by James Ellroy
Mary Beth said, “Don’t. Look where big gestures took Wayne. Try to be more prudent. You’ll be better served in the end.”
Crutch got a late road cramp. He stretched his legs and bumped Mary Beth. It jittered him. She sat still and let his fluster subside.
“I’m good at finding people.”
“You told me that last time.”
“I’m better now. I’ve learned some things.”
“You look different. I’ll concede that.”
The waitress freshened their coffee. Mary Beth rolled up her blouse sleeves. She wore a silver bracelet with a single emerald inset.
“Your son sent you that stone.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Mary Beth looked out the window. Crutch tracked her eyes. She studied a RE-ELECT NIXON sign.
“I know where your son is.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’m not telling you.”
She touched his hand. “I’m not going to ask you for it. You’ll do whatever you’re going to do, regardless of my wishes. The only thing I ask is that you don’t attribute all your foolishness to some perceived debt to Wayne.”
The waitress walked up. Crutch jittered. Mary Beth laced their fingers. The waitress caught it and zoomed.
Mary Beth covered his hands and held them to the table. He saw the green flecks in her eyes.
“Why do you do these crazy things?”
Crutch thought about it.
Crutch said, “So women will love me.”
The herb guys lived close by. They shared lab space at this cat François’ garage. Crutch showed up with beer and pizza. He caught a boil-and-sluice session in full swing.
The guys broke for a nosh-and-brew. Crutch said he had An Idea. I want to char-blacken paper short of combustion and flame.
Okay, baby boy. We work, you watch, you learn.
He explained Wayne’s redaction work and his own mixed results. He said he could carry liquids or powders, but no ray gizmos. He ran down all the molecule charts he’d just memorized. The guys jabbered in French and told him to watch.
Three boil plates ran overtime. He lost track of the proportions and the reduction process. François dumped piles of typing paper on the garage floor. The other guys filled Windex bottles with liquid. Crutch counted six bottles and paper piles. François walked pile to pile and spritzed.
Pile #1 sat there, wet. Pile #2 bubbled and dripped. Pile #3 exploded. Two guys stamped the fire out.
Pile #4 curdled and crackled and cut loose a black haze.
123
(Los Angeles, 4/1/72)
Ella missed Dwight.
She told her stuffed animals. She didn’t tell Karen. Plush alligators—Dwight’s gifts to her.
Joan watched. Ella perched the gators on the picnic table and stage-whispered. She was three. She was developing stoic qualities and playing to adults. She’d learn to parcel information soon.
Dina darted into the house. Karen said, “I’ve decided to vanish. Too much has happened here. I’m going to take the girls and just go.”
Joan rubbed her wrists. They were healing. She removed the bandages last night. New scars were forming.
“Your husband?”
“I’ll leave him a note. He’s too self-interested to look for me. He’ll miss the girls for a while and move on.”
Joan said, “I can give you some money. You won’t have to teach.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
The gators were scuffed. Ella was rigorous and assigned them tasks. She didn’t say much. She listened and acted. She was dogged and circumspect. She’d become calculatedly blunt.
Karen said, “I want to build some paper. I’ll keep my first name and concoct a persona from there.”
“Jack can pull mug shots and fingerprint cards. Your name will show up in KA files, but you can limit your exposure.”
Ella snatched her gators and ran inside. Joan looked up at the fallback.
“Is there a genetic link to the virtue of persistence?”
Karen pointed to Ella’s shadow. Joan smiled. Sun shards hit the yard. Karen covered her eyes.
“We’re being surveilled.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Is he harmless?”
“I’m not sure. He’s a convert of sorts, and he tries to be kind.”
“My husband gave me those binoculars. He’d die if he knew where they’ve been.”
“Leave them with the note. They’ll make a good paperweight.”
The light swerved. Joan waved and gestured Come Here.
The girls inspected him. Ella studied him. Dina covered her mouth and ran. Ella ambled and peered over her shoulder.
Karen said, “The coffee place on Hillhurst. You were always there.”
