James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03

by Blood's a Rover

  Mesplede spit on the floor. “Shameful. A horrible blow to the American Negro. I sympathize with them, because I revere their jazz artistry.”

  Prickles, heat bumps, heatstroke pend—

  “You can take out Fuentes and Arredondo. That’s as far as I can let it go.”

  Mesplede shrugged and bowed. “They may be here in Miami.”

  “Let’s go find them.”

  They took Wayne’s rent-a-car. Mesplede fouled it with French cigarettes. They drove. They got out and hit cocktail bars and all-nite bodegas. They dispensed cash tips and inquired about Fuentes and Arredondo. They got zero.

  Wayne rode a buzz off the Pernod. He kept checking his rearview. He didn’t see the blue sedan. He thought he saw a tan coupe leapfrogging. It got close, fell back, got close. The driver: a crew-cut kid, early twenties.

  It schizzed him. He took evasive turns and made Mesplede carsick. The tan coupe vanished. They circled back to Flagler and rewalked it. The storefront offices stayed open late. Cuban Freedom Action Committee, Cuban Freedom Caucus, Cuban Freedom Council. Mesplede loved it. He spoke Spanish and captivated a slew of late-night loafers. They bummed cigarettes. Mesplede pressed his case. He logged three tips total.

  Tip #1: Fuentes and Arredondo booked to the Midwest. Tip #2: They might be heisting department stores. Tip #3: They might be heisting gas stations in Chicago.

  It was 4:00 a.m. Mesplede fell asleep in the car. Wayne woke him up and dropped him at his rooming house. He drove back to his hotel, near woozy. Elephants and Dick Nixon. Cuba, tail cars, mob ghouls, bugs like Rodan.

  He unlocked the door. The room light was on. The blue-sedan man was sitting in the one chair. He was holding a .38 Smith. A Nevada AG’s badge was pinned to his coat.

  Wayne shut the door and leaned on it. The guy pointed to his gun bulge. Wayne tossed his .45 on the bed.

  The guy said, “Chuck Woodrell.”

  Wayne yawned. “Tell me what this is. I know, but tell me anyway.”

  Woodrell yawned. “You and your stepmom killed your daddy. The AG knows it’s a homicide, and he’d like to prosecute. He’s aware that you work for Uncle Carlos and Mr. Hughes, and he still doesn’t care, because he’s a ballsy kind of guy. We’ve got a bloody print on Janice. Eight comparison points, so it’s a clincher. We don’t want to file on a dying woman, but business is business.”

  Wayne rubbed his eyes. “How much?”

  Woodrell yawned and stretched. “Why don’t you and Buddy Fritsch find me a suspect? That and fifty grand chills it.”

  10

  (Los Angeles, 8/6/68)

  The drop-front came furnished: three rooms in Naugahyde and scuffed chenille. The air conditioners worked. The couch folded out to a bed. It was ample space. Dwight figured he could live there full-time.

  Silver Lake. A Bureau-vouchered office suite at Sunset and Mohawk. A barber college, fruit bar and porno bookstore downstairs.

  Karen lived a mile northwest. It was a good spot for spontaneous nooners. He listed the office as “Cove Enterprises.” It was fittingly bland. It winked at Karen’s crib at Baxter and Cove.

  Dwight moved in. He placed his clothes in the closet and set up a hot plate and coffee gizmo. He wired two standard phone lines and a secure scrambler line. He unloaded his surveillance equipment. He locked a box of throwdown guns in the safe.

  He was fucking dog-tired. He’d caught the redeye in from D.C. His seat was midget-size. His legs were jammed to his chest. His one drink and one pill got him one hour’s sleep full of nightmares.

  Mr. Hoover okayed a wire transfer: sixty cold to a bank downtown. It was his six-month budget. Upkeep, informant fees and miscellaneous expenses. OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER, on-go.

  Dwight cranked the window units and produced that igloo effect. Aaaah, L.A. in August—hot, with no letup. He had three window views, all north-facing. Taco joints, cholos, smog in CinemaScope.

  Mr. Hoover was riding him roughshod. The old poof was in a nitpicking frenzy. Rumors in stereo: the Grapevine and Wayne Junior. He told Mr. Hoover they were chilled. It was a flat lie and a time-buyer. ATF was circling the Grapevine. He sent Fred Otash to St. Louis to check it out. The Wayne Junior deal could blow in an instant. Wayne refused to kick loose Wayne Senior’s hate lists. Ditto Dr. Fred Hiltz.

