James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (42 page)

He was retracing Reginald Hazzard. Reginald braced the Haitian man, late '63. He had minor knowledge of Haitian herbs. He had queries on their pain-killing and flame-retardant potential. The man gave Wayne the same advice he gave Reginald. Wayne followed the man's instructions, with nil results.

He created the paste. It
enhanced
pain and
jump-started
small fires. It burned through treated fabric quickly. That might mean flawed advice and overall specious knowledge. Reginald might have worked to the same chemical end or might have fully succeeded. The Haitian man might be a loony. He was a mystic. He believed in zombificaton. He held that voodoo enhanced chemical efficacy.

Wayne poured the paste in a jar and went back to reading. He borrowed the library books that Reginald borrowed, fall '63.

Haitian chemistry: klerin liquor, herbs, blowfish toxin. Left-wing theory: Marx, Franz Fanon, Herbert Marcuse. The science felt unsound. There were no controlled results. The described results read like a form of religious lunacy. The left-wing thinkers went long on theory and fell short on precedents. Their case was revolution. Every theory looped back
to its sure necessity. Reginald was nineteen and looking for answers. He found politics and magical chemistry.

A Haitian fixation. An odd coincidence. The advance team was in the D.R. now.

Wayne walked to his file space and skimmed odd note sheets. His time line was incomplete and ended abruptly.

“
White woman bails RH out of jail, not seen since.
”

He stared at the time line. He scrawled question marks beside it. He wrote, “
Did Marsh Bowen blink at RH photo? Very unlikely.
”

He got up and washed his hands in the lab sink. Toad particles stung his skin.

“You're shitting me.”

“No, I'm not. Farlan Brown set it up.”

“Jesus Fucking Christ.”

“No, Richard Milhous Nixon.”

Dwight dined on Bromo-Seltzer and aspirin. The Dunes Lounge was a tomb. Jody and the Misfits played stale oldies. Patrons shagged back to the slots.

Wayne said, “It's a pro forma deal. You reassure the president, I'll reassure the Boys. The D.R.'s a sweet spot, we're all A-OK.”

“Mr. Hoover will want me to report back. I'll keep things light and tell him what he wants to hear.”

“Which is?”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “That Nixon's as absorbed with black militants as he is. That he understands the national security threat of Archie Bell and the Drells.”

A drunk careened by their table. Wayne pulled his chair closer in.

“The knife fight. Did you get feedback from your informant?”

Dwight shrugged. “She said the BTA brothers hate the MMLF brothers a whole lot more now. She didn't mention our boy Marsh in the middle.”

“I know Clarkson, but I've hardly met Jackson. He's Haitian, right?”

“Right. He's got no rap sheet, but he was allegedly a Tonton Macoute cop in Haiti. He emigrated, changed his name and became a black-militant asshole. Why are you asking? He's not as bad as most of those fucks.”

Wayne shrugged. “Coincidence. Idle curiosity.”

Dwight cracked his knuckles. “ ‘Idle,' shit. The guy who's idle is Marsh. I want you to jerk his leash. Tell him he has to join the BTA or MMLF and hand up some snitches on collateral groups to keep the old girl wetting her panties.”

Wayne smiled. “I'll tell him.”

“And tell him to score some heroin while he's at it.”

Wayne squeezed his water glass. The edges almost snapped. Dwight said, “Get off your high horse, son. It's not like you haven't cooked it, run it and sold it to black folks yourself.”

He needed air. He walked the Strip in a rainstorm.

Dwight had his shit pegged. Dwight knew how to make him work and how to wet down his fuse.

It was cold. The rain carried ice chips. The hotel marquees fritzed and lost letters.

The Boys overbooked him. The Teamster loan buyouts devoured his time. He'd purchased thirty-four busted businesses since New Year's. The L.A. money wash was all systems go. The Peoples' Bank was the main laundry chute. Tiger Kab and the low-life clubs washed residual green. Mesplede and Dipshit were in the D.R. Hughes Air took them down.

