by James Ellroy
108
(Los Angeles, 11/26/71)
The plane rolled in. Dwight had a crimped center seat. Dogdick, Mississippi, and back in seventeen hours.
The trip was ad-lib. Beb Relyea threw a fit. Dwight, a man likes to know who he’s killin’. Bob, I ain’t sayin’. Here’s five grand. Go push some hate tracts and clout some pharmacies.
The gate was by the parking lot. Dwight deplaned, got his car and cut for the freeway. It was 9:16 p.m. Joan was at the fallback. Marsh was in Oxnard. The Black Pride Caucus invited him. That Brother Bowen—he can speechify.
Dwight swung over to La Cienega and climbed the Stocker Pass. He was frayed. His bad nerves and bad sleep had reprised. The Sal Mineo deal head-slapped him. He hadn’t seen Joan since then. They hadn’t talked at all. He was full-court-pressing. The prez was sending a Hoover travel update. He had to go to D.C. Nixon wanted a black-bag summit. The Enforcer and Howard Hunt, old Agency hand. Karen and her kids would be there then. Show the girls some monuments. Teach them explosives later.
The Joan/Jack Leahy theory torqued him. His first Joan suspicion: she’s got a Fed friend. Three years later, he tenuously knows.
Peeper Crutchfield torqued him. The meddlesome little cocksucker. Fucking prescient and super-human persistent. They let him live. He knew everything then. Who knew what he knew now?
The big issue: convergence. The sub-issue: the Marsh-Scotty bond. The big question: does the fruit shake mean we abort?
Dwight chased three aspirin with coffee. Auspicious: his first migraine since Silver Hill.
The bolt slides always worked. The oil coating never left tool marks. His shades supplied haunted-house light.
Dwight locked the door behind him. The living room smelled ripe. Incense dregs lingered. Marsh splurged on a new Kandinsky. It fucked up the north-wall symmetry.
Dwight prowled. It was B&E #6,000. Futile repetition cop work—he loved that shit.
He tapped panels, he opened drawers, he reached under couches and rugs. He saw dust leak from a ceiling beam. The beam was smooth-finished. That shouldn’t be.
He pulled a chair over and stood on it. He squinted. He saw faint markings on one side of the beam. The dust leaked from a near-invisible seam.
He pushed against it. The wood piece opened inward. A tiny hinge and runner squeaked. The door was near invisible and rectangular. The dimensions were eight by ten.
Paper scent. Right off—the very first thing.
He reached in. It was leather-bound. Stylish Marsh—raw-cut pages.
He pulled it out and stepped off the chair. He prepped his Minox. He carried it to Marsh’s desk and read.
He knew Marsh. The diary confirmed it straight off. Their narrative styles were similar. They both knew how smart they were. They both had the same dry wit. They both worshiped ruthlessness. Marsh was new to it and in awe of it. Oh, you kid. Oh, my brother. You don’t know what it costs.
It was 10:21. He had twelve rolls of film. He could shoot most of the text.
It was cumbersome. Fold the pages, aim the camera, shoot. He got in close and read as he snapped. It was all there. It was his world and Brother Bowen’s world combined.
The heist as Holy Grail. His kid crush on D. C. Holly. His duplicitous union with Scotty B. Wayne Tedrow and long-lost Reggie. Reggie as heist survivor and emerald conduit. The Lionel Thornton snuff. The three Haiti trips. Marsh ID’s Joan as the Woman. He withholds it from Scotty.
He shot seventy-three pages. He ran out of film. He memorized most of the text. He replaced the diary and cleaned up the dust. He left the room pristine.
His migraine was gone. The Operation was in jeopardy. He felt calm and light and something else.
The fallback was dark. Joan was out. Karen played the Grosse Fuge at full volume. He walked to the terrace. Karen’s bathroom light was on. The music roared from a bright little square.
The darkroom was fully equipped. Joan developed film better than he did. He knew the basic drill. He red-lit the space, filled the trays and unfurled his film rolls. It was four full hours’ work.
He cut film strips, dunked them and pinned them up. He watched words on paper appear. He took a break and called Peeper. The punk never got a word in. He dropped hints about emeralds, Joan Klein and the heist. Do nothing, Dipshit. Do you understand?
