James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03

by Blood's a Rover

  Get next to Martin Luther King. Infiltrate and subvert the Southern Christian Leadership Conference.

  Lyle did his best. Lyle failed. Lyle failed because he rather liked Martin Luther King and because Martin Luther King was unstoppable.

  Wayne Junior joined the Las Vegas PD. Dwight transferred to the Federal Bureau of Narcotics. He worked the Southern Nevada Office and spent time with Wayne Senior. Wayne Junior’s life imploded in Dallas. A big coon hunt resulted. Wayne Junior waxed three shines that Dwight was set to prosecute. Yeah, he cared for the kid. But no passes for old friendships. You do not cross Agent Dwight C. Holly.

  He went after Wayne Junior. Ward Littell and Pete Bondurant interceded. Wayne Junior waltzed on the spooks. Ward and Pete pulled strings for Dwight and forged a tenuous truce. Dwight was named chief investigator for the Southern Nevada Office. He didn’t stay long. The job bored him. Mr. Hoover lured him back to the FBI.

  Lyle killed himself in August ’65. It was slightly hinky. Ward Littell was embroiled with Lyle then. Ward spread grief wherever he went and sometimes turned minor grief fatal. Lyle Dunn Holly, dead at forty-five. A boozer, a gambler and a womanizer. A sweet-natured hump spread too thin.

  Dr. King had Mr. Hoover spread wafer-thin. It was a fucking grizzly bear versus a Chihuahua. Dr. King was a stone Commie. Mr. Hoover was a stone Tory. Dr. King fucked women with gusto. Mr. Hoover collected antiques and vintage pornography. History welcomed Dr. King. History withdrew the welcome mat and put Mr. Hoover flat on his ass. He concocted Operation Black Rabbit and tried everything.

  Bug jobs, tap jobs, black-bag jobs, shakedowns, poison-pen campaigns. Tail jobs. Newspaper slander. Innuendo, coercion, plants, cutouts, propaganda, psych warfare. Black Rabbit went on for three years. The key personnel had rabbit names. Dr. King was Red Rabbit. Dwight was Blue Rabbit. Lyle was White Rabbit for a spell. Red Rabbit had a fag adviser code-named Pink Rabbit. Wayne Senior was Father Rabbit. The operation was a rabid rabbit hutch and a dead-end cluster fuck. Dr. King soared as Mr. Hoover withered. Dr. King had his nigger-florid “I have a dream” shtick. Mr. Hoover told Dwight that he had a dream without ever stating the words. He stayed out in the dream ether. Blue Rabbit made the dream cohere in Memphis. Blue Rabbit watched the resultant riots live on TV. Blue Rabbit saw a little colored girl dead from a stray bullet.

  Dwight did fifty chin-ups total. He made himself all sweat and muscle ache. He showered, dressed and packed. He got out his anonymous check-writing kit.

  One postal money order and one envelope. $300 to Mr. George Diskant in Nyack, New York.

  Dwight wrote the check, sealed the envelope and wiped it fingerprintfree.

  The flight left Dulles late. Dwight ate salted nuts and read black-militant memoranda.

  The Black Panthers. Cool name, cool mascot. Founded in ’66. Exconvict and aggrieved-spook membership. Lots of meetings, lots of whoop-de-doo, exponential growth assured. Cop-haters. Celebrity “Brothers” Eldridge Cleaver, Huey Newton and Bobby Seale. “Off the Pigs!” rhetoric. Non-fatal cop snipings. A fatal shoot-out in Oakland, California—10/28/67.

  Huey Newton wounded. One policeman dead. Criminal proceedings pending.

  The Panthers hated the United Slaves. It was jig factional jive. US had a catchy motto: “Wherever you are, US is.”

  Fatal shootout—4/6/68—two days post-Memphis. Oakland again—this honky-hater hot spot. The Panthers called it an ambush. The cops called it “tactical surveillance.” One Panther was killed. Eldridge Cleaver was wounded. Footnote: Brother Cleaver was a convicted rapist.

  Dwight flipped pages. Most big-city PDs had files on the Panthers and Negro informants placed. Food drives, educational programs, black-culture rebop. Burgeoning numbers, hip cachet, minor newspaper clout.

  An instinct: the Panthers are too well-known to full-on operate.

  The Bureau ran a half-assed Cointelpro last summer. The goal: create Panther-versus-US dissension. Some San Diego agents circulated custom hate lit. The Panthers called US “chitlin chumps.” US called the Panthers “pork-chop niggers.”

