James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (43 page)
Read James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 Online
Authors: Blood's a Rover
Tags: #General, #Los Angeles (Calif.), #Noir Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Political Fiction, #Nineteen Sixties, #Political, #Hard-Boiled, #Fiction, #Literary
Bebe whistled. “Tell it like it is, baby.”
Nixon whistled. “Amen, brother.”
Dwight felt his pulse race. Nixon winked. It flopped as a you-my-man ploy.
“Keep me updated on that. Will you, Dwight?”
“Yes, Sir. I will.”
Bebe flashed his emerald ring. “Nice, huh? I got it in the D.R.”
Echo Park was flooded. The rent-a-boats were moored and tarp-covered. The rain was incessant. The ducks were off hiding. He bought popcorn for nothing.
He was dead. He took the D.C.-to-L.A. red-eye, squashed between Buddhist priests. They saw his gun and om-cleansed his aura. His pills and drinks uncleansed him. He got an hour's sleep.
He called Mr. Hoover and reported the Nixon meet. He described it as “perfunctory.” The old girl was enraged. Dwight mollified him. Hoover launched a fourteen-minute anti-Nixon rant. He wanted news on the hate cartoons. Dwight said his leads dead-ended.
Two nights, three hours' sleep. Back-to-back MLK nightmares. Dr. King sermonized. Dwight watched from a back pew.
Karen walked up. She had Eleanora swaddled. They stood under the boathouse awning. The baby was triple-wrapped, warm and safe.
Dwight said, “She looks like me.”
Karen smiled. “It was a procedure, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”
Eleanora had Karen's hair and bone set. She slept through the storm noise.
Dwight said, “It's been a while.”
“It has. I've had Ella and you've had the operation.”
“What's-His-Name is leaving soon, right?”
“Yes.”
“We can log some time in then. I got you a key to the drop-front.”
Karen stepped away. “That's an I've-got-nothing-to-hide gesture.”
“Point taken, but it's true.”
“You're ducking the issue.”
“Say her name, then. Accuse me of something. Give me the chance to confirm or deny.”
Karen lit a cigarette. Her hand trembled. Dwight held Eleanora while she smoked.
“Mr. Hoover called Bayard Rustin a âprehensile-tailed night creature' at the American Legion.”
Dwight said, “I know.”
“His remarks regressed from there.”
“I know. Jack Leahy showed me a copy of the speech.”
Eleanora kicked. Dwight rocked her back to sleep. The awning leaked. Water dripped near their feet.
Karen said, “There's a safe house near Cal Riverside. I've been in it. There's a closet with four pump shotguns and a box of hand grenades. A man with a Mao Tse-tung mask and a shotgun has robbed four markets in San Bernardino.”
Dwight studied Eleanora. Her feet kicked while she slept.
“I'll always take armed robbery. What can I do forâ”
“The Philadelphia Office has my husband's file under review. Agents have been pestering the dean. One man got quite bold and risqué. âYou college folks get around a lot. I heard the wife's been playing footsie with Mr. Hoover's number-one hard boy.' ”
Dwight kicked the wall. The impact disturbed Eleanora. Karen tossed her cigarette and took the bundle back. Ella cooed and shut her eyes.
“Mr. Hoover told that agent about us, Dwight. It violates the agreement we've had from the beginning.”
“I know.”
“Mr. Hoover called Coretta Scott King âa diseased go-go girl' on national TV.”
“I know.”
“Can you please say something more than that?”
“Mr. Hoover is losing his mind. He's old and he's sick. No one has the balls to pull the plug on him, because he's got dirt files on the whole fucking world.”
“Including you?”
“Yes.”
Karen rocked Eleanora. The clouds went double dark and kicked loose a downpour.
“There's times I can't run from it, Dwight.”
“Run from
what
?”
“From the things you never talk about. From how far you've gone for that man. From every horrible thing that you've done.”
Dwight reached for Eleanora. Karen pulled her back. Dwight walked out into the rain.
Three pills and drinks failed him. His circuits sparked and kept him awake. Adrenaline ate through the sedation. He got dressed and drove to Eagle Rock.
It was midnight. The courtyard was quiet. The rain brought red flashes and thunder peals. Dwight picked the lock and let himself in.
He hit the lights. The pad looked identical. He walked to the bed and tossed the pillows. He found the same gun and diary. He opened it and found new sheets.
