Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  DH: Yes, Sir.

  RMN: Anything I can help you with?

  DH: One thing, Sir.

  RMN: I’m listening.

  DH: The L.A. Office is security-fitting the file section. The agents are afraid you-know-who will show up unannounced before it’s finished. Will you get me his travel schedule from someone at Justice?

  RMN: Sure, Dwight. On the QT, baby. Just like all our chats.

  DH: Thank you, Mr. President.

  RMN: Straight ahead, kid.

  100

  (Los Angeles, 3/13/71)

  Scotty doodled.

  His cubicle was three-wall-wrapped. He drew little emeralds. He added that Greek gender symbol. It meant “Who’s the Woman?”

  It was early. The night-watch shift left a mess. He connived the job. He sent his backup guys down dead-end roads. He oversaw the first forensic. They covered their tracks. The tech team got no leads off one walk-through. That meant one more to go.

  They stole the Tiger Kab receipts and no more. Jack Leahy was running point, FBI-adjunct. Mr. Clean was a Fed snitch. Circle-jerk aspects overlapped.

  That hidden vault. So far, unfound. The conduit. Brother Bowen, hanging in strong.

  Scotty scanned a list. Fred O. telexed it. The Tiger Kab fight guests, alphabetized.

  Milt C. and Fred T. Lenny Bernstein and Wilt Chamberlain. There’s Sal Mineo—c/o Peeper Crutchfield. Sissy Sal was supposed to meet Macho Marsh that night.

  Scotty skipped down the list. Aha: Marcus and Lavelle Bostitch.

  They lived in Watts. They had a squatter’s shack behind Mumar’s Mosque #2. Junkies, heist guys, pedophiles. Nobel Peace Prize candidates.

  The Bostitch boys bopped carless. They were legendary that way. They rode Schwinn Sting-Rays with gooseneck risers and banana seats.

  The bikes were gone. The door was unlocked. The mosque Moors were loudly absorbed with Allah. Scotty walked right in.

  He brought an evidence kit. He carried a pocketknife and three tiger-band cash rolls. He brought print cards, print tape, print powder and six plastic bags.

  The pad stunk. It was junkie stench. Poor hygiene and suppuration. He walk-tossed the place. No guns on the premises. That meant nothing.

  Two upholstered chairs, linoleum floor, one mattress. No bathroom, kitchen, cupboards or shelves.

  Let’s work.

  Scotty slit the bottom of the mattress and tucked three cash rolls in. Scotty opened a plastic bag and sprinkled wall debris from the bank. Scotty pulled kinky hairs off a window ledge and bagged them.

  He print-dusted the doorways and four touch-and-grab planes. He got two latent print sets. He card-compared them. The Bostitch boys, ten points apiece.

  He tape-transferred them and secured them in print tubes. He bagged chair fibers and more hair. He bagged dirt and dust residue. He tucked a throwdown gun in a mattress slit.

  The heathens were still chanting. Scotty walked by the mosque and shagged his car. A spade in a fez prayer-bowed to him. Scotty prayer-bowed him back.

  Crime scene: LAPD/FBI. Yellow tape and point guards all around the bank.

  Scotty badged the door guy. The guy let him in. The floors were drop-clothed. Sifting screens were stacked waist-high. Collected grit filled giant Baggies. The teller’s cage reeked of Luminal. They were going for blood type. Maybe Thornton cut the killers as they cut him.

  Wrong.

  Scotty walked into Mr. Clean’s office and inside-locked the door. He transferred the print strips to wall surfaces and shelves. He sprinkled hair, dirt and dust. He tucked a bloody C-note under a carpet pad.

  He unlocked the door and walked outside. A lunch truck was feeding the point cops. Jack Leahy was lounging in a Fed sled.

  Scotty walked over. “Let me guess. The Laundryman had some connections you need to be wary of. Mr. Hoover said take a look-see.”

  “In a nutshell, yes.”

  “It’s a mess in there. SID got nothing on the first roll. I’ve ordered a second.”

  Jack said, “You were always thorough that way.”

  Scotty smiled. “Mr. Clean deserves the best. I won money on Frazier, so I’m feeling generous.”

  Jack polished his glasses. “Suspects?”

  “Two male Negroes. They were at Tiger Kab for the fight. I think they followed Thornton here and jumped him.”

  A jalopy rolled down the street. Two brothers clench-fisted the fuzz.