Peeper gulped and said, “Yes.” Dwight went back to work.
He finished the film dunks. He clotheslined all the photos and let them drip dry. He pulled them and carried them into the living room.
Let’s create a narrative. Let’s expose it eye level. Let’s shape a scan-and-read.
He pinned the photos. It told Marsh’s story and their story. He told it in three around-the-wall strips.
The photos were slightly dark and buckled. It didn’t matter. The living room lights were fine.
He walked out to the terrace. Karen’s bedroom light was still on. He trained his binoculars. Dina ran into the room, crying. Karen picked her up and held her. Dear child, bad dream.
The lights went out. He waited for the bathroom light and more music. He didn’t get it. Skyscraper lights blinked downtown.
A key went in the front-door lock. The door swept and slammed. Her footfalls were too light. She didn’t hurl her handbag.
He waited. He scanned the sky and saw City Hall. It was ’51. LAPD was headquartered there. He saw a young cop manhandle a suspect. Six-five, crew cut—Scotty B. presaged.
He saw her shadow and smelled her hair. He leaned into the terrace rail. She walked up and leaned into him.
“I haven’t ever lied to you or betrayed you.”
“I know that.”
“Marsh has put a good deal of it together.”
Dwight turned toward her. She embraced him. His chin brushed the top of her head.
“I recruited Reginald Hazzard. Jack and I have been friends for many years. We planned the robbery together. Reginald has been in Haiti for a very long time.”
Dwight touched her hair. Last week’s black was gray and gray was white.
“The heist gives this a whole new dimension. Scotty knows that Marsh is not the lone-assassin type. It’s a level of scrutiny we can’t afford. Scotty will know that we’re behind it in a heartbeat.”
Joan said, “I disagree.”
Dwight shook his head. “They’re shafting each other. Scotty’s pulling a sex shakedown on Marsh. Marsh knows your name and knows that you were my informant. They killed Lionel Thornton. Marsh is not going to walk into a sniper’s perch with all this going on.”
Joan said, “I disagree.” Dwight balled his fists. Joan cupped them and placed them on her chest.
“It densifies every level of our subtext. It indicts Scotty Bennett and facilitates the need for an LAPD cover-up, which will extend the paper trail and greatly increase the degree of public exposure. We can combine the diaries. We can remove the references to Jack Leahy, Reginald Hazzard and me. We can edit out the references to Lionel Thornton, so that his people don’t get hurt. Think of this as a social document that unfailingly takes us back to Mr. Hoover and every evil thing that he’s done. The heist will muddy the trail and enhance the overall readership and scholarship. The Bennett-Bowen friendship explicates every point about hatred and greed that I’ve ever wanted to make.”
Dwight pulled away. Karen’s bathroom light went on. He strained his ears. No music played.
“Tell me about Lionel Thornton.”
“He was a comrade of sorts.”
“He laundered the money for you and Jack.”
“Yes.”
“Jack went in with the bank examiners. He got the basic sum out beforehand. He left some money behind to be found.”
Joan said, “Yes, you’ve got all of it, but there’s the thing you haven’t said and the question you haven’t asked.”
Dwight looked at her. “I don’t blame you for any of it. Given what I’ve done, I simply can’t.”
“And the question?”
�
�The question is, ‘Who got the money?’ The answer is, ‘It’s all been going to the Cause.’ ”
The music started low. Dissonant strings. It was very late. She wanted them to hear it soft.
Joan said, “I don’t want to lose this.”
Dwight strained for the music. A low wind obscured it.
“Marsh knows about you, Scotty could learn about you. You’d be in danger then, and your name would be revealed in the end.”
Joan shook her head. “Scotty doesn’t know about me. Marsh won’t tell him or anyone else. He’s a greedy, covetous little man. He wants everything for himself. You saw the diary pages. No one else did. I’ll be kept out of it, and no one will believe anything that Scotty says about you. He’s the faggot nigger’s white cop buddy, and you’re the government’s star witness who cracked up and has to confess.”
Dwight brushed tears from his eyes. Joan squeezed his hands, white-knuckled.
“Tell me what Mr. Hoover did to you.”