  Wayne said he was out of the hate biz. Dr. Fred wanted too much cash. Dwight stiffed a check-in call to the L.A. SAC last night. Jack Leahy ran mordant per Mr. Hoover, almost recklessly so. Jack called the old poof “Amphetamine Annie.” Dwight yukked and recalled their last phone chat. Mr. Hoover raged, pouted and pranced. Mr. Hoover ran two beats short of normal now. Mr. Hoover listed the Memphis personnel just to say I KNOW.

  Dwight got the heebie-jeebies. The igloo got too cold.

  Let’s check out Niggertown.

  Malt-liquor signs marked the border. Menthol cigarettes followed. Schlitz, Colt .45, Nigports and Kools. Coon consumerism. Afro pride. Slick spades with white features and negroid hair.

  Dwight drove south. His Fed sled drew scared looks and sneers. It was hot. Smog hovered low. Lots of baaaad brothers be out. Jive sessions and parking-lot crap games. Lots of hair nets. Lots of stingy-brim porkpies atop gassed hair. Lots of LAPD street rousts.

  He drove by the Panther HQ. The outdoor mural soared. Two black cats disemboweled a bleeding pink pig. The pig wore a badge marked FASCIST OPPRESSOR. The backdrop was the Last Supper. Huey Newton played Jesus. Eldridge Cleaver and Bobby Seale played key disciples. The other disciples wore “Free Huey” T-shirts.

  The US HQ was close. The door guards wore lacquered shades and black berets. They flanked a hi-fi plopped down on the sidewalk. Gibberish sputtered. Bongos banged the beat. Dwight heard “Instill the White Insect with Insecticide.”

  Enough. Dwight cut west. The Black Tribe Alliance had a storefront at 43rd and Vernon. Their door crest featured black fists, guns and white-pig cops with small peckers. The Mau-Mau Liberation Front—four blocks south. Cannibal wall art—white cops screaming in stew pots as black dudes seasoned and stirred.

  Enough. It was Chairman Mao meets Minstrel Mike, spliced with Ramar of the Jungle. Dwight cut west. He passed the Peoples’ Bank of South Los Angeles. He recalled his file notes. It was allegedly a money-wash joint.

  Karen was guest-lecturing at USC. He cruised by on a timing hunch and caught her class filing out. The kids were longhaired and unkempt. They saw his gray suit and belt gun and went eek. The lecture hall was big. Karen lingered by the dais. Dwight jumped onstage and created sound waves. Karen looked up and smiled.

  They kissed over the dais. A few students caught it and went Huh? Karen held a photo slide up to the light. Dwight looked at it. It was Mr. Hoover, circa ’52.

  “Don’t tell me. You’re teaching the blacklist again.”

  “Don’t tell me you think it was justified.”

  “Don’t tell me I haven’t helped some of your Commie chums get their jobs back.”

  “Don’t tell me I haven’t reciprocated with favors.”

  Dwight smiled. “Is What’s-His-Name in town?”

  “Yes.”

  “When does he leave?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow night, then?”

  “Yes, that sounds lovely.”

  They sat on the stage and let their legs dangle. They were tall. Their feet scraped the floor. Karen pulled his cigarettes out and lit up.

  “One a day, right?”

  “Yes, and only when we’re together.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “All right. Occasionally, after breakfast.”

  Dwight touched her belly. “You’re showing more.”

  Karen touched herself. “That’s Eleanora.”

  “Suppose it’s a boy?”

  “Then it’s What’s-His-Name or Dwight.”

  “And you’re sure it’s not mine?”

  “Sweetie, it’s not an immaculate conception, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”


  Dwight pulled his legs up and stretched out on the stage. He yawned. He got half-second dizzy.

  Karen said, “How’s your sleep?”

  “Shitty.”

  “Bad dreams?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any horrible Bureau-sanctioned deeds that you’d like to confess?”

  “Not right now.”

  Karen tossed her cigarette and stretched out beside him. He touched her hair. He counted the dark flecks in her eyes.

  “Any new ones?”

  “No.”

  “A person’s eyes change as they age. It’s perfectly normal, so you shouldn’t fret over it.”

  “I fret over everything.”

  Karen touched his hair. “I wasn’t accusing you. I was just commenting.”

  Dwight moved closer. Their heads touched. He smelled almond shampoo.

  “Find me that informant. A woman. I’ll operate her and my infiltrator, and I’ll keep them separate.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You could do some good here. Both of these groups are uninfiltrated, which means they’ve got all kinds of latitude to pull bad shit.”

