James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03

by Blood's a Rover

  Terry said, “Hola, pariguayo.”

  Crutch laughed. One flunky blew a putt. One flunky sunk a loooong one. The place was messy. Three desks, short-wave radio, teletype machine. A file bank with drawers overstuffed.

  The watercooler held a cup dispenser and pre-mixed daiquiris. Crutch grabbed a cup and pulled a short slurp.

  Terry twirled his putter. “Did Mesplede send you?”

  “No, it was my idea. I thought I’d check your dissident file. I think there’s been some Commies nosing around the sites.”

  The flunkies packed their golf bags. They shoved shotguns in with their sticks.

  Terry filled a thermos with rum goo. “There’s some skin mags in the john. If you’re looking for chicks, you’ll be better off there.”

  The file bank was chaos. Four cabinets, sixteen drawers, no system. Dumped folders, loose snapshots. No tracking or routing numbers. Nothing alphabetized.

  Crutch worked drawer-to-drawer. He locked himself in the office. He had four hours. Golf and boozy hoo-haw took that long. He dumped drawers and skimmed documents. He scanned for anything Joan Klein/Celia Reyes/6-14–related. He got name lists, membership lists, suspect lists, interrogation lists and assumed-dead lists. He saw a shitload of Commie acronyms and lists in Spanish. He saw a fourteen-thousand-name enemy list for Rafael “the Goat” Trujillo. He saw a list of suspected safe houses in Santo Domingo and half-ass memorized it. He saw fragments of a 6/14/59 time line. The narrative was fractured. Half the pages were missing.

  He knew the basic facts already. The new shit was horrific. The Goat machete-murdered 6/14 sympathizers en masse. He wiped out border villages. He fed children to the gators in the Plaine du Massacre. A list followed: 6/14 members captured. No Joan, no Gretchen/Celia, no María Rodríguez Fontonette.

  The narrative ended. Non sequitur pages followed. Crutch dumped three more drawers and got this:

  A fractured string of paragraphs on an un-numbered page. The name María Rodríguez Fontonette. Her moniker, “Tattoo.”

  She’s 6/14. She’s a turncoat. She ratted out the invasion. La Banda knew. Countermeasures were swiftly prepared and effected. A Tonton Macoute traitor assisted the rebels and escaped to parts unknown. His name: Laurent-Jean Jacqueau.

  Crutch re-read the page. He read the pages following it and behind it and re-skimmed every page he’d read already. Nothing revised or enhanced the fractured narrative. Three and a half hours to this.

  He dumped four more drawers. He got more names, names and names. He dumped two more drawers. He saw a file folder. “Reyes, Celia” was typed on the front. The folder was empty.

  He slurped rum goo straight from the spout. He dumped another drawer. He saw a million photos of Commie-looking spics. He saw a pic marked 6/14/59. He heard screams somewhere under the golf course. The room light dimmed for two seconds and came back on strong.

  He turned the photo over. It’s an aerial shot. There’s a rocky beach. Soldiers hold guns on scruffy rebels.

  He blinked and squinted. He looked very close. He saw one woman in with thirty-odd men. It was Joan Rosen Klein. Her right fist was raised.

  Smoke whiffed out a cooling shaft. A stink followed. The invasion was ten years ago. Joan’s hair was all dark.

  More smoke and stink. Another scream—pure Kreole French. More stink—pure scalded flesh.

  70

  (Los Angeles, 4/13/69)

  Junkie Monkey ragged Sonny Liston. It pushed Sonny’s buttons. Sonny shot his wad on drag queens and had no oomph for Ali. His manhood got de-jizzified.

  Jomo plugged calls. Junior snarfed cognac-dipped moon pies. Milt’s shtick was protracted. Wayne and Marsh watched Sonny seethe.

  It was raining. The roof leaked. The stripedy wallpaper peeled. A Dr. Feelgood owed Tiger Kab 350. He paid off in Desoxyn and Dilaudid. Sonny and Jomo were speedbally pissed.

  Junkie Monkey was fey today. Junkie Monkey preened his Afro and pursed his lips.

  “Ali be so pretty. That young man can rhyme and play the dozens like no one else this girl has ever seen. ‘Liston’s gonna flee. He’ll go down in three.’ ‘This ain’t no jive. He be out by round five.’ ‘He can’t last to four, ’cause he be out fuckin’ whores.’ ‘He ain’t got no hope with his arm full of dope.’ ”

  Sonny sipped rocket fuel—liquid meth and Everclear. Sonny lit a Kool filter king.

