James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (40 page)

DOCUMENT INSERT
: 2/13/69. Pouch communiqué. To: Wayne Tedrow. From: Colonel Ivar S. Smith, USMC (Retired). President, ISS Security Limited, Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. Marked: “
Hand Pouch Deliver Only”/”Destroy Upon Reading.
”

Dear Mr. Tedrow,

This letter follows up your colleague Jean-Philippe Mesplede's recent trip to the D.R. to view casino-site locations and to discuss the possibility of building said hotel-casinos in this country. I am pleased to tell you that President Joaquín Balaguer is very anxious to have your businesses here and has pledged considerable resources in an effort to convince you to come. A brief history will give you a sense of the D.R. and our island neighbor Haiti and will, above all, convince you that this is a safe place for American tourists and your overseers and their hotel-casino personnel.

The D.R. comprises the eastern two-thirds of the island of Hispaniola, and Santo Domingo, discovered by Columbus in 1492, is considered to be the oldest city in the Western world. Innumerable coups involving Spain, France and Holland led to the current Dominican secession from Spain; numerous battles between indigenous Negroes and the French resulted in independence for Haiti. Relations have remained strained between the D.R. and Haiti; this stands as the case today. Haiti, however, exists in a state of dire poverty, while the D.R. is developing into the very model of a safe and sane, pro-U.S., anti-Communist republic. The Haitian border is heavily patrolled by Dominican forces, assisted by agents of President Balaguer's personal intelligence unit La Banda, in collaboration with my security firm. Informant networks have been recruited by the above agencies; the Haitian population of the D.R. and illegal Haitian immigration into the D.R. has been well interdicted and suppressed. The Haitians are a primitive race of people,
heavily reliant on their practice of voodoo and made tractable by their addictive use of klerin liquor and mind-altering herbs. The president of Haiti, François “Papa Doc” Duvalier, came to power as a voodoo proponent and keeps his people suppressed by allowing voodoo to flourish. His private police force, the Tonton Macoute, are recruited from voodoo societies and enforce voodoo as President Duvalier's chief means to retain the societal status quo and keep himself in power. Under Dominican President Trujillo's rule (1930–1961), there were several Dominican army slaughters of unruly Haitian émigrés; on June 14, 1959, a Castroite group called the 6/14 Movement staged a failed invasion of the D.R.'s shores. The brief 1965 Civil War was, in fact, a farce, sternly resolved when President Johnson sent in a marine contingent to restore order to a nation seeking to establish free elections. A leftist named Juan Bosch was fraudulently elected and held power briefly. A truly free election was held in 1966. Bosch was deposed and pro-U.S. President Balaguer was honorably elected. The last official marine unit withdrew from the D.R. on 8/19/68.

President Balaguer is no flamboyant Rafael Trujillo, but President Balaguer knows how to keep dissent at a low roar and understands the importance of maintaining a tidy nation that American and European tourists will want to visit. He is on superbly good terms with the military, should crack-downs or clean-ups of Haitians or left-wing insurgents be required. And President Balaguer is willing to proactively invest in your hotel-casino foray by pledging land free of charge for casino sites in Santo Domingo proper and outside of it (see addendum report for structural studies and soil-composition studies). He will grant Hughes Air the exclusive flight rights to reserved VIP landing strips at the Santo Domingo Airport, will build extra runways for the increased air travel free of charge and will supply un-skilled Haitian and Dominican peasant workers for the casino build. A construction company that he is part owner of will supply building materials at a reduced cost and my security firm and La Banda stand ready to provide 24-hour security for the building sites. I am recommending four Cuban men—
WILTON MORALES, FELIPE GÓMEZ-SLOAN, CHIC CANESTEL and CRUZ SALDÍVAR
—as casino-site work bosses. They are Cuban mercenaries, Spanish- and English-fluent, and have pre-existing work relationships with the operatives in my security firm and the agents in La Banda. Again, I will stress: the threat of revolt or the shenanigans of left-wing gadfly groups will pose no threat to the casino build, and the presence of unruly
Haitian émigrés and Dominican peasants will be curtailed before it can reach the point where it might upset visiting tourists. As of this writing, President Balaguer is preparing an addendum incentive package as his way to say “
¡Bienvenidos!
” to you and your investors' group.