Drac was tailspinning at Gay Edgar's rate. Wayne met him in private hospital rooms and assuaged his fear of the Bomb. Drac wanted to curb black breeding. His solution: put fallout in the collard greens at soul-food restaurants. Drac got two blood transfusions daily. Drac bought eight gold mines, two silver mines and a golf course since New Year's. His lawyers were filing injunctions against the state of Nevada. Drac wanted to ban all A-bomb testing. Farlan Brown said his legal bills ran fifty grand a month. Farlan asked about Dipshit—is he still looking for that cooze rip-off chick? Wayne said probably. Dipshit follows women around when he doesn't know what else to do.

The rain turned to hail. Wayne ducked into the Top O' the Strip. Art and Dottie Todd sang “Chanson d'Amour” for the twelve thousandth time. The bar revolved and gave revelers a 360 view. Ice came down in sheets.

Sonny Liston was defacing publicity pix of Muhammad Ali. The going rate was ten scoots apiece. White losers bought them and displayed them in their dens. Sonny wrote “Draft Dodger” and drew devil's horns on Ali. Drac had a half-dozen. Farlan Brown sent the prez a Liston special: Ali sucking LBJ's dick.

Wayne waved. Sonny ditched the losers and came over. A waiter brought Wayne a Coke and Sonny a scotch-rocks. They schmoozed up the old days.

Sonny was a Tiger Kab alumnus. Wayne told him the biz had just moved to southside L.A. Sonny said he'd beat feet and lend support to the
brothers. Wayne said he'd appreciate it. Sonny said he'd heard a rumor—you and this black woman.

Wayne admitted it. Sonny brought up Wendell Durfee. Wayne said he was looking for the woman's missing son. Sonny laughed for two minutes straight. It galvanized the whole room. People looked over. Wayne glared them off. Sonny caught his breath and drained his cocktail.

Wayne said, “Are you finished?”

Sonny said, “You and your nigger quests.”

Graph boxes, arrows. Connecting lines to and from.

A box marked “Library Books.” Connection points: the boxes marked “Political Texts” and “Haitian Herbs.” A box marked “Parking Ticket.” Connection point: the box marked “Haitian Herb Man.” A box marked “Jail.” Connection point: the box marked “White Woman/Bail.”

The graph helped him think. The wall placement let him think sitting and standing. It supplanted and reduced his file work.

Wayne scanned boxes. The LVPD summary sheet said
Read Me
. He sat down and skimmed it again. It summarized Reginald's loneliness. High school, J.C., the car-wash job. Nobody really knew the boy. Piss-poor acquaintances and no friends.

“Before you ask me for the dozenth time. No, we never discussed Haitian herbs or left-wing political texts.”

Wayne swiveled his chair. Mary Beth put her hands on his shoulders and straddled his lap.

“I wouldn't have given you a key if I knew you'd use it to torment me.”

“You're prone to torment, so I'm only checking in as usual.”

Wayne pulled her shirttail out. “We could lie down for a while.”

She touched his lips. “We could and we should, given that you've got that policeman-with-routine-questions look on your face.”

“They're not routine.”

“I know that, sweetie. I'm just teasing you. It's just my way of curbing my tendency for brusqueness.”

“Which means?”

“Which means I'm here at this moment, and Reginald's not.”

He kissed her. She traced his jawline. There's her eyes. As always, those green flecks.

“The emerald. Remember, you said you'd—”

She covered his mouth. It always meant
You hush
.

“Yes, I asked around. I learned nothing of specific value, which didn't surprise me. What I
did
learn was that there is a persistent and persistently
amorphous myth that black people in dire need get emeralds anonymously in the mail.”

Wayne stood up. Mary Beth held on and stayed in his lap. She laughed. He carried her into the bedroom and dropped her on the bed.

She bounced a little. She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her socks.

“I don't want to spoil the mood, but I remembered something.”

Wayne took his shirt off. “About Reginald?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me. Don't spoil the mood, but—”

“I found some of his old school clothes, so it jogged my memory. It was the spring of '62. Reginald took a field trip to Los Angeles. It was a science fair at USC. He told me he went to a few classes at a ‘Freedom School.' They had a little makeshift office on the campus.”

Something went
click
. He couldn't place it. He went blank in dead sync. Mary Beth threw a shoe at him.

“
I'm here. My son is not.
”

(Washington, D.C., 3/17/69)

N
ixon said, “Look at the rug. It's the details that get me. The goddamn bird has all those arrows and leaves in his claws.”

Dwight looked at the rug. Likewise Bebe Rebozo. The Oval Office, 6:00 p.m. drinks. Nixon on his third old-fashioned.

