James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (51 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
Luc said, “
Pariguayo.
”
The darky said, “
La poudre zombie.
”
Crutch tried to scream. His mouth dissolved into the 3rd Street tunnel under Bunker Hill. Luc and the darky grabbed him and dragged him into a back room. He tried to resist. His arms turned into bird's wings. They dumped him. They locked the door behind him. Rats roamed the floor. He tried to roll away from them. They crawled on his back and pinned him prone. He saw Joan. He started crying. His tears turned different colors.
The rats scurried to his face and started licking. He saw their fleas and the open sores on their bodies. Their tails coiled and flicked saw teeth at him.
He couldn't move.
La poudre zombie
. He saw Joan. He heard mumbles next door. Words in French formed. He saw the girls in his high school French class. His teacher said, “Donald, you're a bright boy. Learn to listen, learn to speak.”
The rats nibbled at him. He saw printed French words and heard Miss Boudreau translate. He heard “emeralds,” “suspects,” “kill him.” He heard “Laurent-Jean Jacqueau,” “America,” “changed name.”
“Trujillo and Duvalier.” “Emeralds.” “Lost in America.” “Celia.” “1964.” “The boy wants the stones.”
The words stopped, the mumbles re-started, black-and-white pictures appeared. Clyde Duber's office, Scotty Bennett's dashboard frieze. Crime pixâ
THE ARMORED-CAR HEIST
.
Crutch heard footsteps. Crutch heard a gun hammer cock. A rat walked over his face. Crutch willed his mouth open. The rat looked inside. Crutch pressed down and bit its head off.
The rat thrashed. Crutch kept biting. The blood and fur taste did something to him. The door opened. Luc and the darky walked in. Luc's .38 was pressed to his leg.
Crutch laid there. The rat squirmed and died in his mouth. Luc and the darky got close. Crutch reached up and grabbed the gun. Rats skittered all around them. Luc and the darky froze. Crutch aimed and blew their nigger brains out.
(Santo Domingo, 5/6/69)
J
oan
.
The plane taxied in.
Backdraft toppled the Midget's welcome signs. Wayne woke up. He still had his satchelâfour hundred grand cuffed to his wrist.
The dream was fragmented. He saw Joan three weeks back. The dream played most nights since. Factual club noise and music. Fictive knife-scar imagery.
He returned Dwight's ring. Dwight refused to discuss Joan. His guess: she was his informant. Joan taught at the “Freedom School.” Reginald Hazzard attended. Wayne went back to the Freedom School and re-checked the records. There was nothing on Reginald. His little
click
clicked in, finally.
The Freedom School was listed in Joan's Fed file. He'd shredded the file. Dwight refused to get him a new copy. Another
click
clicked. There was something else he'd forgotten or missed.
Wayne deplaned. His limo was waiting. The smoked windows shut out Tijuana-by-the-Sea. He ran a national records check on Joan Rosen Klein and got nothing. He laid out southside queries. The consensus: she's a BTA hanger-on and a boss chick with a past.
The limo crawled. Balaguer's “Urban Renewal Plan” flatlined traffic. The ditchdiggers wore jail denims. They took mincing steps. Their shackled ankles bled.
Mary Beth was problematic now. His workload kept them parted. His search for Reginald torqued her. She was up front. You work for the Boys. You run bag to dictators. He cajoled and mollified her. He euphemized and lied. She just plain seethed.
Dwight was problematic. Jomo Clarkson suicided in custody. Marsh was terrified and denied that he ratted Jomo out. The snitch-out bored Dwight. The stance was weirdly un-Dwight.
The limo cut down the Malecón. Signs announced the Midget's food giveaway. A flatbed was parked. Dark- and light-skinned paupers lined up. Two La Bandaites tossed paper bags at them. The bags broke. A miniârace riot ignited. The bags contained meat scraps and dented dog-food cans.
Marsh was scared. Wayne and Dwight agreed: he's volatile and might double-deal. Let's have Dipshit rotate stateside and hot-wire his crib.
Haiti sideswiped him. The herb trip recircuited his memory. He saw through the ground and tracked tree roots. He saw magic creatures at play.
Horn blare doubled and tripled. A foot chase stopped traffic flow. Kids with leaflets. Sprints down the street and end-run zigzags. La Banda goons peeled out. One kid group, two goon flanks. Pincer movements, no exit/dead end. The kids ran straight toward a cop line: PolicÃa Nacional guys with plastic shields and clubs.
The pincers pressed. The brownshirts absorbed the kids. Their clubs were spike-pointed. Light blows tore flesh.
The kids tried to run into buildings. Foyer guards saw them and locked their doors up. A kid ran beside the limo. He was shirtless. One eye gushed blood.
Wayne opened his door. The kid tried to hurdle it. He hit the sill and went flying. Wayne grabbed him and threw him in the backseat. The kid resisted. Wayne pinned him and yelled at the driver. The kid caught the gist and yelled in Spanish. Wayne heard numbers and “Calle BolÃvar.” The driver U-turned and bombed down an alley.
