped off his dick.
Chick said, “Go, you fucking heathens. This is priceless art you’re so frivolous to.”
• • •
The day was hot. Phil bribed the desk guy. Crutch B&E’d the tryst room and fucked up the AC. They air-cracked the window. The camera lens would fit in. Phil said Chick was perved on surveillance film. He had a full library. He loved to watch plain-Jane chicks and chump Charlies fucking. It was illegal and unethical. Chick didn’t care. He had clout. He threw perv-film parties for the L.A. elite.
They car-staked the lot. Phil pressed Crutch on his recent shit. He kept it zipped. Unit 6 was their target. The flanking units were hippie hives. The geeks blasted loud rock all day. That meant air cover.
Crutch sipped coffee. Phil sipped 151. They schmoozed gossip and Mando Ramos at the Olympic. Freddy O. bought Tiger Kab—what a fucking hoot.
Phil loaded the camera. The target car pulled up. The wife and the hippie stud entered Room 6.
Crutch flash-shot them. His camera date-scrolled the arrival time. Phil lugged the film camera up to the window crack.
He poked the lens in. He hit the On switches. The film cans were full. Roll it, C.B.
The camera ran soundless. It was cool. Visuals sufficed for California divorce. The wife and the hippie were loud. Crutch heard it over the rock noise. Cameraman Phil popped in earplugs.
Crutch tried to doze. Fuck me, fuck me’s killed it. Chick’s goddamn statues. Red rhinestone eyes. Wings where arms should be.
The love-nest door opened. Phil pulled out the camera and crouched. The wife and hippie shagged their sled and split. Phil carried the camera over.
“They went sixty-nine. I got the setup shot and the whole thing in one take. Chick will groove it.”
Crutch said, “You’re a loser.”
Phil grabbed his crotch and grinned.
She sent her card early. Christmas was weeks off. This one: postmarked Amarillo, Texas.
Crutch pocketed the five-spot. Crutch placed the card in his file box. ’55 to ’70—sixteen cards total. Margaret Woodard Crutchfield covers half the U.S.
His closet was file-stuffed. He hung his clothes in the bathroom. His case file ran six boxes here. He had nine boxes stashed downtown.
He looked out the window. Christmas lights were up. Yeah, it’s a ritual. Yeah, you should go.
• • •
He stole the red flag from Wayne’s file cove. He taped it to his dashboard. He’d r
ipped up his Joan pictures. It was a de-hexing move. Hancock Park was dead without the Joan pix. He needed her for juxtaposition.
Eight months home. Residual shell shock. He still can’t sleep. He can’t work his case. His nightmares are banal now. Barbiturates subsume them. He works for Clyde and chauffeurs part-time. Freddy Otash bought Tiger Kab. Wayne Tedrow had cash-drained it. Freddy got it cheap.
It’s a black lifestyle hub. It panders to hepcats, militants, and Motown fools slumming. Sonny Liston makes the scene. Rock Hudson trolls for dark dick in tigrified limos. Redd Foxx brings cocaine and moon pies. The white drivers wear tiger-stripe tuxes. The spades dig the slave roles reversed.
His case, Wayne’s case, the heist. Three cases united. He saw Wayne’s trove in April. He’s been immobilized since then. He thinks about it. He follows the loop.
L.A. to the D.R. and Haiti. Back here again. He’s tracking Gretchen Farr. She ripped off Fred Hiltz. She’s aka Celia Reyes. She kisses Joan. He sees Horror House. Body parts, voodoo powder, green glass. Celia’s linked to the D.R. Celia’s got a codebook. Months of code work. Success. Book symbols match the death-house signs. He ID’s the victim: María Rodríguez “Tattoo” Fontonette.
Joan and Celia are deep Red. Tattoo betrays the Cause. She ends up dead at Horror House. Celia’s embroiled with Sam G. She wants to fuck up the casino sites. Crazy Wayne gets there first. He gets mobbed up. He bugs Sam’s hotel room. He’s pushing dope with Luc Duhamel. Luc zombifies him. He hears “loose emeralds,” “1964,” “Laurent-Jean Jacqueau.” It’s all connected.