Joan said, “No. I’m not going to.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/3/71. Telex communiqué. Marked: “Access Code 1-A/Recipient’s Eyes Only. Destroy Upon Reading.” To: SA Dwight C. Holly. From: Travel-Scheduling Office, Central Communications Center, Washington, D.C.
Sir,
Per your last telephone request, please be informed that SUBJECT’S travel schedule has been reduced, due to recent recurrences of poor health. As of this date, SUBJECT will be traveling to Miami on 4/14/72, Cleveland on 5/5/72 and Los Angeles on 6/10/72. Any changes or updates will follow, per your request. As always, please destroy upon reading.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/4/71. Official 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: (Coughing fit: twelve seconds.)
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: Don’t repeat yourself.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I don’t know why I continue to talk to you.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Stop repeating yourself. I’m not senile. I’m in perfect health.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: You did it again. Stop it. I’m telling you not to respond.
(Silence: fifty-three seconds.)
JEH: Slippery Dick asked me to black-bag the Watergate Hotel. I declined. I’ll keep my job as long as I string him along. I’m a cock-tease. I’m stringing that cocksucker along. He called me a sissy. He called my hemorrhoid surgery a “hysterectomy.”
(Coughing fit: nine seconds.)
JEH: I’ve got a file on Slippery Dick. He called me a sissy. My basement is reinforced with Kryptonite. No file thief on earth could break in.
(Coughing fit: sixteen seconds/phone transcript terminates here.)
109
(Los Angeles, 12/5/71)
“Sal, you’re a cute side of beef. Why can’t you land this chump in the sack?”
Fruit squeeze summit #2. Sergeant Robert S. Bennett, presiding. Also there: Sal, Fred O., Peeper Crutchfield.
“Listen, there’s guys who just won’t bite. Sometimes they’re Little-Miss-Hard-To-Get, sometimes they just don’t crave stick.”
The Silver Star on Western. Scotty dined gratis there. The owner was stickup-prone. He called Scotty direct.
A waiter served gin fizzes and pretzels. Their booth faced the door. Scotty insisted. He knew faces quicksville. He had cop total recall.
Fred O. picked a hangnail. Peeper scratched his balls. Silky Sal was depressed. He was a coal burner. He craved Marsh’s deep mine shaft.
The waiter split. Sal said, “I met you before, Sergeant. It was on this movie shoot.”
“I know. Southside Crackdown. I took my kids to see it. My daughter had the hots for you. I told her, ‘That guy’s a fruit fly, you’re shit out of luck.’ ”
Sal yukked. Fred yukked. Peeper did not. Peeper was always off in his head. Yonder windows loomed.
Scotty snarfed pretzels. “Lay it on me. Why won’t this stupe come around?”
Sal shrugged. “Marshey’s a tough nut. He’s got his tight little world all figured out, and he doesn’t appreciate interruptions. He’s got his cop thing and his speech thing and his art thing. And now all he talks about are these trips he took to Haiti.”
Hel-lo.
Softball. Easy lob, easy catch. Marsh was holding back. Haiti adjoined the D.R. The emeralds shipped from there. Haiti meant Reggie and the stones.
Sissy Sal blathered. Scotty tuned him out. Peeper fidgeted. Note the sweaty hands and neck.
Scotty chugalugged his drink. “You keep pressing, Sal. I’ll get you some Quaaludes. A little Soul Train on the stereo and va-va-va-voom.”
Sal tee-heed. “It’s not like I don’t want it. Marshey is a stone fox. I call him ‘the African Queen.’ ”
Fred O. clutched his belly. Peeper howled out loud. Pretzel gack flew.
Scotty said, “This is all between us white men. You cannot go to Dwight Holly. This is our fruit shake. His fruit shake is old news.”
Hel-lo.
Sal flushed at “Dwight Holly.” Peeper residual twitched.
Sal twirled his spit curl. “I only saw Mr. Holly way back when. My Fed guy was always Jack Leahy. He was bugging me with questions on Southside Crackdown. Remember, Sergeant? You were, too. Armored-car heist this, armored-car heist that, as if this girl would know anything about that kind of action.”
Hel-lo.
Peeper blinked at “Leahy.” Peeper blinked at “heist.” There’s Peeper’s darty eyes and light sweat.