Wayne popped his suitcase and pulled out a shirt. The kid held his eye socket. Blood poured through his fingers. Wayne tilted his head and reversed the flow.
The limo hit a clear stretch. The driver gunned it and rode his horn. Their antenna flags got them through bottlenecks and red lights. Calle BolÃvar popped up. The driver downshifted and brodied to a small house mid-block. The kid was passed out. Wayne picked him up and carried him inside.
The office was small. The furniture was scuffed and mismatched. It looked like a sub-rosa Commie medical source. A nurse and doctor grabbed the kid. They seemed to know him. They ran him straight into a back room and shut the door.
Wayne sat in the waiting room. The satchel cuff gouged his wrist. The
phone rang every ten seconds. The walls closed in a little. He thought of Haiti and Mary Beth.
The phone kept ringing. An hour ticked off. The doctor walked out. His gown was bloody. His hands were rubber-gloved.
“I saved the boy's eye.”
“I'm glad.”
“You are?”
“My name's Wayne Tedrow.”
“I would guess that you are at the El Embajador.”
“That's right.”
“You have my thanks. You performed a brave deed.”
He went by the Santo Domingo sites. They were cosmeticized.
Two more floors were up. It was too fast. The workers greeted Jefe Tedrow. They were ringers. They looked like actors from a plucky peasant script. No whips or guns visible. Leg chains haphazardly stashed.
The limo ran him north. The rural sites were identical. The Jarabacoa site included a lunch buffet. The fat and sassy workers dined with the bosses. Wayne shimmied up a tree and scoped the area. Forty yards off: La Banda fucks and the real workers chained.
Wayne dozed en route to the Tiger Krew inlet. The smoked windows provided a shut-out-squalor view. He woke up and saw Dipshit outside the encampment. The punk Commie hunter looked halfway distraught.
The driver slowed. Wayne tapped him and motioned him to stop. Dipshit looked up. Wayne said, “You're flying back to L.A. with me. Dwight and I want you to hot-wire Marsh Bowen's place.”
Dipshit nodded. It was half eager, half numb. Wayne tapped the driver. The limo pulled into a clearing. Mesplede and the Cubans were there. The Cubans were interchangeable. He never got their names straight. One litter, four mean cubs.
They saw the limo and waved. Wayne got out and walked up. They were hanging things on a line strung between two tree trunks. Wayne smelled decomposition.
Mesplede walked up. Wayne pushed him aside. There: five scalps, Tiger-paw marked.
The Cubans posedâfeet dug in, smirks, bandoliers and gun belts. Mesplede hovered. He wore his scalping knife on a thong.
Wayne said, “No more runs. No political bullshit while you're working for me. One more infraction and
muerto.
”
The Cubans readjusted: smirks, thumbs in their belt loops, feet dug in wiiiiide. Mesplede knife-scratched his neck.
Wayne plucked the scalps off the clothesline. Wayne walked merc to merc. Wayne mashed the scalps in their faces.
“Viva Fidel, you fucking lowlifes.”
The suite phone rang at midnight. It jolted him up. He fell asleep with the lights on. Santo Domingo was a window blur. He thought about the gashed-eye kid straight off.
“Hello.”
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes and no.”
Mary Beth said, “I hope you weren't dreaming.”
“Well, yes and no.”
“I'd ask you how things are going, but I'm not sure I want to know.”
Wayne rubbed his eyes. “I got a lead on the woman who bailed your son out of jail.”
“Sweetie, I wasn't talking about Reginald.”
Wayne looked at his briefcase. “I know you weren't. I told you because it's about you and me, and not about what I do for a living.”
“Or about the people you work for?”
Wayne sighed. “Babe, please don't do this. Not on the telephone.”
Mary Beth sighed. “It'll be worse in person.”
“Then let's be fucking civil and not do it at all.”
“We should say good night now.”
“Yes, I think we should.”
The line clicked and disconnected. Wayne looked out the window. The sky was neon-free. The Midget told Sam G. he wanted
mucho
neon. Sam said they'd provide some.
The buzzer rang. Wayne got up and opened the door. It was Celia Reyes. He met her in convention-time Miami. She was Sam's consort then.
She said, “Hello, Mr. Tedrow.” She wore a white dress and a linen blazer. She extended her hand. He stepped aside and held the door open. Celia sat on the couch.
“I wanted to thank you for my friend Ramón. The doctor said you gave generously of your time.”
Wayne pulled a chair up. “I'm glad he'll be all right.”
“The doctor said it was quite a sight. You carrying Ramón, with a briefcase attached to your wrist.”
The briefcase sat between them. Wayne pointed to it.
“It was unwieldy, yes.”
Celia smiled. “You're not questioning my presence here.”
“I half-expected some sort of approach.”
“Why is that?”
“You could make the point that I wanted it.”
“I have a friend. We think you may be sympathetic to our work.”
Wayne smiled. “Yes, that may be true.”
“Would it upset you if I told you that we knew some things about you prior to your actions today?”
“People tend to know things about me. It tends to do me more harm than good.”
