Blood's a Rover

by James Ellroy

  Mixed blessing. The wind gave them the backdrop. Gusts snuffed the candle flames.

  He was there with her and off somewhere. He kept his eyes open. She kissed them shut and held them shut and caressed a neck vein pulsing. He made sounds she’d never heard before. He had a kid-sound repertoire. The sounds pushed his tears back. He burrowed into her hair, so she wouldn’t see.

  It took a while. He’d drift someplace and touch her from a distance. He’d spend time away from her and roll back. He saw what he saw or thought what he thought and come back to her. He put a knee between her legs and kissed her underarms. He forced the fit. She rolled and kneeled over him. His eyes looked crazy. She covered them. He kissed her palms and held her fingers in his mouth.

  “Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Have you been thinking about the island?”

  “Yes, in part.”

  “I heard that Esteban Sánchez had been killed.”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “Were you complicit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Trust the purity of your intent. There will always be casualties, and there will always be fewer of them if you act boldly.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  “Were you complicit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you act boldly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you realize that you had to act, because no one else would?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you comforted by that now?”

  “No.”

  “Your options were do everything or do nothing. You made the correct choice.”

  “How will I know when I’ve done the wrong thing?”

  “When the result is a catastrophe that will in no way subside.”

  “What do I do then?”

  “Reach for a deeper resolve and try to be stronger and smarter next time.”

  “There’s something kicking around in my head now.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I can’t.”

  “All right.”

  “Tell me why you redacted my file.”

  “I’m not going to.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ever feel safe again. I’ll always be looking for something that may or may not be there.”

  “You’ve always been that way.”

  “Is there a way to run away from all this?”

  “Not for you or me. We might run, but we’ll always run back.”

  128

  (Los Angeles, 4/18/72–4/30/72)

  He worked at pad #3. He closed the curtains, shut the drapes and ran the air conditioning. He shut off all the clocks. He unplugged the phone. He turned day to night and night to day.

  It was a controlled burning. He emptied out his file trove at the Vivian. He boxed up all his file shit downtown. He had the liquid-herb formula and the syringe. He had written formulas from his herb guys. Burn your mother’s file, burn Wayne’s file, burn your case file. Build your paper bombs and gauge the results.

  He stole Dwight Holly’s bolt-tappers. Pre-oiled tungsten cut through anything. He had his plane tix, his fake facial hair, his bogus ID. He had everything. He had to act, because no one else would.

  He emptied out the boxes. The paper piles ran ten feet high. He dumped out his case file last. The murder occurred a heartbeat away. He should have known then. He figured it out late. He acted, because no one else would.

  He saved Joan’s mug shots. He nailed them to the back basement wall. He clamped his Saint Christopher medal to the nailhead.

  The herb guys gave him crib sheets. He brewed liquids and filled eye-droppers. He squeezed droplets on blotter paper. He cross-checked molecular charts. He refined the burn words/retain paper effect.

  File paper stripped. File paper blackened, curdled, crisped. Smell and haze—but no smoke outright.

  He brewed six full bottles and baffle-wrapped them. He placed three Windex empties in his knapsack. He bought forty mesh laundry bags. He jammed them all paper-full.

  Paper balls, paper pods, paper cylinders. Hold for the spritz.

  He filled Windex bottle #1. He sprayed his Paper Parthenon life’s work. It curdled, bubbled, singed, reduced and vaporized text. It sent up a stink. It produced eye irritation. The paper nests vibrated. The little mesh nets snapped. Wordless paper scraps whirled.

  Crutch walked to the back wall. Joan’s mug shots were dust-coated. He wiped them off. He placed the Saint Chris around his neck.

  I will avenge you.

  I will honor the great gift of you.

  You faltered and gave me your flag for safekeeping. I will carry it for you now.

  129

  (Los Angeles, 5/1/72)

  May Day.

  Red flags swirled up Silver Lake Boulevard. Political banners were mixed in. END THE WAR, BLACK PRIDE, WOMEN’S RIGHTS. Marchers diverting traffic. Pissed-off cops working overtime.

  Joan watched from the terrace. Dwight’s binoculars got her in close. She recognized faces from Free the Rosenbergs, twenty years ago.

  She’d be leaving soon. Their paper was built. She’d start out again as Jane Anne Kurzfeld. Karen was set to go. She wouldn’t reveal her surname. They’d communicate through phone drops.

  She had a good sum of money. She gave Karen an equal amount. Jack would administer the rest.

  Cars skirted the parade route. Some drivers honked for peace. Some drivers lobbed balloons filled with piss and flipped off the marchers.

  The boy disappeared. Something was distressing him the last time they met. Karen agreed with her. He’s persistent and rich in synchronicity. We’ll leave him our paperwork.

  Joan lit a cigarette, took two hits and snuffed it. She shouldn’t. That change in her body had persisted. Yes, I’m sure this is it.

  130

  (Washington, D.C., 5/1/72)

  May Day.

  Red flags and yippies, aging peaceniks galore. Boocoo banners and causes. Mounted cops like Chicago in ’68. Nowhere near the bloodshed.