  An instinct: US was too well-known to full-on operate.

  Note to Mr. Hoover: do not increase pressure on Panthers or US. Status-quo existing operations. Both groups will discredit themselves over time.

  Dwight flipped pages. He hit sheets on the Black Tribe Alliance and Mau-Mau Liberation Front. They were garish, outlandish and distinctly criminal.

  Darktown L.A. Rival storefront operations. Small membership stats in gradual ascent. Both groups: “Allegedly seeking to sell narcotics to finance their activities.”

  No known informants placed. Nomenclature out of Amos ’n Andy. “Lord High Commissioner,” “Propaganda Minister,” “Pan-African Ruler.” Rat jackets on the key players:

  A geek with four dope busts. A faggot carhop with two armed-robbery jolts. A bunco artist/voodoo priest. A card shark with ninety-one arrests and a phone book–size rap sheet. A “politically motivated” rape-o. Arrivistes, opportunists, Black Panther manqués. Buffoons prone to whimsy and carnage.

  Dwight got goose bumps. Dwight fretted his law-school ring and read more pages.

  More names, dates and locations. More details on BTA/MMLF brouhahas. A note from LAPD Sergeant Robert S. Bennett: “Per the armored-car robbery-homicides of 2/24/64, rumors of BTA & MMLF participation cannot be substantiated.”

  Street-corner agitation. Fistfights, drunk-driving beefs, Mickey Mouse rousts. The faggot carhop pimped drag queens. The card shark pimped his wife to cover his gambling debts. The Pan-African Ruler owned a porno bookstore and keestered his neighbor’s pet goat.

  His goose-bump count zoooomed. His nerves jumped. He ordered his one drink a night early. There, now—put your seat back and trip on Karen.

  Confidential Bureau informant #4361—Karen (NMI) Sifakis. DOB 2/1/25, New York City. Fellow Yalie, history prof, Quaker-leftist subversive.

  He brought her file with him. He loved the old surveillance pix and mug shots. There’s Karen in ’49, at a Paul Robeson bash. There’s Karen outside Sing Sing—the Rosenbergs just got it. L.A., 3/12/61—Karen at a ban-the-bomb rally. His favorite: Karen composed in prayer as Berkeley cops bash heads all around her.

  She taught history at UC Santa Barbara. Her husband was a lefty lawyer in Jew York. He rotated west two weeks per month. They quit fucking four million years ago. They stayed together for obscure Commie reasons and for the sake of their two-year-old daughter. Karen disdained violence. Karen built bombs, blew up monuments and always made sure that no human beings or watchdogs got hurt. She operated under the direct sanction of Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.

  Quid pro quo. He let her destroy jingoist statuary. He pulled her activist chums out of the shit with some regularity. She ratted Reds who exceeded her low threshold for physical hurt. She was pregnant again now, at age forty-three. It was some kind of jack-off-in-a-jar/test-tube job that required hubby’s assistance. Karen Sifakis—Jesus Fucking Christ.

  They met at Yale. It was fall ’48. He was a rookie Fed. She was a Smith College/Yale trial coed. They had a two-hour pub chat. They killed a bottle of scotch and a pack of cigarettes and made everlasting impressions. He dug her looks. She dug his looks. He didn’t know it was mutual until three years back.

  L.A., August ’65. The Watts riot—crazy nigger shit ascendant. Mr. Hoover was aghast. He ordered file checks on all the college profs who signed pro-spook petitions. Dwight did a full week of file work. There’s Karen’s name. There’s Karen’s picture. Fuck—it’s that tall, red-haired Greek girl from Yale.

  He did some research. He learned that Karen wrote her doctoral thesis on the Indiana Klan. Prominently mentioned: Walter “Daddy” Holly himself.

  He conducted some interviews. He learned that some Indiana Klan klowns lynched Karen’s Greek immigrant granddad. It was 1922. Daddy Holly ran a klavern two counties south of the lynch site.

  He did more research. He pulled Karen’s FBI file from the Central Records. He got her prot
est-march arrest records expunged in nine cities. He climbed a big limb to get her granddad some late justice.

  One of the lynch guys had spawned a neo-Nazi grandson. Dwight tracked him to a county jail in Ohio. The guy was an evil sack of shit. Dwight got him moved to an all-nigger tier. The spooks gave him a come-to-God whipping.