  “It ain’t funny. Do the one where Lady Bird Johnson sucks my dick.”

  Junkie Monkey pouted. “This simian sister is soooooooo tired of your reluctance to acknowledge that pretty young man who has brought colored folk into the Age of Aquarius, while you be actin’ as the organ-grinder’s monkey for the pig power structure and the mob.”

  Sonny balled his fists. His cigarette crumbled. Marsh looked at Jomo. Wayne looked at Marsh. Junior waddled to the john. Milt taped a plastic cigarette to Junkie Monkey’s lips.

  “ ‘He’ll be seein’ heaven when he goes down in seven.’ ‘If he last to nine, his punk ass is mine.’ ”

  Jomo said, “That’s enough. That shit is wearing me thin.”

  Wayne nodded. Marsh caught it—we’re close.

  Junkie Monkey preened. “And this girl is soooooo tired of you poseurs who don’t know Eldridge Cleaver from Beaver Cleaver and Franz Fanon from my fat fanny, you silly—”

  Jomo said, “Shut up, pops. That’s the last time I’m saying it.”

  Wayne signaled Marsh—now.

  Marsh said, “Easy, brother. Let the monkey do his thing.”

  Jomo popped his knuckles. All eight—slow and loud.

  Wayne signaled Marsh—more.

  Marsh walked to the switchboard. Jomo was close. Marsh leaned on a chair.

  “What gives you the right to push old men around? I’m talking about you, nigger. I’m talking about that poor liquor-store man you whupped on, who did you no motherfucking—”

  Jomo stood up. Marsh moved close. They both grabbed chairs. Jomo swung wide and missed. Marsh ducked. The chair hit the switchboard.

  The legs snapped. The console shattered. Call plugs dropped to the floor. Marsh swung tight. He caught Jomo’s back, he caught Jomo’s legs, he grazed Jomo’s head and carved half an ear off. Jomo stumbled and hit the console. Marsh uppercut him. He aimed crotch-high and jammed a chair leg into his balls.

  Jomo screamed. Marsh ran outside and screamed in the rain. It sounded like one word repeated. Wayne jammed up a window to hear.

  It was BTA! BTA! BTA! Marsh jabbed the chair in the air and kept shouting it. People poured out of storefronts. Some people cheered.

  He went trolling. It was trolling with intent. It pertained to that recurring click.

  He’d argued with Mary Beth. She told him about the “Freedom School.” He went there and saw the faculty photo. The woman with the gray-streaked hair. The click he couldn’t place. The semi-click back to that pub crawl.

  Three months ago. The first Tiger Kab bash. The back view of a woman with that same hair.

  His mindscape in Haiti. The herbs and her shape-shifting picture.

  Wayne cruised the southside. His phone fight with Mary Beth echoed. She pressed him on his trip. He lied—the D.R. and Haiti aren’t that bad. My investors will boost the economy. Balaguer isn’t Trujillo. Please believe that things will improve. Mary Beth scoffed. I know better, babe.

  Wayne turned down Central Avenue. The clubs were zooming. He saw that woman at Sultan Sam’s Sandbox. She might be there now. It was a slim-chance long shot.

  He’d spent three days in Haiti. He dope-tripped non-stop. He kaliedo-scoped his whole life. Faces grew out of trees and stream water. The herbs burned through his system. It was a zombie state. He had to sit still and listen. He didn’t have the will to create thought or run. He fell asleep after a million hours tripping. The real world returned to him, changed.

  Wayne cut east on Slauson. He saw dope buys outside a gumbo stand. Tiger Krew wanted to push heroin. He quashed it. They wouldn’t betray him. They feared his clout with t
he Boys. The Krew would probably make Cuban runs. Cuba: the nut Right’s idée fixe.

  Some BTA poseurs walked by. They wore cossack hats and slim-cut black suits. Marsh delivered. He was Mister BTA now.

  A crowd stood outside Sultan Sam’s. Wayne double-parked and walked to the head of the line. The bouncers called him “boss.” The Boys owned the place now. The black people behind the rope cold-eyed him.

  He opened the door and looked inside. Everybody was black. No white woman with gray-streaked hair.

  He drove to Rae’s Rugburn Room and played big white bwana. He got more cold eyes and heard some pig noise. She wasn’t there. He hit the Snooty Fox, Nat’s Nest and the Klover Klub. The pig noise escalated throughout.

  Cherchez la femme. La femme n’est pas là.