In summation, I can only state that you and your people would be well advised to say “
¡Sí!
” to our proposal. You will be welcomed to a country with a stable political climate, a solid economy and a leadership anxious to lend a helping hand.

Sincerely,

Ivar S. Smith, USMC (Retired)

(Las Vegas, 2/16/69)

T
he Clark County Sheriff's sent more paperwork. Wayne went through the folder and pinned documents to the wall.

Interview notes—LVPD file repeats. Repeat dispo reports, smudged file carbons.

The file alcove was overpacked—let's move chem bins for more shelf space. Stop, here's something—

Wayne pinned it up. A parking ticket, 11/29/63. Fire-hydrant obstruction. 2082 Monroe Street, North Vegas. Reginald Hazzard got tagged the week before he disappeared.

It was tri-racial turf. Nellis AFB decreed that. The commercial strip was all slot joints and one-buck buffets. They were one-race-only deals. Whites had the Shamrock, blacks had Monty's Mosque, the Mexicans had Al's Alamo.

The residential streets were mixed and cut through diagonally. Wayne parked on Monroe and went walking. He'd read Ivar Smith's report and summarized it for the Boys. The soil and structural stats were superb. Balaguer wanted their biz. He was
paying
them to come and build. The Boys said let's go. Wayne called Smith in Santo Domingo. Smith said Balaguer wanted fifty grand a month personal. Wayne said okay. The Boys said okay. Wayne proposed a hands-off chit from Dick Nixon. Farlan Brown said we need a phone-chat liaison. Wayne's candidate: Dwight Holly.

The prez was a cop buff and an FBI washout. He loved to schmooze with tough-guy Feds. Dwight “the Enforcer”?—none better.

The houses were all ant-sized and eroded cinder block. Windows were foil-crimped to beat the heat. Wayne started at 2082 and knock-knocked. It was 4:10 p.m. He got tri-racial residents off shift at Nellis. He smiled, he said hello, he showed Reginald's picture. He got four no answers and fourteen straight nos.

He kept walking. A North Vegas PD car cruised by. A cop recognized him and went Pow!

He got three more no answers and nine more nos. He walked by a house with an open garage adjacent. He saw a black man vat-boiling on a hot plate. He smelled tropical plants and ammonia base.

The man waved to him. Wayne walked up. The vat fumes knocked him back. The man laughed and laughed.

They shook hands. The man squeezed words out between chuckles. He had a French island lilt. Wayne scoped the garage. It was
his
lab unkempt—cheap gear and tape-marked bottles.

Urera baccifera. Diodon holacantheus. Crapaud blanc
. Theraphosidae E.,
Anolis colestinus, Zanthroxyllum matinicense
.

Spiny plant powders, topical irritants, ground tarantulas, lizards and toads.

The man smiled. Wayne said, “Tetrodoxin posioning.”

The man bowed. “You are a chemist?”

“Yes.”

“Have you other things to tell me?”

Wayne scanned labels.
Tremblador, Desmembres
, puffer fish, stinging nettle.
Diffenbachia seguine
—a prime spiny plant.

“I hope you're using these compounds for a beneficial purpose.”

“Oh yes. If eliminating an infestation of rabid gophers in my backyard can be considered that.”

Wayne smiled. “Then my best advice is to add more ammonia and cook the powder into an emulsion paste.”

The man grabbed a pen and wrote French on a scratch pad. Wayne ID'd scents: alkalines mixed with herb residue.

He pulled out his show picture. The man put on glasses and bent down a gooseneck lamp.

“Yes, I have met this young man.”

“When?”

“I vividly recall it. It was right after the president was shot.”

“And the circumstances?”

The man dabbed ointment on a finger cut. The skin puckered and
closed in an instant. Wayne smelled caustic hydroxide and something all new. The effect stunned him flat.

“He was a pleasant young man and a knowledgeable amateur chemist. He had heard of me. He was curious about the anesthetic qualities of Haitian herbs, particularly their pain-killing and flame-retardant potential.”

(Los Angeles, 2/18/69)

E
mma Goldman, Moscow, Archie Bell and the Drells. Clogged veins abet Looney Tunes.