The boy said, “I follow people. I make my living that way.”
Joan heard Dina crying. Karen went excuse me and ducked into the house. The boy was fit. He had small brown eyes and a gray-flecked crew cut. The style was fuck-this-era defiant.
“Your wrists are better.”
“Yes.”
“I hope I’m not bothering you and your friends.”
“You make your living that way.”
He smiled. “I’m good at finding people.”
Joan smiled. “We’ve discussed your prowess before.”
“I’ll find Celia. I’ll get her out and bring her back.”
Karen scolded Dina. Their voices carried. The boy disturbed the child. Dina tossed a fit.
“Maybe I should go.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I’m bringing Reginald back. I may as well bring Celia, too.”
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. That’s my way of saying ‘I’m not telling you.’ ”
They walked to the fallback and talked up through dusk. The boy described his craziness in the D.R. She fortified her capsules with Haitian tea. They left the terrace door open for breezes. She took her temperature covertly and counted days.
She put candles down. He said he liked the flame light on her hair. She tossed her hair. He said he saw sparks.
Their feet bumped. She looked at him. The look said Yes, now. He kissed her. It was soft. She kissed him back hard. It said Don’t Be Scared. He popped a blouse button. He put his hands on her breasts.
She pulled his shirt off and saw the scar. He started to tell her the story. She shushed him. It said I know. It brought back all of Dwight.
He pulled off her boots. She braced herself on the floor. Her blouse was up. Her jeans were loose. He ran his mouth over the gap. She arched. He pulled off her jeans and underwear and kicked off his own shoes and pants. Her blouse was half-buttoned. He popped the last three. The floor was cold on her back.
The candlelight and shadows set up something. Their heads converged in a weird way. She calculated the age-space between them. Telepathic tabulation. Eighteen years, four months, five days.
She rolled onto the mattress. Dwight’s smell was still there. The boy kneeled and cramped up. She rubbed his legs and made him stretch and un-jangled him. He kissed her legs. She opened up for him. Little nose rubs parted her. She liked him for that.
A cold wind gave her goose bumps. He got protective then. He wrapped himself all over her. Be safe/be still/I’m here. She eased him back. She let her hands dance.
Her hair fanned as she touched him. He pulled himself up to watch. Be still/don’t look/I’m here.
Her hands played rougher and harder. Their heads clicked in again. He fell back and shut his eyes. He made hurt sounds she’d never heard before.
Candlelight swerved. Shadows formed on the walls. He opened his eyes and saw her profile. Their heads clicked again. We haven’t seen this before.
He tried to roll her. She didn’t let him. She fit herself over him. She let him look and willed his eyes shut. She moved and took them someplace. It went for a while. The candles burned
down to nubs.
“You’re determined to do this?”
“Yes.”
“There’s a safe house in Borojol. The small building by the open-front bodega. You might get leads there.”
“I’ve got some addresses memorized.”
“There’s a doctor named Esteban Sánchez. He moves his office around. He and Celia are close. He might know where to look.”
“I’ve got some ideas. I know some people there.”
“Are they bribable?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll give you some money.”
“It scares me. You know what I saw there.”
“You went looking for it and it found you. It always does.”
“Will Celia know where Reginald is?”
“Possibly. They’re comrades.”
“It scares me. The place itself. It scares me more than anything that might happen there.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Everything.”
“What did you find?”
“A picture of you on a beach and a ticket back here.”
“Was it worth it?”
“You don’t have to worry about me. I know what shit costs.”
“No, you don’t. You can’t run at his pace forever, because one day it just stops.”
“Don’t tell me that. I’m just getting started up.”
124
(Santo Domingo, 4/7/72)
The Zombie Zone, distilled. Plain fucking MORE.
More street rousts, more toxic rodents, more Haitian dispossessed. More sap-twirling fascistas and more skin-color gaps.
More heat. More flying insects. More stump-legged black guys on rolling planks. No casino-build cosmetics. More baaaaad juju and less dissent.