  Scotty laughed. “This is starting to remind me of the Fred Hiltz job.”

  Jack said, “I’ll concede that.”

  “You took that one over, but I won’t permit it here.”

  Jack said, “For now, I’ll concede.”

  “Hiltz was a Bureau informant. I’m thinking Mr. Clean was, too.”

  Jack said, “No comment.”

  Mumar’s Mosque was closed for the night. The two Schwinns were outside.

  Jungle rides. Mock-croc saddlebags and mud flaps. Cheater slicks and aaa-ooo-gaaah horns.

  Scotty looked in the window. Ah, brothers—how kind of you.

  They were insensate. They were tourniquet-tied and nipping at Neptune. Spoons, spikes and white horse were out in plain view.

  Scotty put on gloves and walked in. Marcus and Lavelle dozed in side-by-side chairs. Scotty pulled out two throwdowns. Marsh shot Mr. Clean with gun #1. Gun #2 was a dope-bust steal, circa ’62.

  Peace, brothers.

  Scotty placed gun #1 in Marcus’ right hand and laid his right forefinger on the trigger. He raised the gun and placed the barrel against Marcus’ right ear. He placed his own finger over the trigger and squeezed.

  The shot was loud. Marcus pitched back, dead. The bullet stayed inside his head. Scotty let his gun arm drop. The gun fell close to his hand.

  Scotty placed gun #2 in Lavelle’s right hand and laid his right forefinger on the trigger. He raised the gun and placed the barrel against Lavelle’s right ear. He placed his own finger over the trigger and squeezed.

  The shot was loud. Lavelle pitched back, dead. The bullet stayed inside his head. Scotty let his gun arm drop. The gun fell close to his hand.

  Nice powder burns. Empirically correct and textbook-consistent. Nice mouth trickle. Late seepage out through their eyes.

  101

  (Los Angeles, 3/14/71)

  FBI/48770.

  Blend in. You’re a worker. You’ll make it fly.

  He studied the crew yesterday. They wore jumpsuits and lunch-boxed it on the Fed Building lawn. Agents head-counted them in the a.m. The afternoon—nix. You’re just another tool-belted geek.

  Clyde said the Feds got B&E’d outside Philly. It mandated a file-room blitzkrieg. Clyde said five-digit numbers were snitch codes. Shit/fuck—let’s try.

  Crutch ate a salami hero. The crew guys ignored him. It is all one. Mr. Clean dies. Marsh with bloody hands. Scotty gets the case, junkie suicides, case closed.

  A whistle blew. The crew stood up and stretched. Six guys plus him. Please, no head count.

  Crutch blended in. Nobody said boo. He had a two-day growth and a painter’s cap pulled low. He paint-smeared his face.

  They entered the lobby. A Fed keyed the elevator. Crutch crouched between two fat Polacks. Nobody said shit.

  The elevator stopped at floor 11. The Fed led them down a hallway. Dwight Holly walked by, with a clipboard. He didn’t see shit.

  The file section was off the main squadroom. It was airplane hangar–size.

  The Fed waved bye-bye. The crew dispersed. They went around unscrewing shelf runners. Crutch moved six aisles down and mimicked them.

  He worked slow. The other guys schlepped around panels. Now I get it. Cover the file shelves. Gain access by lock and key.

  File shelves, file banks, file rows. Chained binder directories. “CBI.” Abbreviated Fed-speak: “Confidential bureau informants.”

  The real workers worked. Panels and lock placements went up faaaaast. Crutch quick-walked. Look officious now. Tighten some screws.

  He walke
d away from the other guys. He flipped open binders. He hit sixteen file rows. Abbreviations blurred. Number 17: “CBI/00001.”

  He gulped. He looked up. He counted numbers and shelves to the ceiling. Motherfucker—the high-4 series was up at the top.

  No shelf ladders here. You’ve got to shimmy up.

  He climbed. The shelves wobbled. He fucking monkey-grabbed, hoisted and pulled. He reached the summit. The ceiling loomed.

  He crawled. He ate dust, rubber bands and age-old dead bugs. He peeked over the side and saw file tabs. He got the 4–5’s, the 4–6’s, the 4–7’s. He stifled sneezes. The shelf shimmy-shimmied. He hit the 4–8’s. He saw the red tab for the one.

  He plucked it.

  He read the first page.