He’s back in L.A. He’s adjunct to Dwight Holly’s Fed gig. He’s bugging Marsh Bowen. “Marsh, it is Leander James Jackson.” That means it’s Laurent-Jean Jacqueau.
It’s all connected. Marsh lived at 84th and Budlong Then. Marsh is tight with Scotty B. Now. Their peace pact preceded “the Black-Militant Blastout.”
Wayne’s file. Weird emerald giveaways. Reginald H., long missing. Reggie splits Vegas two months pre-heist. The kid knows chemistry. The kid studied Haitian herbs. Joan taught Reginald at the Freedom School. Joan bailed him out of jail. It’s December ’63. The heist bodes.
Joan’s omnipresent. She’s Dwight Holly’s snitch and probable lover. Dwight’s rubber room–resting. Where’s Joan and why can’t I find her?
Crutch drove to 2nd and Plymouth. Dana’s Christmas lights were up. Her tree filled the front window. Gift boxes were stacked branch-high.
Corny music—Ray Conniff—her usual yule slush.
He bought her a cashmere sweater at Bullock’s. It was black and cable-knit. Elk horns fit through little toggles.
It was Christmas-wrapped. He walked up and placed it on the welcome mat. He rang the bell and vamoosed.
Radical chic:
Four Tiger kabs peeled out of the lot. Crutch saw François Truffaut, some black dudes and Hanoi Jane herself. A Tiger stretch rumbled up. Phil Irwin drove it. His tiger tux shed faux fur all over the seat. His passengers: Chick Weiss, César Chávez and Leonard Bernstein.
The stretch bombed southbound. Crutch walked into the hut. Fred O. worked the switchboard. Redd Foxx sniffed coke. Milt C. had Junkie Monkey up on his lap. Sonny Liston was toking maryjane.
Junkie Monkey said, “March 8, Jew York City. Muhammad Ali versus Smokin’ Joe Frazier. See it on closed-circuit TV at Tiger Kab, the home of the Coon Cartel.”
Sonny blew smoke in Junkie Monkey’s face. Milt made the Junkster gag and cough.
“Ali is a sissified draft dodger. Islam is a gutter religion. Ali takes it up the shit chute from Gamal Abdel Nasser and the dishonorable Elijah Muhammad.”
Redd Foxx howled. White powder and snot flew. Fred O. yukked. Crutch haw-hawed.
Sonny unwrapped a morphine suppository. Quick hands: he dug into his pants and popped it up his ass.
“Come on, kid. You’re driving me to Vegas.”
The champ nodded out at San Berdoo and passed out at Barstow. Crutch Dexedrine-all-nightered. I-15 was dead. Crutch drove 105. The desert was dead cold. Six zillion stars burned.
The radio hummed low. Mountain ranges broke up reception. Crutch caught an oldie string. Circa ’60 prom songs. The Peeper Magical Mystery Tour.
The music re-sputtered. Crutch flicked off the dial. Sonny yipped like a dog in a dream.
Crutch checked the rearview. Sonny was prone, with his feet out the window. Sand blew into the car. Sonny said, “Shit.”
“Are you okay, champ?”
“Don’t call me ‘champ.’ ‘Champ’s’ what you call all them stumblebum sparring partners you see on skid row.”
“Okay, boss.”
Sonny lit a cigarette. He torched the filter, dropped the match and tried again. Six more swipes got him combustion.
Crutch said, “I saw you fight Wayne Bethea. You kicked his fucking ass.”
Sonny dog-yawned. “I knew a cat named Wayne. He kept killing black guys he didn’t want to. That boy just didn’t have no hate for anybody, but shit kept finding him. He kept trying to find niggers to kill and niggers to save, and this woman of his thought it was all the same goddamn thing.”
They hit a rise. The Vegas Strip emanated. Colored lights compressed by darkness.
Sonny said, “Drop me at the Sands. I’m meeting some people.”