  A few skirmishes, a few chases, some tramplings. Goofballs with red spray paint, ghouls in Nixon masks.

  He blended in. He wore paste-on hippie hair. His mustache and beard itched. His headpiece fit askew. His overstuffed knapsack enhanced the effect.

  He flew in two days ago. He pseudonymed his ticket and his hotel-stay stats. He cruised the target three times. The basement door looked impregnable. The basement fuse box looked easy. The laundry-room window was always ajar.

  No live-in help. No stakeout Feds parked outside. No watchdogs.

  She’d ask him if he did it. He’d wink like Scotty Bennett. He’d say, “I’m not telling you.”

  The day marches became night parties. He hung out at Lafayette Park. The White House was across the street. He got Tricky Dick elected. The Frogman assisted. It was a billion pre-Red years ago.

  Hippies smoked weed and cavorted. A few chicks went topless. Cops made pro forma passes through.

  Crutch ambled off to Rock Creek Park. D.C. was full of squares and renegades. Nobody noticed him.

  He hit a Texaco station and changed back to his normal duds. He cut up his camouflage threads and hair and flushed them. He walked into the park and found a quiet spot. We’re on-go for midnight.

  The L.A. papers tagged Chick Weiss a drug OD. Phil Irwin held his mud. He remembered some things Joan told him. Esteban Sánchez kicked through his head.

  It was muggy. Night insects bombed him. He was secluded. Fireworks popped on the other side of the park.

  The countdown was endless. His watch hands got de-sprung. Midnight hit finally. He was woozy up to 12:03. Bam—reserve adrenaline popped on.

  He walked, he ambled, he strolled. Nice night, nice neighborhood. I’m a nice kid lugging school clothes home to my mom’s.

  There’s Northwest Thirtieth Place. There’s the driveway. There’s the neo-Geo
rgian house.

  Por la Causa. Be brazen, be bold.

  The window was unscreened and ajar. He walked over, pushed the sill up and vaulted in. He hit the floor light on his feet.

  The downstairs lights were off. The kitchen smelled like Lemon Pledge. He’d seen photos in Antique Monthly and diagrammed floor plans. He pulled his penlight and walked to the basement door.

  It was locked. He inserted a #6 pick and popped the tumblers. Outside access was impossible. Inside access was easy.

  He walked down the stairs. He narrow-dialed his beam.

  It was his file space and Wayne’s file space and Reggie’s lab gone mammoth. The basement ran the length and breadth of the house. The ceiling was raised for more paper. The shelves topped Mount Matterhorn and almost scraped clouds.

  He had forty-four paper bombs, mesh-netted and screw-topped. He uncinched the duffel bag and placed them shelf by shelf. He got to the bottom. His heart-attack potion had spilled. His syringe had been crushed.

  He stood there. A million voices said, “Dipshit, Peeper, pariguayo.” He covered his ears. It didn’t stop them. The voices beat on him. He sat on the floor and let them yell themselves out.

  He put on his gas mask. He ran through the basement. He popped all forty-four screw tops.

  The fumes went up.

  Colored clouds rose.

  The walls contained them.

  Paper singed, curdled, crackled and charred. Little explosions went off. The file shelves rattled. Paint peeled off the walls. The fumes turned re-colored: dark/light, dark/light. Paper flecks vaporized in thin air.

  Crutch walked up the steps and shut the door behind him. The kitchen light snapped on. Mr. Hoover stood by the fridge.

  Crutch reached in his pocket and pulled out the emerald. Mr. Hoover trembled and homed in on it.

  The sparkle was incessant. It eyeball-magnetized. The green glow grew and grew. Mr. Hoover weaved and drooled. Mr. Hoover clutched his chest and staggered upstairs.

  131

  (Los Angeles, 5/3/72)

  It was headline news. Heart attack, seventy-seven.

  She felt nothing. The obits would extoll and defame. Dwight had ripped him out of her. She didn’t care anymore.

  Joan parked in front of the house.

  A newscast blared next door. TV rays bounced out a window. The boy called the place “pad #3.” His souped-up car was gone. She opened the door with a bogus credit card and let herself in.

  The living room was messy. A breeze swirled paper scraps. The air smelled odd. The walls were soot-flecked.

  A stack of car magazines. Test tubes and chemical bottles. Notes scrawled on scratch pads. A sawed-off shotgun.

  She opened her purse and pulled out the camera. She rolled up her sweater to show him how she’d changed. She held the camera at arm’s length and snapped the picture.

  The print popped out a minute later. The image faded into focus. She placed it on the front window ledge.

  Your resolve resurrected my resolve.

  I can’t imagine who you’ll become.

  I’m grateful this happened with you.

  DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/11/72. Extract from the privately held journal of Karen Sifakis.

  Los Angeles,

  May 11, 1972

  I’m leaving. This will be my last journal entry. The house has been sold, the car has been packed. The girls are tucked safely in the backseat, along with Ella’s stuffed animals. I will never have to teach college again. Profits from a hellishly violent robbery will support me for the rest of my life.