The old girl was gonesville. How long could he last? How much shitwork could he assign?

Race shit abets hate shit. Dr. King had a dream. Mr. Hoover had a comic-book jones.

Hate cartoons and hate sonnets. “This little piggie went to market. This little piggie stayed home. This little piggie got offed by a Panther, after he sucked his big bone.”

Dwight drove print shop to print shop. He worked off a phone-book list. A pro printed this shit. It was print-shop quality.

It was raining. He'd hit sixteen print shops. He displayed his hate shit and ruined moods en masse. His badge and nerves induced freakouts. Numbnuts clerks flashed the peace sign.

Mr. Hoover dug the peace sign. It was the “footprint of the American chicken.”

Dwight drove northeast. He was five hours in. The southside and the Miracle Mile were kaput. Hollywood was next.

He hit a print shop on Fountain and a print shop on Cahuenga. He played his police radio between stops. The LAPD band hopped. A Stop the War march downtown. A fruit-picker march in Boyle Heights. Lots of mon-keyshines due south.

He got “No” and “No, sir.” He headed east. He hit a print shop on Vine and a print shop on Wilton. A zit-faced kid yukked at the hate shit. A hippie chick went, “Om.”

He hit a print shop on Vermont. He smelled maryjane and incense. Two counter kids weaved and goof-grinned. They saw him and grokked his occupation. A joint passed girl to boy. The boy ate the roach.

Dwight flashed his hate spray. The boy said, “So? It's not illegal.” The girl tee-heed.

They perused the shit. Dwight spread it out for a better look-see. The girl focused on the heavy-hung buck. The boy said, “It's a free country.”

“Did you print this material?”

“Yeah, sure. It's a free country.”

The girl tee-heed. “Well, sort of.”

“Who brought it in? What did they look like? Who picked it up? How did they pay and/or where was it sent?”

The girl said, “This is censorship.” The boy said, “It's a free country.”

Dwight walked to the door, threw the bolt and walked back to the counter. The girl chewed her lip. Dwight flexed his hands.

The boy wilted. “It was a cash sale and a delivery to a place in Eagle Rock. This woman, strong-looking, you know, like a ball-buster chick you don't want no part of.”

Dwight smiled. “Early forties, dark, gray-streaked hair, glasses. A knife scar on one arm.”

The kids slack-jawed him. Dwight said, “Tell me her name.” The girl said, “Joan.”

The neighborhood was hilly and semi-low-rent. You got some big vistas and snaked freeway views. White stiffs and beaners co-existed.
WALLACE FOR PRESIDENT
bumper stickers and taco wagons chopped low.

The address was a bungalow court with a mottled paint job. Some hun-yuck had raped white stucco for a tie-dye effect. Eight apartments with built-in mail slots. Snooze-quiet at 3:00 p.m.

Dwight rang the door buzzer. It was wake-the-dead shrill. He put his ear to the hinge crack and heard empty-room air. He waited thirty seconds and wedged his pocket shim in the lock jamb. The door popped easy.

Too easy, un-Joan.

He walked in and chain-locked the door. He turned on the ceiling light and got the whole pad in a glance. A living room–bedroom, a bathroom-kitchenette. A pop-up wall bed unfolded.

A runner's roost—not a safe house. A short-term place—a fugitive's stopgap.

Dwight walked through. He knew he'd find canned goods in the
kitchen. He knew he'd find cheapo toilet gear in the can. He knew he'd find clothes he'd never seen her in. He saved the dresser for last.

Faded jeans, boots, summer dresses styled to offset her bare arms.

He touched everything. He'd black-bagged Karen's place a dozen times. He never touched her softer things.

Dwight sat on the bed. Two pillows were placed against the railing. The rain kicked up again. The roof leaked a few feet from him. He tossed the pillows. Of course: a Magnum and a diary underneath.

The gun had rubber-band grips. They were non-print-sustaining and steadied your aim. The diary was black leather and almost weightless. That implied new pages.

He opened it. A Polaroid snapshot fell out. It was him, sleeping. The backdrop was their Statler room. He was curled toward Joan's side of the bed.

He put the photo down. His hand trembled. He gripped it calm again on the bedrail. He pulled the one page out. It was handwritten—Joan Rosen Klein's slashing block print.