  He flew out to L.A. and knocked on Karen’s door. She recognized him seventeen years later. He told her what he’d done and that his father was Daddy Holly. She asked him why he did it. He told her that he wanted to give her something that no one else ever could.

  She invited him in.

  They developed an arrangement.

  He’s black-bagged her house. He’s read her journal. She describes her fascist-toady lover tenderly.

  She always tells him, “We’re too circumspect to self-immolate.” He always tells her, “We’re too tall and good-looking to lose.” Sometimes he snaps out of nightmares and finds himself coiled in her arms.

  The flight got bumpy. The seat-belt warning flashed. Dwight jotted notes on a file card:

  “BTA & MMLF best bets. Check various police agcy files & hate-mail subscriber lists (left-wing, anti-white mailings) for leads on possible plant (Wayne Sr.’s stash/Dr. Fred Hiltz).”

  The bumps leveled off. The plane descended. There’s that big wide light. Jesus, L.A. looked good.

  The bedroom was hot. The window unit went on the fritz and pushed stale air around. They’d sweated the sheets through to the mattress. Karen called it a “sauna fuck.” Dwight kissed her wet hair, sheened up all the more red.

  The husband was back east. He had a name, but Dwight never said it. Dina was out at nursery school. They had three hours.

  Karen rolled on her back. She was three months pregnant. She showed a little. Her litheness was filling out into curves.

  She stretched. She grabbed the bed rails and arched off her back. Dwight put a hand on her belly and eased her down slow. She rolled into him. He hooked a leg over her and drew her in close.

  “Are you sure it’s not mine?”

  “Yes. It was a procedure, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”

  Dwight smiled. “It’s a girl.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Girls are less trouble. Any male being you create will mean problems for me. I’ll spend the rest of my career redacting his files and busting him out of jail.”

  Karen lit a cigarette. “Dina will blow up Mount Rushmore. She’s starting to put out a vibe.”

  “Dina will marry a Republican. You know how I know it? She always wants me to show her my badge.”

  The window unit buckled. Icy air hit them. Karen shivered and nuzzled into him.

  “A colleague of mine needs some help. He’s being assessed for tenure, but he was blacklisted from ’51 to ’54. The chairman of the tenure committee hates him, and he’s not above using that as a wedge.”

  Dwight laughed. “I thought all college professors were high-minded Commies above shit like that.”

  “I am, but they’re not.”

  “I’ll misplace his file or do some redactions. Let me know what you need.”

  Karen blew smoke rings. They hit the cold air and dispersed. Dwight took the cigarette and put it out.

  “Smoking’s bad for pregnant women.”

  “One a day, and only when we’re together.”

  “I need some help.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I might be running a Cointelpro on some black-militant groups. I’ll find the plant on my own, but I might need help finding an informant.”

  Karen kissed his neck and traced the knife scar on his shoulder.

  “Why should I help you with something like that? Give me the rationale and explain how it conforms to our arrangement.”

  Dwight put his head up against hers. Their eyes were close. That odd blue all dark-flecked—some goddamn Greek.

  “Because they’re out to sell dope and cash in on social protest. Because they’re shitbirds who abuse women. Because they’ll get a lot of very impressionable young black men fired up to do crazy shit that will derail their fucking lives forever, and the overall social benefit that they’ll create from being in business will be down around zero.”

  Karen kissed him. “All right. I’ll think about it.”

  “I’m right on this one. You could help me out and do some good here.”

  Karen chewed her lips. Dwight kissed her and stopped it. They went telepathic. Karen said their credo.

  “I will not further comment on the usurious nature of our relationship, lest I indict myself as a fascist collaborator and run from you screaming.”

  On cue, perfect timing, straight off a kiss. More than deadpan, less than droll.

  Dwight went into a laugh fit. Karen clamped his mouth. He nipped her palm and made her stop it. She pointed to his clothes. His checkbook had dropped from his suit coat.

  “Those anonymous checks. You’ve never told me why.”

  “I’ve told you I send them.”

  “You tell me just so much, and no more.”

  “You’re the same way.”

  “It’s how we stay safe together.”

  Their faces were close. Karen leaned in and got their eyes closer.

  “You’ve done something terribly wrong. I won’t ask, but you should know that I know.”

  Dwight shut his eyes. Karen kissed them. Dwight said, “Do you love me?” Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”

  4

  (Las Vegas, 6/17/68)

  The Sheriff’s blocked off Fremont. The low-roller casinos flew flags at half-mast. A lackluster motorcade slogged through.

