James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (13 page)

He cruised. He eyeballed the sidewalk action. Bodegas, fruit stands, vendors selling shaved-ice treats. Leaflet distribution. Pamphlet-packing punks in “Kill Fidel” T-shirts. Political offices: Alpha 66, Venceremos, the Battalion for April 17. He turned off Flagler Street and scoped out rows of houses. He checked his rearview mirror every few seconds. Yes—there's that blue sedan again, leapfrogged two cars back.

He floored the gas, made four crazy turns and found a parking space on Flager. No blue sedan, okay.

Wayne went walking. His suit instantly rewilted. Street fools jostled him. He got weird looks—Joo ain't
Cubano
, joo white. The sky exploded. Dig those lights! Wayne made the source: fireworks from the convention.

People stood and gawked. Papas held their kids up. A street-corner fistfight froze in mid-blow.

Wayne watched. A leaflet-distribution guy waved a little flag. Wayne glanced in a coffee-bar window and saw Jean-Philippe Mesplede.

The glance flew two ways. Mesplede stood and bowed.
Le grenouille sauvage—habille tout en noir
. Black shirt, black coat, black pants
—le grand plus noir
.

Wayne walked in. Jean-Philippe hugged him. Wayne felt
at least
three handguns under his clothes.

They sat down. Mesplede was halfway through a fifth of Pernod. A waiter brought a fresh glass.

“
Ça va
, Wayne?”

“
Ça va bien
, Jean-Philippe.”

“And your business in Miami?”

“Political.”

“
Par example, s'il vous plait
?”

“For instance, I was looking for you.”

Mesplede flexed his hands. His tattooed pit bulls grew snarls and erections. He was an ex–French para. He went back to the Algerian War and Dien Bieu Phu. He pushed heroin wherever he went.

They switched to French. They sipped Pernod. Fireworks lit windows all around them. They rehashed Vietnam and their ops deal. Mesplede cursed Carlos,
le petit cochon
. Wayne did a riff on strange bedfellows. Bygones as bygones. Carlos had work for them. Let me tell you.

Ça va
, Wayne. Okay.

Wayne described the casino plan and laid out the territorial options. Mesplede riffed on the geopolitics of Panama, Nicaragua and the D.R. Trade and agriculture. Current despots out to quash dissent and Red countermovements. Wayne sipped Pernod and got a liqueur-language buzz. Mesplede routed the riff to Cuba. He remained committed to the Cause. LBJ, Nixon, Humphrey—Castroite
cochons
all. The election meant
merde
. The hands-off Cuba policy would continue. They sparred on that,
un peu
. Mesplede knew
la Causa
vexed Wayne. He hated dope peddling. Their ops stint turned him against it. Strange bedfellows
—oui, oui
.

They got to the yes-or-no stage. Mesplede said maybe. He had pressing business first. Wayne raised three fingers. Mesplede nodded. Wayne said that he'd spoken to Carlos. It's
my
call now. I'll let you kill two out of three.

The fireworks went out with a flourish.
Wham
—high noon at midnight. The window light died. Mesplede switched to English.

“Who is allowed to live?”

“Bob Relyea.”

“I know why, but please inform me precisely.”

“He was in on a big job in April. He's too close to some people I'm with.”

“Memphis.”

“Yes.”

“You were there, too.”

Wayne prickled. “Yes, I was.”

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.”

(Los Angeles, 8/6/68)

T
he 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,
Nig
ports 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.”