  Karen burrowed in a little. “Quid pro quo?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’s a rally here next week.”

  “Against the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’d like me to pull the photo-surveillance team.”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure. I’ll call Jack Leahy.”

  Karen rolled on her back and stretched. Dwight touched her belly. He thought he felt Eleanora kick.

  He said, “Do you love me?”

  Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”

  They sat in the den. Dwight insisted. It was hate art–free. The rest of Hate House jangled him.

  Dr. Fred said, “A hundred G’s. That and a little favor gets you a thorough perusal of all of my lists.”

  Dwight yawned. “What’s the favor?”

  “Help me find this woman. She dinged me for fourteen G’s and split-skied.”

  Dwight shrugged. “Call Clyde Duber. He’ll set you up.”

  “He did. I got this numbnuts kid working for me. He’s in Miami now, but I don’t know if he’s worth a shit. Come on, Dwight. The cash and one little favor.”

  Dwight shook his head. “Ten cold and a pound of cocaine I’ve been holding. It’s superlative shit. You’ll have the time of your life, until it kills you.”

  The phone rang. Dr. Fred picked up, mumbled and listened. Dwight heard scree-scree noise. It sounded like a Bureau patch call.

  Dr. Fred nodded. Dwight grabbed the phone. The scree-screes faded to an Okie twang. The caller said, “Dwight, it’s Buddy Fritsch. I got me a cluster fuck here, and you better come.”

  A puddle jumper got him into McCarran. He cabbed downtown to LVPD. Buddy was holed up in his office. He was half-tanked. He was pacing. Three cigarettes burned in one ashtray.

  Dwight shut the door and locked it. Buddy quit pacing and noticed him.

  “I got this AG’s man squeezing me. He’s got a print on Janice, and he’s rolling the dice. Okay, he offered me money, but I still can’t see no way out, except to hand up Wayne and—”

  Dwight grabbed him. Dwight threw him over the desk and dumped a file cabinet on him. Dwight pulled the air conditioner off the wall and dropped it on his back. Dwight kicked him in the balls three times.

  “You get me a freak to hand up for Wayne Senior, and you do it now.”

  11

  (Miami, 8/8/68)

  Bug work:

  The wires, the pliers, the screwdrivers. The drills, the mounts, the baseboard dust. Butterfingers: sweaty hands on gnat-size devices.

  The Eden Roc Hotel. Drill job: suite 1206 into suite 1207. Crutch worked with Freddy Turentine. Freddy was the “Bug King.” Freddy’s bug résumé astounded. Freddy was on loan to Clyde Duber Associates. Freddy usually worked for “Shakedown King” Fred Otash.

  They drilled. 1206 was their listening post. Farlan Brown was due in 1207 shortly. Time clock: the Find Gretchen Farr gig was moving way into five figures.

  They drilled. They bored through to 1207 and pushed wires in. Crutch picked the door lock. They got full-suite access. They miked up the bedroom lamp shades. They tapped the two phones. They Spackle-covered the wall wires and applied touch-up paint. They stuffed baffling in the bore-through holes and sanded the rough spots down smooth. They swept up all the baseboard dust and zoomed back to 1206.

  Finger-cramping drudge work—four full hours. Crutch was grit-encrusted. His fingers hurt. He had Spackle dust in his ears, eyes and nasal nooks. He took a shower and cleaned up. Freddy went to his room to snooze. Crutch turned the living room TV on and put the sound low. The screen faced the bug-tap receiver. He grabbed a chair, hooked on headphones and listened to dead air next door.

  The TV half-ass absorbed him. Nixon got the nod, first ballot, yawn/snore/soporific. Nixon emitted stupe vibes. He did that V-for-victory thing and looked like a rube robot. The news cut to riot footage. The Miami Congo blazed. It derived from a spook housing-project brouhaha. Spooks were stoning and sniping white motorists. Nigger mobs, arson, looting. Hot-weather action. Groovy footage.

  Crutch yawned. He was running on six-week sleep deficit, all per HIS CASE.

  HIS case. Not Clyde or Buzz Duber’s. HIS side deal with Dr. Fred. HIS shot at the million-dollar Hughes deal. HIS side deal side deal: Gretchen Farr as Celia Reyes. Add the knife-scar woman. Add the house with the door markings and the body parts in the kitchen.

  HIS CASE.