  Wayne drove to Mr. Mitch’s. He didn’t own the place. He greased two bouncers for a VIP entry. A black man flamboyantly oinked him.

  The interior was cave-dark. The hostess seated patrons with a flashlight. She walked Wayne to a table. He saw Sonny ensconced with Junior Jefferson. Two booths up: Ezzard Donnell Jones and the woman.

  Wayne joined Sonny and Junior. They were bombed on Mr. Mitch’s jet fuel. The bottle radiated.

  Sonny said, “Jomo’s gonna be carrying his balls around in a wheelbarrow.”

  Junior snarfed lychee nuts. “Marsh be best advised to keep himself scarce the next few days.”

  Sonny sipped brew. “You too fat and Wayne too skinny. Every time you reach for a moon pie, hand one to him.”

  The woman smoked. The woman tossed her hair. The woman swayed to a canned-music beat.

  Wayne pointed over. “Who is she?”

  Sonny said, “She hangs out with the BTA and she dances up a storm. I don’t like them glasses, though.”

  Junior said, “I think her name is Joan.”

  Wayne watched Joan. Sonny and Junior ignored him. He built himself a head space. The club went quiet. Wayne synced the music to her movements. He thought he tasted voodoo herbs and klerin booze. Sensory wisps—a flashback for sure.

  Joan cleaned her glasses on her shirttail. Her eyes went soft without them. A shiv extended out from one boot.

  She slouched a little. Her movements were fluid. She blew artful smoke rings.

  The music tone shifted. Joan stopped swaying. She put money on the table, got up and split.

  Wayne got up. Darkness covered him. He followed Joan out to the rear parking lot. She got into a ’59 Chevy. The plates were mud-streaked. She was a tail-savvy pro.

  She pulled out and hit Manchester westbound. Wayne shagged his rental car and idled forty yards back. Joan drove middle-lane slow. She deployed her signal lights and played good citizen. She turned onto the Harbor Freeway northbound. Wayne zoomed up and dawdled back.

  It was late. Traffic was scarce. Wayne leapfrogged to look innocuous. They passed through downtown and Chinatown. The Pasadena Freeway ran them north. Joan cut onto the Golden State westbound. Wayne caught up and fell back. Joan bombed through Atwater and skirted the Glendale off-ramps. She veered right and hit an Eagle Rock exit. Wayne laid back and watched her taillights. She stopped outside a bungalow court on a hill.

  Wayne stayed put. Joan parked the Chevy at the curb and unlocked the Dodge next to it. The lights went on. She U-turned and headed straight at him. He saw her face in the windshield. The front plate was mud-smeared.

  Her turn signal flashed. She cut east on Colorado Boulevard. Wayne lagged slow, caught up and fell back. They drove through Pasadena. Joan turned north on Lake Avenue. Pasadena bled into Altadena. They ran up toward the San Gabriel Hills. Wayne let two cars buffer-zone them. He stuck his head out the window and fixed on Joan’s taillights.

  She turned left on a side street. Wayne floored it, turned and braked back. Joan parked and walked up to a small shingle house. Someone opened the door and let her in. The Eagle Rock location vibed safe house. Ditto this pad.

  Wayne parked and ran over. The house lights were on. He squatted and ducked around to the driveway. He caught shadows inside. The window shades were half up. He stood and looked in.

  A small living room. Stacks of rifles and handguns piled on furniture. Blankets draped over them.

  Carbines, M14’s, scope-mounted Rugers. Automatics and revolvers in a box.

  Jomo Clarkson walked in. His head was sutured and gauzed. Joan followed him. They talked soundless. He looked agitated. She looked calm. The closed window killed audio.

  Joan took off her coat. Wayne saw the knife scar on her right arm.

  CLICK:

  That file Dwight sent him. No picture attached. He burned through redacted type. He found one KA name and told Dwight. He shredded the file. He couldn’t recall the KA name. The CLICK felt solid and INCOMPLETE.

  Joan and Jomo talked. Wayne pressed up to the window. He caught audio hum, no words formed, he couldn’t read lips.

  He saw a gas station down the block. He ran for the phone booth—

  Dwight sipped coffee. “The late-night call-out. I’m starting to get used to it.”

  Canter’s Deli on Fairfax. The 3:00 a.m. clientele: cops and ultra-soiled hippies.

  Wayne said, “Who’s Joan?”

  Dwight raised his hands—beats me—disingenuous, unconvincing.

  “Is she Joan Rosen Klein? I treated the redactions on her file last year, but I never saw her picture.”