  The Black Pride Laundryman—craven Fed snitch.

  He snitched heist guys exclusively. He reported to the office boss, Jack Leahy. The relationship started back in ’63. The robbers’ names were inked over. It’s all too close, it’s all as one. Nothing’s tangential—it’s all right here in my fist.

  The shelf wobbled. Crutch almost blew lunch. Robbery rat-outs. Dissemination and disinformation. It had to be.

  Crutch sneezed. The shelf dipped. He almost dropped the file. A page fell out. He saw a black-inked paragraph. God spoke to him: Jack Leahy redacted Joan Rosen Klein.

  102

  (Los Angeles, Rural Mississippi, 3/15/71–11/18/71)

  The Operation.

  They never named it. They didn’t need to or want to. They never exchanged memoranda. There was no need to paper-reference their tasks. Acronyms were self-indulgent and satirical. They reeked of puerile Feds fucking the disenfranchised for kicks.

  He worked his file-room job in a perfunctory manner and worked the Operation full-tilt. A Nixon aide sent him Mr. Hoover’s travel list. The old girl was frail. She was traveling less. There were no planned L.A. trips this year.

  His sleep was good. His nerves were sound. He chucked his booze and sleeping-pill stash. He imagined spot tails. He took evasive action. The tail cars disappeared. It was just residual fear.

  The old girl trusted him. The Operation was secure. The fallback was inviolate. There was no surveillance.

  He gave up the tail checks and drove place to place. He was post-crack-up now. He went task to task, un-paranoic. The Operation was incomprehensible. Nobody would suspect their goal or dispute the outcome. A paper avalanche would follow. Media preannounced it. The Event was inevitable.

  Joan worked with him, task by task. She understood the level of detail required. They talked, they plotted, they built a giant paper maze. Joan refused to embellish her astonishing statement.

  “I’ve wanted to kill him since I was a child, and I won’t tell you why.”

  He did not ask her again. He did not ask Karen. He ran more records checks on her known family members. Every file had been lost, misplaced, diverted, destroyed or stolen. He gave up. He wasn’t supposed to know. She’d tell him or she wouldn’t. He found himself less curious. The Operation was theirs. Its brutal scope was their bond.

  The Media break-in worked. Karen and her team stayed anonymous. She leaked files through a series of cutouts. The Washington Post hit on March 24. The New York Times and Village Voice followed. A hue and cry escalated. Karen attributed the leaks to the “Citizen’s Committee to Investigate the FBI.” Joe Public got a gander at bland surveillance files. Jane Public got hip to COINTELPRO. Mr. Hoover made flabbergasted remarks. The prez was relieved. The files revealed only pre-Nixon chicanery.

  It worked. Joan conceded the point. The event faded in and out of public play. Lefty journos kept teething on it. COINTELPRO was subtextually planted. The Event would etch the concept in blood.

  Work was tense. The Operation sustained him ideologically. The Operation drove Joan in a wholly vindictive manner. She saw it as a vendetta. She would not reveal the origin of her journey of revenge. She was running haggard. Lionel Thornton’s death disturbed her. He was a money washer at worst and a political bagman at best. Joan wouldn’t talk about it. She always said what she always said: “I’m not going to.”

  Joan slept with him in hotel suites and worked with him at the fallback. She stayed in safe houses the nights he slept with Karen. She was worried about Celia. She was making phone calls and trying to find Celia in the D.R. She refused all his offers to help.

  She’d sit by herself on the terrace. She’d sip tea and take herbal capsules. He stole a few and had them analyzed. They were Haitian fertility potions. Joan was almost forty-five and was trying to get pregnant. Her child, his child—it astounded him. There was no chance of conception. He knew it. He never said it. He never mentioned the potions. He watched her face recast itself as she tried to will her body. He reveled in the mad task and in her obduracy.

  Karen’s house was down a steep hillside. He trained his binoculars and watched the girls play. Karen debriefed him on Media and told him no more. They formally terminated their snitch relationship. He accepted it. Karen described Media as a debt to Joan and him and respectfully asserted that she had paid it. He said she had. She never returned to the fallback. He carried the picture of her with the girls. She sent him coded night messages. She’d sense him on the terrace and blast Beethoven string quartets. She’d leave a kitchen light on to pinpoint the sound.

  The music invaded his dreams. Wayne replaced Dr. King. Crocodiles and rivers in Haiti. Explosions in the D.R. and gaunt black men with wings.