Crutch cabbed into Borojol. He had four hundred K and a silencered piece. Customs let him in easy. He wasn’t red-tagged. He had his memory lists. Joan got him two forged passports: one for Celia, one for Reggie.
Too familiar meets evil. Everything brought back something he tried to forget. He passed the golf course. His X-ray eyes revived. There’s the torture bunker and the electric chair.
The New York Times diverted him. Doofus Democrats and Nixon. J. Edgar’s latest gaffe. A street flash de-diverted him. Surging fuzz crush a leaflet-passing cabal.
He’d spent four nights with Joan. They talked and made love. He’d leave for short stretches, just to take deep breaths. He didn’t mention His Idea. He couldn’t risk the word “No.” He didn’t sleep much. He curled around her and smelled her hair on the pillow. She held his hands to her breasts.
The cab pulled into Borojol. The More got Worse. More iron-heel bullshit. More skateboard beggars. More barefooted Haitians traipsing through rat dung and broken glass.
There’s the open-front bodega. There’s the safe house.
Crutch paid the driver and got out. The safe house looked innocuous. He knocked and got no answer. No footsteps inside and no sounds of flight.
He shouldered the door. Sunlight through broken glass supplied the upshot.
The walls were bullet-holed. Spent shells covered the floor. One wall was blood-sprayed and pellet-flecked, all laced with dark hair.
Flies buzzed around a doctor’s smock, soaked red on a chair.
Stay awake. It’s a last look. Go get more of the More. Lefty lifestyle rules curtailed him. Joan knew her comrades mostly by first names. Dr. Sánchez had no phone listed. That meant drive and peep.
Crutch rented a junker and cruised the safe-house list. He’d memorized fourteen addresses. He started in Gazcue and worked west.
The first three pads were empty. He door-knocked to no avail and broke in. He saw telltale cleanup signs. He smelled ammonia with blood undertones. He ran his penlight and saw the casings the cleanup guys had missed.
Santo Domingo by night: 82° and still fascist-oppressed.
He drove around. He got lost in the details. He saw three women he’d peeped a while back.
The black kids eating boat chum in the Río Ozama. The old casino sites with squatter bands and cracker-box cribs going up.
He hit four more addresses. Two houses weren’t there. He talked to a street fool. The guy said La Banda torched them. It got to him. He wanted them to be speakeasies. Knock, knock. A peephole slides. He says, “I’m a friend. Comrade Joan sent me.”
He looped around. He hit the next seven places. He met two square families at the outset. We just rented the dump. We don’t know no Celia, no Reds.
He cruised the last five pads. He got one torch job and four clean-outs. A wino said those La Banda humps were fucking firebugs. He saw pellet pocks and maggot mounds on gristle. He saw a shot-to-shit Afro wig.
He got Another Idea.
Ivar Smith said, “Hola, pariguayo.”
Terry Brundage said, “I never thought we’d see your peeping ass back here.”
The bar at the El Embajador. 8:00 a.m. Bloody Marys affixed with celery sticks. Both guys had aged. Both guys looked prematurely sclerotic.
Crutch cleared table space. Brundage Tabasco’d his drink. Smith pointed to the briefcase.
“¿Qué es esto?”
Crutch said, “Four hundred G’s.”
Brundage said, “Oh, shit. He’s working for the Boys again.”
Smith said, “As if Wayne Tedrow and the Tiger Krew weren’t enough.”
Brundage said, “Just what we need. More mob grief and Commie sabotage.”
Smith said, “Wayne killed Mormonism for me. I used to think they were all good right-wing white men.”
Brundage noshed his celery stick. “I hate fucking wops.”
Smith noshed his celery stick. “I hate fucking left-wing converts with chemistry expertise.”
Crutch flashed his show pix: Reggie and Celia Reyes.
Brundage said, “Who’s the chiquita? I dig her eyes.”
Smith said, “Sambo looks like Chubby Checker. ‘Come on, baby. Let’s do the Twist.’ ”
Crutch dipped into the briefcase and tossed them both ten grand. Smith gagged and almost sprayed. Brundage dropped his celery stick.