  Dwight reprised beats me. Wayne slapped the table. Their coffee sloshed and spilled.

  “Tell me about her.”

  Dwight shook his head. Wayne slapped the table. The bread basket flew.

  “She’s got a knife scar on her right arm.”

  Dwight fucking smiled. Wayne balled his fists. Dwight touched his hands—son, don’t do this.

  “I saw her with Jomo Clarkson. 1864 Avondale in Altadena. It’s a safe house. There’s a fuckload of guns.”

  Dwight fretted his law-school ring. It dropped off and fell in his lap.

  “Keep going.”

  “Jomo’s been talking up a roll he’s got. He’s a heist man and an anti-white-tract writer. Fred Hiltz, remember? The hate-tract king gets offed, and BHPD tags it ‘unknown black suspects.’ ”

  Dwight got up and ran. Wayne grabbed his ring off the floor.

  71

  (Beverly Hills, 4/14/69)

  BHPD let him read the file. Hoover’s pet thug at 4:00 a.m.? The watch commander complied.

  Dwight sat in the muster room. The file was abbreviated. Mr. Hoover short-shifted the case. Jack Leahy had shitcanned it, per his dictate.

  One folder, nine pages, a four-page lead sheet. Numerous male Negroes listed. Mostly rat-outs by police informants and pissed-off loved ones. A general tally of male Negro heist men. No Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson, no black-militant fucks et al.

  Dwight read the crime-scene report and autopsy protocol. Eyewits reported two masked Negroes. Cause of death: massive shotgun wounds. Also listed: four .38-caliber slugs lodged in the head.

  Hold it—

  The protocol included bullet pix. The lab tech said all four shots blew from one gun. Soft-points, six lands, eight grooves, semi-flat projectiles.

  Hold it right—

  Joan fired safe-house rounds into baffling. He told her to. Spent shells—right there in his briefcase.

  Dwight popped it open. The bullet pile was plastic-wrapped. He found one dented .38. He grabbed the photos and ran down the hall to the crime lab.

  The door was open. Nobody was there. Candy-ass PDs were like that. Dwight looked around. By the back wall: a ballistics microscope.

  He walked over and put his shell in the holder. He laid the photos on the counter. He tweaked the dial and squinted. He got in close. He got a six-land, eight-groove spread and a near-identical flathead. He checked the photos. The same gun fired both bullets, dead cert.

  He heard sirens outside. He heard a radio call one room over: Code 3, all K-cars, Altad—

  Mob scene:

  The L.A. Sheriff’s, BHPD, twenty black &
white and plainclothes units. Bluesuits hauling out blanket-wrapped guns.

  Dwight pulled up to the barricades. The street was arc-lit pink-white. Squares milled around in their pj’s. Cops poured in and out of the target pad. Safe house, no shit.

  The barricade guard walked up. He was a Sheriff’s geek with post-teenage acne. Dwight stepped out of the car and badged him.

  “Come on, give.”

  “Uh … sir?”

  “Tell me what we’ve got here.”

  The geek snapped to. “Well, we got a tip on a gun stash and that homicide of that hate guy last year. It’s BHPD’s case, so we called—”

  “Jomo Clarkson. Where is he?”

  The geek stepped back. “Well, LAPD shagged him out from under us. This Robbery bull showed up with a peremptory warrant. He took the guy to 77th Street Station.”

  Dwight got light-headed. “Is there anyone else in custody? A white woman? Did LAPD pop a woman with the black guy?”

  “No, sir. This detective just hustled the colored man off real quick. We’ve sure got the guns, but I don’t know anything about a woman.”

  Dwight got in his car and burned tread in reverse. He banged the curb off a U-turn and looped side streets to the Pasadena Freeway. He attached his gumball light and hit 120. The run downtown took six minutes. The Harbor Freeway got him to the Congo. The station was a quick jump off the exit.

  He parked in the patrol lot and pinned his badge to his coat. He walked past the front desk. The duty sergeant was snoozing. He heard inebriated jigs howling back in the jail.

  The squadroom was upstairs. Dwight jumped the steps three at a time. The bullpen was wall-to-wall desks and walk spaces. The morning-watch cops read teletypes and hunt-and-peck typed. They looked bored. One guy waved. Dwight cut down a bisecting hallway. Sweat rooms lined the right wall.

  There’s Scotty.

  He’s eating an apple. He’s wearing a brown suit and a plaid bow tie. He’s looking in a double-front window.