Scotty glared at Sal. Sal wet his lips and smirked. Fred O. picked his hangnail. The charged air whizzed by him. Peeper gulped and regulped. His Adam’s apple did the Frug and the Peppermint Twist.
Scotty walked to the can. The cold tiles beckoned. He leaned his head on the wall. Okay, okay, okay—let’s logic this out.
Leahy. Heist questions then. Peoples’ Bank ruckus now. Jack went in with the bank team. He was in on the heist. He’s got the big money now.
“Haiti” meant Marsh goes.
110
(Los Angeles, 12/5/71)
Dashboard frieze: all-new photos.
His ink-scorch spree got him one hot lead and four fake IDs. He tracked the names to mug-shot numbers. He got four new Joans.
Williamson, Goldenson, Broward and Faust. Joan in 1949. Joan three, five and seven years later.
She’s younger, she’s darker-haired, she’s still short of fierce. She’s always defiant. She’s blinkyeyed sans glasses. Her shoulders are smoother. Her jaw hasn’t set in as harsh.
Crutch stared at the pictures. The summit just concluded. He tracked Scotty’s brain waves. Scotty picked up on Haiti and Marsh.
He kicked the key and cruised south. Clyde had work. He had Tiger Kab gigs. His case was breaking out and breaking back in on him.
Dwight Holly called and warned him. Do nothing, Dipshit. Celia was looking for Tattoo’s killer, just like him. Scotty was going after Marsh, post-fucking-haste.
He drove through Hancock Park. He daylight-peeped windows. There was no kick extant.
Christmas was coming. His mother would send a postcard and a five-spot. He’d buy Dana Lund a gift.
He drove by the wheelman lot. Phil Irwin and Buzz Duber waved. Chick Weiss pawed a mulatto whore.
The babe limped to the service bay. Mud-shark Chick scowled at her. Crutch pulled up and idled. Chick leaned in the car.
“You look blue, boychik. You should join Voyeurs Anonymous.”
“Fuck your mother.”
“I tried to once. She rejected me and packed me off to law school.”
A warm wind kicked on. Crutch aimed the AC vent at his balls.
“Get me a rope job.”
Chick said, “Nix. Phil’s my guy. I’ve got that donkey-dick Filipino on retainer, so I can’t stretch my overhead t
o accommodate your ennui.”
Crutch laughed. Chick said, “Get out of here. Do something dumb and brave, so the world will think you get laid.”
He drove by Tiger Kab. LAPD had some jail trustys there. They wore tiger-striped jumpsuits. They did coerced wash-and-wax jobs. Redd Foxx served them soul-food plates.
He was avoiding it. He couldn’t just let it go.
Milt C. saw him and waved. Junkie Monkey waved one paw. Crutch waved back and cut west to Stocker.
The pad was nice. Baldwin Hills was top-end colored. Ray Charles and Lou Rawls lived down the street. He Tiger-kabbed them both.
Crutch got out and rang the doorbell. Marsh Bowen opened up. He was in uniform. His Medal of Valor pin glowed.
Marsh did a double take. Oh, yeah—Clyde Duber’s kid.
Crutch said, “Scotty knows you went to Haiti. I think you’d better run.”
111
(Washington, D.C., 12/7/71)
Harvey’s was packed. He waited at the bar. Howard Hunt was late. The lunch crowd table-hopped.
Ted Kennedy and John Mitchell. Veep Agnew with a multi-table joke. Dwight caught fragments. A lion was fucking a zebra, ha ha.
He was jet-lagged and up-for-days shot. He had lunch with Jack Leahy yesterday. It was nails-on-blackboard raw. They did not discuss the Operation. Joan told him about it. He approved of it and wanted it. His looks signaled sanction. That much was clear.
Jack came to talk—his terms solely. He said he went back with Joan. He said he got the money out. They did not discuss the heist. Jack said he hated Hoover like Joan did. Dwight asked him why. Jack said, “I’m not telling you.”
Hunt was late. It pissed him off. Karen and the kids were here. Dwight sipped coffee and scanned the restaurant. Ronald Reagan walked in. He got ooohs, aaaahs and jeers.