Crutch said, “They’re Commies, sure as shit. I want to find them and take them back to the States.”
Brundage fanned his cash stacks. “Why?”
Crutch said, “I’m not telling you.”
Smith fanned his cash stacks. “Put motive aside for a moment. How much of the money do we keep?”
Crutch patted the briefcase. “All of it. You pay everybody who needs to get paid, and you keep the rest.”
Brundage said, “Explain this to me. I’m not saying no, but give me more of a hint.”
“I’m all out of leads. You’ve got the files, the informants and the manpower. It’s a roundup. You find them or you find the Commies who know where they are.”
Brundage salted his drink. “Detentions.”
Smith peppered his drink. “Interrogations. We bring in La Banda.”
Crutch said, “They could be in Haiti.”
Brundage rolled his eyes. “That means the Tonton.”
Smith rolled his eyes. “Evil, chicken-fucking primitives, who do not work cheap.”
Brundage chomped his celery stick. “Papa Doc will want a taste.”
Smith chomped his celery stick. “So will the Midget.”
Crutch fanned a cash roll. “It’s a lot of money.”
Brundage said, “I’ve got Jew blood. We’ll do it for five.”
Smith said, “I’m getting more Jewish by the moment. Five closes the deal.”
Crutch shook his head. “Four hundred big ones, over and out.”
Brundage sighed and looked at Smith. Smith salted his drink and sighed back.
“This could get raw. You’re dealing with hard-core subversives.”
Crutch tapped the show pix. “I don’t care, as long as they don’t get hurt.”
He stayed awake. Sleep scared him. His nightmares would eclipse shit that flared real-time. He copped dexies at a qui
ck-script farmacia. He leveled his fuel with klerin-laced sno cones. The fruit base cut down dehydration.
Smith and Brundage culled files and built a name list. The cash split went down. Papa Doc and the Midget hogged the green. They got a hundred each. Smith and Brundage got fifty each. The rest went for ops costs and goons. La Banda and the Tonton supplied shake-the-trees guys.
Flying squads: the D.R. and Haiti. Rural-jail detention sites flanking the river. Polygraph machines, Pentothal, coercion. Hard boys with phone books and saps.
The planning took three days. Smith’s office served as command post. Crutch stayed awake and sat in. Brundage and Smith scanned KA lists. They found nineteen Celia listings and zero Reggie listings. That limited their targets. Smith said, let’s keep it tight. Detain, interrogate, press and/or release. Brundage disagreed. The Reds all know each other. Let’s build a big snitch-out pool.
The argument extended. Crutch sided with Brundage. More was better. Smith argued for a less-meets-more combo. Don’t overcrowd the jails. Don’t let the fuckers huddle and collude. Weed out the lice who don’t know Celia or Reggie at the get-go. Offer rat-out cash. Restrict the interrogations to likely suspects.
They agreed on thirty-four names. Twenty-three lived in the D.R., eleven lived in Haiti. They had four La Banda teams with squad cars. They had three Tonton teams with squad cars. The jail sites were mid-island, near Dajabón. A walk-bridge provided foot access. The Plaine du Massacre was croc-infested there. The fuckers dined on dumped garbage and errant Haitians on voodoo-herb trips.
The polygraphs were hooked up. The Pentothal was laid in. The interrogators stood ready. Both jails were two-way-radio–rigged. The squad cars had two-ways. The system was spiffy.
Smith called the shots. Crutch joined him at the D.R. jail. Crocs lounged on the riverbank. They were groovy. Crutch stared out the window at them.
Clock it: exactly 7:00 a.m.
Smith radioed the cars. The cars rogered back in English and French. Mug shots were wall-pinned: thirty-four comrades, total.
Crutch read their files last night. They were mostly kids his age. They looked like kids. He didn’t. He had gray hair and posterior scarring. One non-kid exception: Esteban Sánchez, M.D. He looked battle-aged. Joan had called him “a seasoned Red Brigade warrior.”