  The Operation proceeded. Convergence remained the one obstacle. He flew to Mississippi four times. Bob Relyea remained committed. Bob was training. Bob would keep his mouth shut. Bob would not know the target until hit day.

  He B&E’d Marsh Bowen’s house six more times. He searched for a hidden diary and found none. Joan was certain that Marsh kept a candid daily journal. His actor’s self-absorption fairly screamed it. Their fake diary was the deus ex machina of the Operation. They had to be certain that a real diary would not be found.

  Marsh worked night-watch shifts and gave motivational speeches. Dwight black-bagged him and prowled. Trash runs, desk and drawer runs, fake-panel taps. Numerous art books and Haitian travel brochures. No diary yet.

  The file section was now security-fitted. It was a post-Media precaution. It didn’t matter. He was an FBI agent. He had file-shelf keys. Marsh Bowen was now deeply file-inserted. Sergeant Bowen was injudiciously promiscuous. Sergeant Bowen was politically unstable, going back years.

  He spent late nights at the office. He chatted with the mordant Jack Leahy. Jack was fixed on the old girl in gasping decline. Media was a pisser. Jack considered it predictable. He was pension-secure and raucous by nature. He didn’t seem to give a shit.

  Dick Nixon got raucous behind two highballs. He called Dwight twice a month. Mr. Hoover called twice as much. Nixon was Hoover-tweaked. Hoover was Nixon-tweaked. The prez got half-gassed and vented his frustration. Hoover raged for reassurance amid mental gaffes. Both men found the Enforcer consoling. He was the gunslinger, back from a crack-up.

  His consolation? Marsh’s diary.

  He’s creating a world of troubled men in extremis. He attributes his dreams to Marsh. Marsh’s discourse is shaped by his discourse with Karen and Joan. Marsh’s diary feels almost utopian. It rebuts the world that is and prophesies the world that could be. The entries cover the inception of BAAAAD BROTHER and run to the present. Marsh carries guilt for exploiting the “Black-Militant Blastout.” He is determined to kill J. Edgar Hoover. His cop-actor’s role won him glory and spawned death. His moral confusion counterpoints his tortured inner life and day-to-day indulgence of perversion.

  He’s added details from his own breakdown. Marsh’s crack-up is his crack-up, hyper-radicalized. He’s created a Holly-Bowen bond that did not exist. The two men discuss crack-up as a call to violent arms and the means to transcend self-serving pathology. He portrays public policy as private nightmare and vehicle of atonement. What it’s like to have to do something so you won’t go in
sane. His story and Marsh’s story regained.

  He’s come to care for Marsh. He won’t regret killing him.

  103

  (Los Angeles, 3/15/71–11/18/71)

  Frustration. Fucking ceaseless, day by day.

  The county grand jury nailed the Bostitch boys posthumous. Scotty breathed easy then. The brothers snuffed Mr. Clean and formed a suicide pact. Nice, but the heist gig was stalled flat.

  Who’s the Woman?

  She was Thornton’s emerald conduit and cutout. A Woman pervaded the Jomo offshoot. Marsh perks when he says Woman. Marsh comes on bifurcated. He’s solid and untrustworthy.

  Who’s the Woman? His notion: she was in with OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER. Dandy, but:

  He can’t brace Dwight Holly. Dwight is dead smart and subtle and would brace him right back. He can’t brace Jack Leahy. Jack knows about BAAAAD BROTHER. Jack is dead smart and subtle and would brace him right back.

  Frustration. Mind-bending, night after night.

  They stole the emerald-disbursement clip file and the coded ledger. He tried to crack the code. He spent months on it. He thought about hiring a cryptographer. A pro might crack the code. He finally nixed the idea. The code guy would know then. One more loose end would unfurl.

  Federal bank examiners tossed the Peoples’ Bank. Scotty went with them and Jack Leahy. They tore the walls, floors and roof to shreds. They found the vault from Mr. Clean’s drawing. Inside: a dope stash and $89,000.

  Cat’s-paw. Long-term stopgap. A hedge against possible exposure.

  The money and remaining emeralds were stashed elsewhere. Thornton was smart. He didn’t give up the vault. He played the “I don’t know” card. He knew he was dead, anyway. Theory: the money and gems were in the vault. The heist guys knew it. They pulled them before the bank team went in.