“May I inquire about your beliefs?”
Wayne said, “I'm following signs. I'm beginning to think that I may have a purpose that exists beyond my will to comprehend it.”
Celia pointed to the briefcase. “The contents?”
“$400,000.”
“May I have it?”
“Yes.”
“Will there be more?”
“Yes.”
Celia picked up the briefcase and walked to the door. Wayne opened it. A shadow flicked down the hallway. A smoke ring evaporated. Wayne knew it was
her
.
“
Celia said you were quite gracious.
”
“
She caught me at the right moment.
”
“
I won't press you about that.
”
“
You could. I'd be candid. I'd press you on a few topics and hope you'd be candid in return.
”
“
You can ask me anything. I'll give you answers or I won't.
”
“
I was going to ask you about your relationship with Dwight Holly and about a young man you knew at the Freedom School and almost certainly rescued from harm a year later.
”
“
I'm not telling you.
”
“
That's a direct answer.
”
“
I told you it would be.
”
“
Yes, you did.
”
“
I hope my bluntness won't terminate our working together.
”
“
I won't permit it. I'm a very blunt ex-policeman, and I tend to get the answers I want.
”
“
You haven't asked me what Celia and I know about you, which is a more pressing question to ask.
”
“
I'll assume you know everything, and let it go at that.
”
“
I've enjoyed talking to you, Mr. Tedrow.
”
“
Thank you for calling, Miss Klein.
”
Wayne woke up over Texas. Airplane scotch and voodoo herbs put him out from takeoff.
Dipshit was reading
Playboy
. The little hump looked haggard and scared.
Deep-gouged bluffs loomed below them. Trees stuck out sideways. Storm clouds made them vanish.
Wayne thought,
This Is All Magic
.
Wayne thought,
I've Gone Red
.
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 5/13/69. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “
Recorded at the Director's Request/Classified Confidential 1-A: Director's Eyes Only
.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.
JEH: Good morning, Dwight.
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: Your telex implied that you have bad news. “Tell it like it is,” as President Nixon often states in his fawning efforts to sound au courant with longhairs and insurrection-seeking Negroes.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: There's also “Can you dig it?” and “Are you cool with it?” which are new favorites of the white radio personalities who have taken up the chant that I am too old for this job.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: “Right on, brother” is an expression that is considered “in the groove” these days. I addressed Vice President Agnew in that manner last week. He gave me a clenched-fist salute. I was deeply gratified. It was akin to receiving the French Legion of Honor.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: You're stalling, Dwight.
DH: Chief Reddin called me, Sir. He told me that he had taken Marsh Bowen off roster. He's been fired from LAPD, so LAPD is in no way accountable for his actions. The firing was clandestine, which protects us at least soâ
JEH:
OPERATION BAAAAAAD BROTHER
must not be derailed or in any way diverted. Bowen must not know that he's been fired. Why did this occur? Tell it like it is.
DH: I think Scotty Bennett went to Reddin and offered a rationale for the firing. I believe that Bennett's personal animus precipitated this action.
JEH: Bennett has favored us in at least one regard. He did not expose the late Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson and his late crime partner as the killers of the late hate merchant Dr. Fred Hiltz, which has spared the Bureau a great deal of ape-inspired scrutiny.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson has fucked Pat Nixon on numerous occasions. A confidential informant in the Hollywood community
informed me of this fact. They were under the influence of the drug Quaaludes, commonly known as “ludes.”
DH: Yes, Sir. I was thinkâ
JEH: There will be Bureau raids on Black Panther offices in Denver, Chicago and Salt Lake City during the first week of June. I am grateful for it, but it lacks the illuminating pizzazz of our operation, which is a fully formed explication of Negro criminality and indigenous moral sloth. I want the BTA and/or the MMLF to sell heroin. The public has been numbed to death and charmed to sleep by the Panthers. They need evil apes they can sink their teeth into. I assure you that I am telling it like it is.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: The honorary Negro Wayne Tedrow. Lay it on me, brother.
DH: He's status quo, Sir. He was in the Dominican Republic necâ
JEH: Dick Nixon is peeved at Wayne, once removed. Wayne pulled the plug on a plucky little group of anti-Castro brigands that Bebe Rebozo was bankrolling. Bebe is determinedly anti-Communist. I respect him for that.
DH: I'll be speaking to the president tomorrow night, Sir. I'll advise him on the Wayne matter as you advise me.
JEH: Do what you like. Tell it like it is, because I'm cool with it.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Nixey boy has never learned the rudiments of achieving a close shave. I use Wilkinson Sword blades. My personal file on Nixon would ruin him. The files in my basement would create Armageddon instantaneously.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: The BTA and/or the MMLF must push heroin. We must create a properly controlled chaos.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I dream of Martin Lucifer King quite often. He invariably wears a red-devil costume and carries a pitchfork.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Do you dream of him?
DH: Frequently, Sir.
JEH: And how is he attired?
DH: He always wears a halo and wings.
JEH: (Abrupt and muffled comment/phone transcript terminates here.)