  For the time being, I possess no surname. I have resisted all the false identities offered to me. It’s a risk, but I’m taking it gratefully. At the proper time, I will tell the girls the entire story and how I came to the name Holly.

  I locked the house and took one look up at the fallback; I made sure all the car doors were secured. Dina pouted a little; Ella grinned at me. I noticed the little red flag attached to the seat.

  I looked around. I wanted to see her one last time or at least catch a breath of her smoke. She was gone. She had always held that farewells were mystical and presumptive. Comrades should be ready to reunify or lose each other forever. Belief works that way.

  NOW

  The photograph has been preserved. History stopped at that moment thirty-seven years ago. History reconvened with the first batch of paper.

  Documents have arrived at irregular intervals. They are always anonymously sent. I have compiled diary excerpts, oral-history transcripts and police-file overflow. Elderly leftists and black militants have told me their stories and provided verification. Freedom of Information Act subpoenas have served me well.

  I found the journals of Marshall Bowen and Reginald Hazzard. I found Scotty Bennett’s notebooks. Joaquín Balaguer was surprisingly candid. The Richard M. Nixon Library provided perfunctory support. The J. Edgar Hoover Library was resistant. Hoover spokesmen have consistently denied the charred files in his basement and refuse to link the event to Hoover’s death that night.

  I interviewed numerous comrades of Joan Rosen Klein and Karen Sifakis. Their recollections form a great contribution to this narrative. They refused to reveal Joan’s and Karen’s new identities. My attempts to bribe and coerce them have roundly failed.

  My own memory rages in sync with everything I have described. I have not forgotten a moment of it. Forty thousand new file pages buttress my recall. I burned all of my original paper. I built paper all over again, so that I might tell you this story.

  Most of the people are dead. Sal Mineo was murdered in a botched stickup. Booze took down Phil Irwin. Tiger Kab went bust. Freddy Otash had a fatal heart attack. Dracula died in ’76. Farlan Brown died a year later. Clyde and Buzz are gone. The mob guys are dead. Mary Beth is still alive. Reginald Hazzard returned to Haiti. Dana Lund died in ’04. Jack Leahy has vanished.

  I was the youngest of us all. I remain in fine health. I run a successful detective agency in Los Angeles. My firm bodyguards celebrities and verifies stories for tabloid tell-all rags. I am a frequent guest on scandal-mongering TV shows. My employees utilize cutting-edge technology. I reap profit from their efforts. It allows me to relive History and continue my search for Joan.

  I know she’s still alive. I know that Karen and her daughters are alive and thriving. All my hunter’s prowess has not led me to them.

  God gave me a restless temperament and a searcher’s discipline. My unruly rover’s drive now veers toward the good. I look for lost loved ones and bring them home. I do it constantly and anonymously and at my own cost. I have found a great many lost people and quite a few lost dogs. This book encapsulates four years and circumscribes many arcs of magic. Wisps of that magic have come to reside in me. I listen, I look, I cull files. I follow people to people and bring them back to the people who most love them. The process fulfills a sacred trust and takes me breathlessly close to Joan.

  She’s eighty-three now. Our child is thirty-six. Instinct tells me it’s a girl. My mother is ninety-four. She still sends me a card and a five-dollar bill every Christmas.

  “Your options are do everything or do nothing.” Joan told me that. I have paid a dear and savage price to live History. I will never stop looking. I pray that these pages find her and that she does not misread my devotion.

  I have toured the world’s revolutionary hot spots. I have been to Nicaragua, Grenada, Bosnia, Rwanda, Russia, Iran and Iraq. I have drawn pictures of Joan and aged her in my mind’s eye. I read newspapers and magazines and search for her actions in ellipsis. I see women who might be her and follow them until their auras disperse. I have paid out millions of dollars in tip cash. I hear of car bombings and arms deals and scan computer photographs. I have a lab filled with photo-enhancing equipment. Correspondents send me footage every day. I stare at crowd scenes and hold my breath for the moment it’s her.

  Her picture. My gene of persistence.

  My options often fluctuate between Then and Now. I live in the latter w
ith reluctance. I live in the former with kid-convert rectitude.

  There’s a party at Tiger Kab. A strange island beckons me. I’m chasing a killer to a self-indicting end. I’m making friends and enemies and roving at full speed. I’ve got that license to steal and that ticket to ride.

  It’s always there. It’s always unfurling. It’s always teaching me new things. I give you this book and anoint you my comrade. Here is my gift in lieu of a reunion—my lost mother, my lost child and the Red Goddess Joan.

  A Note About the Author

  James Ellroy was born in Los Angeles in 1948. His L.A. Quartet novels—The Black Dahlia, The Big Nowhere, L.A. Confidential, and White Jazz—were international best sellers. His novel American Tabloid was Time magazine’s Best Book (fiction) of 1995; his memoir, My Dark Places, was a Time Best Book of the Year and a New York Times Notable Book for 1996. His novel The Cold Six Thousand was a New York Times Notable Book and a Los Angeles Times Best Book for 2001. He lives in Los Angeles.