MY SHORT-TERM AIMS AND DWIGHT'S SHORT-TERM AIMS HAVE BLURRED. I HAVE COME TO SHARE DWIGHT'S VIEW OF THE BTA AND MMLF. THEY ARE CRIMINALS DRIVEN BY PERSONAL ANIMUS AT THE EXPENSE OF POLITICAL CONSCIOUSNESS. DWIGHT CREDITS THEM WITH NO CONSCIOUSNESS; I CREDIT THEM WITH DAWNING CONSCIOUSNESS BLUNTED BY THE SELF-SERVING PATHOLOGY OF ANGRY MALES IN GROUPS. THESE MEN MUST PUSH HEROIN AND FACILITATE A DEFINABLE SQUALOR. IT MUST BE THE CONTAINED CHAOS THAT DWIGHT AND I BOTH DESIRE. THE DAWNING OF CONSCIOUSNESS MUST BE PROVOKED THROUGH THE APPLICATION OF MORAL TERROR. DWIGHT AND MR. HOOVER BELIEVE THAT THE STIMULUS OF HEROIN WILL PROVE OVERPOWERING TO BLACK MILITANTS, THEIR FOLLOWERS AND THE UNCOUNTABLE BLACK PEOPLE MOVED BY THEIR RHETORIC. THEIR MASS CAPITULATION WILL CONFIRM VILE RACIST CARICATURE, DISCREDIT BLACK RADICALISM AND SUPPRESS ITS EMERGING MAINSTREAM APPEAL. I BELIEVE THAT THE DAWNING OF POLITICAL CONSCIOUSNESS WILL SERVE TO CONFRONT AND TRANSCEND THIS OBSTACLE, REINVENT THE FORMERLY CRIMINAL AND CAST THEM IN THE HERO ROLES THEY NOW SO SELFISHLY AND FATUOUSLY SEEK. THIS CONTROLLED CHAOS WILL NOT CONCLUDE IN POLITICAL DISSOLUTION. THE CHAOS IS TOO STEEPED IN THE HORRIFYING CONTEXT OF WHITE NEGLECT AND INJUSTICE TO BE ANYTHING BUT LIBERATING. I HAVE SEEN AND DONE HORRIFYING
THINGS IN MY LONG REVOLUTIONARY STRUGGLE; MY DEPLOYMENT OF HEROIN IN ALGERIA IN '56 PROVED AMBIGUOUS. I STERNLY TRUST THAT ANY AND ALL CONFLICTS IN THIS JOURNEY WILL RESOLVE IN MY FAVOR, NOT DWIGHT'S, AND THAT NO HUMAN BEINGS WILL DIE
.
Dwight reread the pages. He skimmed and jumped and hopscotched the text. The printing blurred. The booze and pills kicked in late. He saw spots and ink wisps. The floor rolled. He lay down and shut his eyes.
The bed rolled. The floor dipped. He didn't know if he was awake or asleep or someplace in between. He drifted. It was scary and peaceful. His head and limbs felt funny. He went blank for a while. He opened his eyes and saw Joan.
She sat on the bed. One leg was cocked. Her knee brushed his hip. She wore boots over black nylon stockings full of runs. Her hair was tied back.
“How did you find it?”
“The cartoons you had printed. You left an easy trail.”
“The cartoons were a bust. It won't happen again.”
“Who drew them?”
“An old Freedom School student of mine.”
Dwight sat up. Dizziness slammed him down. Joan squeezed his knee. Dwight traced her stocking runs and found some bare leg to touch.
She said, “Heroin.”
“They can't score it. They won't be able to deal it for ten seconds without getting popped.”
“I could help them.”
“I'll consider it.”
Joan laced up their fingers. Dwight tore out a stocking run and cupped her whole leg.
“How many of these places do you have?”
“I'm not telling you.”
“You left the diary out for me to find. Did you get the idea from Karen Sifakis?”
“Karen's a mail-drop friend. I don't actually know her.”
“Did you leave the diary out for me to find?”
Joan nodded. Dwight said, “Nobody dies.” Joan took his face in her hands.
The dizziness faded out. He felt his body again. Her hands steadied him.
Joan said, “What do you want?”
Dwight said, “I want to fall. And I want you to catch me on the way down.”
(Santo Domingo, 3/20/69)
H
is eyes hurt. He kept seeing word prisms. His fingers were paper-cut.
A month of code work. Maybe some progress. Making words out of numbers, letters and spaces.
Tiger Krew bombed up Autopisa Duarte. Ivar Smith sold them a Dominican army half-track. SaldÃvar and Canestel tiger-striped it. Morales painted on a big tiger paw. They headed for Piedra Blanca and Jarabacoa. Slave crews were breaking ground on their sites. The Midget sold them the two rural lots and two lots in Santo Domingo. La Banda recruited work crews from La Victoria prison. The jailbirds got sentence reductions if building deadlines were met.
Balaguer's construction firm stood ready. La Banda evicted paupers from the out-of-town sites. The casino build was
on
. The PT boat was ordered. They were meeting a Tonton Macoute guy to discuss the dope biz later.
Crutch Murine-dosed his eyes. The half-track treads chewed up pavement. Froggy drove. The Cubans perched above the wheel wells. Crutch sat in the machine-gun nest. They passed through cane fields and glades. Crutch blasted tree stumps for kicks.
Wetback Haitians ducked across the road. Morales fired at their feet. Crutch yawned and stretched. The code work induced a boocoo sleep deficit.