  Dig: a memorial parade for Wayne Tedrow Senior.

  Noon in Vegas, 109° and climbing. City fathers in cowboy hats and broil-inducing suits. The mayor’s last-second brainstorm. Senior was a heavyweight. Let’s dispense respect.

  The car procession crawled. The standing spectators sizzled and gaped, sun-stupefied. Some kitchen workers waved placards and booed. Wayne Senior ran their union and fucked them over with management side deals.

  The LVPD sent an honor guard. Wayne stood on a platform with Buddy Fritsch and Bob Gilstrap. Buddy was nervous. He radiated I need a drink. He probably saw Wayne Senior’s body.

  Snail trail—the cars moved bumper-lock slow. Tourists capered and waved chip cups and beers. Negro protestors lugged anti-cop signs. A subgroup taunted Wayne. He heard muffled chants of “Honky killer!”

  Sonny Liston bopped up to the platform. A dumb shit yelled, “Ali kicked your ass!” Sonny flipped him off. It got some laughs. Sonny sucked on a half-pint of Everclear. Buddy and Bob shied away from him. Wayne stepped off the platform.

  Sonny said, “Did you kill him?”

  Wayne said, “Yes.”

  Sonny said, “Good. He was a racist motherfucker. You a racist motherfucker, but you only kill niggers who deserve it.”

  That stupe yelled, “Ali kicked your ass!” again. Sonny chucked his jug at him and chased him. The crowd geared up for some fun. A Caddy ragtop inched by. The backseat was packed with showgirls. They smiled, waved and caught themselves—oops, we’re supposed to look sad.

  Wayne saw Carlos Marcello across the street. They exchanged smiles and waves. Wayne got jostled. The crowd swelled and pushed him into the platform. They looked pissed. Wayne saw why: Dwight Holly was shoving through with his badge out.

  Wayne stepped over to a shady spot. It was semi-private. Dwight found him fast.

  “Condolences for your father, but I’d have killed him, too, if I were you.”

  “I appreciate the comment, but I’d like to cut the topic off there.”

  “We go back, son. You shouldn’t mind some ribbing.”

  “We share a history. You’d call it affectionate, I wouldn’t.”

  Dwight lit a cigarette. “Tell me it’s chilled.”

  “You mean tell Mr. Hoover.”

  Dwight rolled his eyes. “Don’t nitpick me, Wayne. Tell me it’s chille
d and I’ll pass the message along.”

  “It’s chilled, Dwight. Tell me we’re chilled on Memphis and we’ll call it even.”

  Dwight stepped in close. “We’ve got a little seepage there. I’ll tell you about it in a second, but you’ve got to hear the lecture first.”

  Wayne weaved a tad. A protestor spotted him and did the clenched-fist thing. Dwight pulled him behind the platform.

  “You’re juiced now. You’re in with Uncle Carlos and you may get in with Hughes. I’d be a piss-poor friend if I didn’t tell you to be careful.”

  Wayne stepped in close. “ ‘Friend’? You fucking coerced me into Memphis.”

  Dwight stepped closer. He bumped Wayne into a lightpost and pinned him there.

  “Wendell Durfee came with a price, son. And don’t tell me that you didn’t want the job on some level.”

  Wayne pushed Dwight back. Easy hands, don’t rile him. Dwight made nice and brushed off Wayne’s coat.

  “Give me an update on Carlos. Something to keep the old poof happy.”

  “It’s stale news. The Boys want to sell Hughes the rest of their hotels and keep their skim guys inside. Hughes wants a peaceful town. Someone has to fill Ward Littell’s shoes, and it’s me.”

  “Senior was a racist! Junior is a killer!”—Wayne heard faint shouts.

  “The envelope for Dick Nixon. Tell me about that.”

  “How did you—”

  “We’ve got his pad in Key Biscayne bugged. Nixon mentioned it to Bebe Rebozo.”

  Wind blew bunting off the platform. The Senior/Junior chant grew.

  “The Boys want to build some casinos in Central America or the Caribbean, and they want things slowed down at Justice. They’d like a pardon for Jimmy Hoffa by ’71. They think Nixon will win the election and be amenable.”

  Dwight nodded. “I’ll buy that, for now.”

  “The ‘seepage’? Memphis? You were going to—”

  “I’m trying to run down some hate-mail subscribers. I’d like to get a look at your father’s lists.”

  Wayne shook his head. “No. I’m out of the hate business. Talk to Fred Hiltz.”