Crutch goosed the gas. He felt re-hexed and de-hexed. Sonny dropped three RDs in his tux pocket. His tiger koat was all pilled—fur balls up the wazoo.
“Don’t deadhead back. Park somewhere and rest up.”
It was 4:00 a.m. The Strip was a-go-go. Lots of cabs and golf-cart travel. The carts were wet bar–fitted. The passengers quaffed cocktails, the drivers swerved.
Crutch pulled up to the Sands. Sonny laid a C-note on him and ruffled his hair. The coffee shop was glass-fronted. People saw the crazy limo and howled.
Sonny got out. People waved. He weaved into the coffee shop. Mary Beth Hazzard walked over and hugged him.
The dexies fought off the RDs. He parked the limo under the Stardust and thrashed until noon. His tiger tux shed. Fur threads tickled his snout. He felt full-force-fucked in the soul.
He gave up on sleep and opted for pancakes. A short stack and coffee re-vivified him. Do it, fucker. You’ll get re-zombified if you don’t.
He drove to the Hotel Workers’ Union. The limo took up two parking slots. He got some pissy looks. They turned to yuks quick. His tiger tux was a roar.
A janitor gave him directions. He was all pins and needles. Her office door was open. She looked up from her desk.
He said, “I’m sorry about Wayne.”
She put down her pen.
He said, “He tried to warn me about some things.”
She straightened her desk blotter.
He said, “I see things that other people don’t see. I know how to find people.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a key ring.
90
(Los Angeles, 12/11/70)
The girls chased a neighbor’s dog. He watched from two houses down.
Dina had speed. Ella had a toddler’s gait. The dog ran in elusive circles. Ella charged, fell and got back up. The front yard contained them. His stuffed animals were there on the porch.
Dwight pushed his seat back. The car was packed: tinctures, solvents and brushes. Notepaper of varied stock.
He left Silver Hill early. He started his Bureau work next month. Joan understood his plan. She signed on with blood-deep support—belief works that way.
Nixon called him yesterday. How was your rest? Welcome back—and, by the way …
The prez was building an ops squad—four black-bag men. Dwight declined. The prez acted hurt. Dwight recommended Howard Hunt at CIA.
Ella caught the dog. He pushed her down with his paws and licked her. Ella grinned and laughed.
Karen got in the car. They knocked up their arms embracing sideways. They kept banging their legs.
They found a fit and stayed with it. The girls looked over and waved.
Karen held his face. “You look the same.”
“You look better.”
“I thought you’d be fat from all that pie I sent you.”
“My goats ate most of it.”
Karen tucked her knees up. “My husband’s in the backyard. I’ll have to go in a minute.”
“Later this week?”
“Yes.”
“The Beverly Wilshire?”
“I’ll never say no to that.”
They laced hands on the steering wheel. Karen said, “Mr. Hoover’s new dirt-hoarder. I’ll be begging you to delete files inside of ten minutes.”
“What’s wrong with five? You know I’ll do it.”
Karen laughed. “You want something. This impromptu visit after so many months just isn’t you.”
Dwight rubbed her knees. “I think you should put together a team. There’s a Bureau Records Center in Media, Pennsylvania. I think you should tap it in early March. There’s at least ten thousand surveillance files there. You could steal them and expose the Bureau’s harassment policies in one go.”
Karen lit a cigarette. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“You should.”
“And this is your idea? It didn’t come from—”
“Not now, please.”
“No weapons, in and out.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ll tell me more. ‘Need-to-know’ basis?”
Dwight nodded. “Yes, and soon.”
Ella fell and scuffed her knees. She started crying. Karen said, “I have to go.”
Dwight said, “Do you love me?”
Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”
Files:
The file room was back lot–size. High shelves, deep shelves, rolling-ladder access. Political files, criminal files, civil files. Informant files. Surveillance files, gossip files and general-sleaze files. 600,000 files total.
All indexed. Chained index binders at every shelf front.
Dwight walked the shelf banks. The ladders ran on greased casters. Twelve-foot-high, floor-bolted structures. Twelve shelves per bank. Twenty-four banks total.