Voodoo. The probable book of the dead. Letters, numbers, symbols and mathematics. It's a Horror House murder lead. Book symbols match the Horror House symbols. It's Gretchen/Celia's book. Fuckâhe
still
can't see Joan and Gretchen/Celia as killers.
He's giddy with it. He thinks Gretchen/Celia is in-country. He's combed every records-check resource and can't find her. Mesplede told him not to brace Sam G. “Your âcase' is all frivolity. We are here to move heroin and depose Fidel Castro.”
The terrain was steep. The half-track mulched fallen tree bark. Crutch practiced stitch shots. He aimed at trees and severed limbs with .30-caliber fire.
Wayne Tedrow was coming soon. The Boys told him to cinch the deal with the Midget. Geologists bagged soil at all four sites. They said it would sustain heavy building. Mesplede found a shore spot on the D.R.-Haiti border. It was near Cap-Haitïen. Their Tonton guy was Mr. Big around there.
Tiger Kart rolled into Piedra Blanca. Local peons saw the beast and hightailed it. The site rocked. Bulldozers plowed shacks. Policia Nacional guys detained the dispossessed. They spoke Spanish. Morales translated for Crutch. It was eminent domain. Jefe needs your house. You get forty bucks and a food chit.
Some evictees wept and glared. La Banda guys flanked the bulldozers. They stood at parade rest and carried carbines at port arms.
The construction boss moseyed over. He told Gómez-Sloan the land was sound. La Banda would bring some prisoners up to clear brush. His crew would build a pre-fab bunkhouse. The prisoners would sleep shackled. Cop crews with bullwhips would oversee their work.
On to Jarabacoa.
Crutch got road-sick. Tiger Kart tread-crunched everything in its path. It was 2:00 p.m. and hell-hot. Suntan oil dripped down his neck. His head was back in Santo Domingo. His torch for Joan and Gretchen/Celia burned strong. He saw them as Commies. He didn't see them as killers. The matching symbols might not mean Murder One.
Santo Domingo was on-the-whole shitsville. The Gazcue section was Hancock Park for spics. It was a light-skin zone. He started peeping there last week. He looked for Joan and Gretchen/Celia. He settled for random women. He followed them from parks to restaurants. He followed them home. He peeped bathroom and bedroom windows.
Tiger Kart rolled into Jarabacoa. The town was full of tin-roof huts and jungle plumage. The site was two roads down. Crutch heard bulldozer crunch. Three kids ran out of the brush. They wore masks and Uncle Ho shirts and carried flame-topped bottles. Get it?
Molotov cocktails
.
They hurled them. The bombs hit Tiger Kart and made pissant explosions. Crutch swiveled his machine gun and fired their way. He cut down some cane stalks and missed the fuckers.
The kids got away. Jungle brush covered them. Tiger Kart rolled to the site. Shackled-up workers lugged debris. Bulldozers blitzed foundations. A four-jailbird crew hauled discarded-roof sections and cut up their hands. A cop on horseback whipped a slow guy.
The straw boss waved. The Krew tiger-growled back. Crutch heard three gunshots on the Autopista.
Tiger Kart cut back and rolled northbound. They saw the Molotov kids, dead in a ditch. They were head-shot point-blank. Their Uncle Ho shirts were slashed. Their hands and feet were severed.
A La Banda guy stepped out of the brush and waved.
Ivar Smith stashed a Jeep for them. Tiger Kart was too big for the border river crossings. The Plaine du Massacre was close by. Morales sniffed the air. He said he smelled the Goat and the soul husks of slaughtered Haitians. Crutch saw blood drawings on tree trunks. He got a vile voodoo vibe.
The Jeep was full-gassed. A canvas top beat the sun out. Dirt roads got them to the river. Tonton guys perched by the bridge. They wore stovepipe suits, wraparound shades and straw porkpies. They waved the Jeep across. They exuded French savoir faire and black hipster cool.
The river was muddy and eighty yards wide. Spades popped out of the water holding crawfish. They crossed and took dirt roads to the Cordillera Central. The ride was all swerves and plows through fallen brush. Morales puked in a paper bag. Froggy cranked it in low gear, forty mphâplus.
Pauper pads whizzed by. Tin-roof shacks plaster-laced with giant rhinestones. Wood shacks with pix of voodoo priests on the doors. Tree branches hung over the roadway. Lynched chickens dangled from them. A few leaked fresh blood.
They hit the peak and descended. Flat roads led to the north shore. A spook in a dead-bird hat hexed them from the roadside. Gómez-Sloan shot at him and missed.
The terrain was tropical forest. The air smelled like salt water and dirt. Every half-ass tree was blood-marked. Beware the Zombie Zone.
They hit the shore. The salt air heated up. Froggy consulted a map and slalomed on rock-strewn sand. Crutch saw an inlet. A wild-ass jigaboo popped out of nowhere and stepped in front of the Jeep.