  Farlan Brown was Miami-bound. Wayne Tedrow Jr. was here already. Junior had Senior’s hate-mail stash. Dr. Fred wanted it. Junior worked for Farlan Brown and Dracula Hughes. Dr. Fred wanted to sell Drac his racial-purity plan. Crazy shit—sure. But crazy shit with dollar signs attached.

  $$$$$$$$$—

  He’s hoarded his secret knowledge. He’s held it back from Clyde, Buzz and Dr. Fred. They don’t know about Gretchen as Celia. They don’t know about the knife-scar woman or the Horror House on North Tamarind.

  HIS CASE—now six weeks in.

  His pad was file-crammed already. His mother’s file ate up most of his floor and shelf space. He rented a second file pad downtown. The Elm Hotel—twelve scoots a week. A piss-in-the-sink dive for rum-dum pensioners. He laid in some file boxes and reams of file paper. He’s on the job full-time.

  Filework: lead file, car file, forensic file, file on 2216 North Tamarind.

  He researched the Horror House. It was not an Arnie Moffett party-rental crib. It was near the Gretchen/Celia-rented house and the other party cribs. Proximity did not equal connection. Yeah, but—the weird thrust of that night made everything seem connected. It was like a dream state. Gretchen/Celia and the knife-scar woman kiss—and his world re-situates.

  House research. Paydirt: the Hollywood Chamber of Commerce owned Horror House and used it for fund-raisers. It stood unoccupied since mid-’67. He snuck in again and rolled every goddamn room for prints. He got nothing but smudges and bullshit partials. The Chamber let him look at their fund-raiser file. Groups were listed, guest lists were not. There was no way to know who had been in the house. The girl at the Chamber told him one blood-churning thing: sleazoid hippies broke in and squatted there sometimes. Question: what were Gretchen/Celia and the knife-scar woman still doing in the Moffett house? Easy answer: squatting rent-free after their real rent expired. Question: who bought Phil Irwin off the Find Gretchen gig? Possible answer: Farlan Brown, via Hughes Tool Co. Brown got wind of the gig. Brown wanted Gretchie un–fucked with. His motive? Who fucking knows?

  House file to car file.

  He bribed a clerk at Hertz Rent a Car. Gretchen/Celia returned the ’66 Comet with the radiator blown. That mandated a no-rental stint. Thus, the Comet stayed untouched since the drop-off night. Crutch re-bribed the Hertz guy and got two hours alone with the Comet. He print-wiped and got one latent. He spent fi
ve weeks hand-checking female print cards at the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department and LAPD. So far, no match.

  Car file to forensic file.

  Clyde had dirt on the county coroner, “Tojo” Tom Takahashi. Tojo Tom was a jailbait Johnny with a yen for young Jap cooze. Crutch leaned on him and told him to keep mum with Clyde on all this. Tojo Tom agreed. Crutch waltzed him into Horror House two nights after his first entry. They split a pint of Jim Beam and tamped down their nerves. They worked by Coleman lantern light. Crutch took photos. Tojo Tom examined and bagged the body parts and took blood and tissue samples. Crutch got pix of the tattoo on the arm and the geometric wall markings. Tojo Tom removed the crumbled green stones from the arm gouge and separately bagged them.

  It took hours. The smell was foul. Crutch held the lantern while Tojo Tom brushed maggots off. Tojo Tom called it an “evisceration snuff.” The victim was a young Latin woman. He had her blood analyzed and called Crutch with the results. It was type O+, very common, no outstanding characteristics. He found odd powder fragments in the gouged tissue and had them analyzed. Very odd: there was no toxicology make. Crutch had a gemologist analyze the green stone fragments. Emeralds? No, just green glass.

  Forensic file to tattoo file. Canvassing from there.

  Crutch hit a total of forty-seven tattoo parlors in and around L.A. He showed his photo of the partial tattoo to endless tattoo freaks. So far, no make. Tattoo file to lead file. He hit LAPD and Sheriff’s R&I again. He checked mug books, teletypes and occurrence-field interrogation files for mentions of Gretchen/Celia and got zero. Cop files to INS files. He scanned photo sheets for every female immigrant from every Latin American country extant and got zero on Gretchen/Celia. He remembered Bev’s Switchboard. Gretchen/Celia got calls from three foreign consulates: Panama, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic. He called all three and got three more zeros: no records of calls to Gretchen/Celia. Her Dominican driver’s license turned out to be a phony. The Dominican national DMV had no listing. That bootleg-number call to Bev’s Switchboard? No make on it yet.