Bebe said, “Mr. Hoover had a radio show back in the '30s. I was a youngster in Havana then. There was a 200,000-watt station that broadcast it out of Miami.”

Nixon pulled the cherry out of his glass. “Agent Holly doesn't give a shit about rugs or Mr. Hoover's salad days. He wants to put the quietus on all this goddamned black-militant nonsense that's been going around.”

Dwight said, “That's correct, Mr. President.”

“And he'd like my word that I'm not plotting any upheaval in the Dominican Republic.”

Dwight nodded. Bebe went ooh-la-la. The prez and the First Friend looked fraternal. They were swarthy. They wore mauve alpaca sweaters with the presidential seal. The Rotary meets the Rat Pack.

Bebe lit a cigarette. “The D.R. and I go way back. I owned some cane fields there in the '40s. There's this exile group I toss a couple of shekels at. They're operating out of there now.”

Nixon coughed. Bebe snuffed out his cigarette and fanned the air. It was snowing. Windows showed off a portico and a huge lawn.

Bebe said, “My guys used to sell heroin. It's a quick turnaround on your investment. If you want to fight communism, you've got to get down to the nitty-gritty.”

Nixon stirred his drink. “Tell it like it is. Heroin has financed every Third World coup since God was a pup. Right, Mr. Holly?”

“That's correct, Mr. President.”

“Farlan Brown said you went to Yale. How come you're the one with the badge and I'm the one with all the headaches and this goddamned silly sweater?”

Dwight smiled. “It's the vicissitudes of fate, Sir.”

“ ‘Vicissitudes,' shit. That Irish cocksucker Jack Kennedy stole the '60 election from me.
That's
a ‘vicissitude.' What I've got now is the goddamned last laugh.”

Bebe ate his cherry. “I like Dwight, Mr. President. You should appoint him attorney general.”

Nixon chortled. “Hoover's got too much dirt on me. He'd never go for a hatchet man like Dwight calling the shots.”

Bebe said, “Are you a hatchet man, Dwight?”

“Yes, sir. I am.”

Nixon picked at a hangnail. “Where does Hoover stash his secret files? I had an aide who said he kept a vault at the Willard.”

“The basement of his house, Mr. President. It's moisture-sealed and fireproof.”

Bebe snorted. “He's got nothing on the president that the man himself has not volunteered to the public.”

Nixon rolled his eyes. Bebe stammered. Dwight examined his drink coaster. It featured the same pissed-off bird.

Bebe said, “The D.R.'s a toilet. Your investors will have to upgrade the appearance of the place if you want to lure tourists down. I just visited my exile group and took a little look-see. Balaguer's solidly pro-U.S., but the CIA guys are all drunks and gash men. There's a retired marine colonel named Smith who buffers Balaguer on most of the dirty work.”

Nixon said, “Accountability. You put a straw man out in front of you. When the shit hits the fan, you're out of range.
Me
? I was at a Red Sox game or grinding the old lady.”

Dwight laughed. Bebe futzed with the emerald ring above his wedding band.

“My group's got two new hard-ons. This French merc and his kid buddy. They may not oust Fidel, but they'll die trying.”

Nixon yawned. “Castro's got legs. The American electorate has had it up to here with Cuba. I'll let the exiles pull their stunts as long as it doesn't come back to haunt me at the polls.”

Bebe acted hurt. Darling, how could you? Dwight looked away.

Nixon said, “Dwight, let's talk turkey.”

“I'm all ears, Sir.”

“Describe Hoover's mental state. Assume that I'm an insider with some previous knowledge and that nothing leaves this room, be assured that candor will serve you in the long run and tell it like it is.”

Dwight shot his cuffs. “He's in exceedingly poor physical and mental health. He's obsessed with black crime, black mating habits, black political activity and black hygiene. His judgment is questionable at all levels. He is very obviously impaired. He is hemorrhaging prestige in the law-enforcement community. He's prone to embarrassing gaffes. He makes intemperate and highly impolitic remarks routinely. He's vituperative in the extreme. He's hanging on with brute will, hatred and daily injections of amphetamine in the keester. Despite this great wealth of infirmity, he remains tenuously lucid and must be considered a deadly adversary and thus a significant and utterly essential friend.”