James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (54 page)

I should have reprimanded Dwight for the statement. He said those words some months ago, and it's too late for reprimands now. I'm looking back at the past year's journal pages and feeling disparate events cohere. Dwight has been affording me greater and greater latitude in my political actions and has been bailing out my politically jailed friends at an ever-accelerating pace. The matchup of dates makes it all the more evident: Dwight's remarkable generosity begins the moment he tells me that Joan has disappeared.

Of course, they are lovers. Of course I could not tell Dwight that Joan's vanishing acts are very well established, because I have lied to him about the breadth of my friendship with Joan. Dwight asked me about Joan and the USC Freedom School several months ago. Of course I lied about it; of course Dwight knew I was lying. We are in far too deeply with each other to issue reprimands or otherwise revise the rules of a duplicitous, usurious and compartmentalized union. The odd thing? I find myself approving of Dwight and Joan as lovers. I love Dwight more than I ever have, because Joan has served to instill doubt in him. Dwight is beginning to erode. I pray that the process will extend and change him gently, and not take him to grief and madness. A very real fear attends this prayer offering. I am more fully realizing that Joan manipulated me into a meeting with Dwight. Toward
what end? This prayer must include all other persons who inhabit their hellishly self-willed orbit.

I had lunch with Joan shortly before she went away. She hinted at a tropical destination and told me she had left Dwight some paperwork. She said that she hoped it wouldn't go bad, like '51, '56 and '61. I did not ask Joan to embellish her statement. I mentioned Dwight and his penance money and hinted at his personal catastrophe in 1957. Joan told me that she knew the story, but refused to tell me how she knew. And in that moment, I knew that Joan loved Dwight sans all political agendas.

I cried a little. Joan hugged me and gave me a beautiful emerald.

DOCUMENT INSERT
: 3/8/70. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.

Los Angeles,
3/8/70         

Fear time.

It's fear time now, and it's been fear time for a while. I've been fearful for so long that it's become almost banal. I'm now hyperalert to the signs of panic expressed by my body. Months of general fear have made me more sensitive to acute and justified fear. I've been surviving and buying advantage moment to moment.

An anonymous informant bought me time with Mr. Hoover and Mr. Holly. A nineteen-snitch package, graciously attributed to me. It bought Mr. Holly time with Mr. Hoover, I'm sure of that. It validates
OPERATION BAAAAAD BROTHER
, which buys me more time to pursue armored-car heist leads. The MMLF has lost interest in me over time. MMLF members see me at the clubs, alone or with my BTA brothers. They avert their eyes, spit on the floor or make obscene gestures. There are shoving matches as both groups co-opt space at peace marches. I'm apprehensive more than fearful in those contexts. I monitor my body for signs of panic and realize that I've been granted time.

Time liberates me and constrains me. A friend on LAPD told me that LAPD had secretly terminated my employment. Mr. Holly and Wayne obviously knew this and never told me. This makes me a Federal operative with no police sanction and no assured position within law enforcement once my assignment concludes. Last week,
I found bug wires in my apartment. I did the prudent thing: I let them sit. It had to have been instigated by Wayne and Mr. Holly. They do not trust me. Their distrust is fully justified. I have been very careful in whom I talk to in my home and what I talk about, in person and on the telephone. The discovery of the bug-tap apparatus vouched my justified paranoia and confirmed me in my role of apostatized ex-cop black militant. I assumed that role the moment I rented this apartment and have embellished it with greater and greater flair every moment since. Men with the Bent have to be cautious. I behave as if I do not have the Bent and have done so since Wayne made his “faggot” remark. In my heart, I feel like a radicalized ex-cop, weighing his options in all arenas. My actor's sense of time and identity has proven invaluable here.

Wayne and I have smoked dope a few times. We discussed the oddly different and oddly similar metaphysical states of our lives. It was in many ways the most beguiling interchange of my life.

Time has been bestowed on me. I am probably ghetto-safe because Scotty Bennett wants me ghetto-safe. The revised ghetto word is that I may be a police informant. This is Scotty's protracted vengeance on me, I'm sure. The worrisome thing is that I see no vindictive punch line or conclusion in sight. Scotty greatly enhanced his ghetto-legend status late last year. In the process, he dealt a severe blow to black nationalism in Los Angeles and bought me more time on the score-heroin front. There were Panther-pig dustups in October and December. Both incidents received wide publicity. A full dozen Panthers have now disappeared, six per incident. Scotty fulfilled his promise of August '68. Reprisal, deterrent, vengeance enacted and time purchased for me. The upshot? More BTA bewilderment, fear and indecisiveness. The growing notion that smack is heat we don't need. I've got the sense that MMLF is reacting similarly. And, nuggets of gold in with the dirt: more and more rank-and-file brothers think that dealing smack is
wrong
.

With gifts of time handed me, I stepped up my queries on the heist. I must have said, “Say, man, you remember that armored-car job back in '64?” a million times and received a million dumbstruck looks and bullshit answers. I have mentioned Reginald Hazzard and described his tenuous resemblance to the burned-face robber an equal number of times, with the same results. Then two things clicked, independently.

I was engaged in a routine phone-drop talk with Mr. Holly. He casually mentioned Scotty's brutal grilling of Jomo Clarkson.

Scotty asked Jomo a string of pointedly non sequitur questions pertaining to the heist. Mr. Holly found this confusing.

It sat with me for weeks. Aaah, Scotty—what do you know and what aren't you telling us? Shortly after that, I bailed Ezzard Jones out of jail twice. The first time was a drunk-driving beef. I pulled Ezz out of 77th Street Station and took him out drinking from there. A week later, Ezz was popped for drunk-and-disorderly. I filled out paperwork in the University Station squadroom, was left alone briefly and took advantage of it.

I checked the Unsolved 211 file cabinet and found a routing sheet for the heist. I memorized the divisional record number, called LAPD R&I and impersonated a cop. The clerk consulted the master file and came back on the line. She said, “I'm sorry, Officer. No such DR number exists.”

And I knew then:

Scotty had a private file stash. He was pulling filed reports in from throughout the LAPD's geographical divisions and was hoarding the information for himself.

I am certain of it. There can be no other explanation.

(Jarabacoa, 3/12/70)

H
eavy rain stalled out work. The thirteenth-floor framing dragged. All four sites dipped behind schedule. A few slaves escaped.

La Banda reacted. They combed the crews and drew torture lots. “Hate-ins”: lashings and slaves screaming in the rain.

Crutch watched the latest. A monsoon just passed over. The ground was ankle-deep mud. The site was packed with sodden lumber and equipment. It was all miasma and muck.

The La Banda guy used a tassel whip. Little bulbs supplied extra pain. Crutch bopped behind voodoo herbs. It focused him and zoned the ugly shit out.

The slave was strapped to a bulldozer. His shrieks boomeranged. The lash-to-lash echoes overlapped.

The whip man was good. The tassels cut down to the rib bone. The slave crew watched. Crutch shut his eyes.

The slave collapsed. A La Banda guy bug-sprayed his wounds for added hurt and disinfection. The slave ate mud. It muffled his screams.

A horn honked. Crutch looked over. Froggy had a new '59
Cadiblack
. It was de rigueur striped. Froggy called it “Tiger Kar.”

The Cubans were crammed in with Tommy guns. Canestel pointed north—
Tiger Kove now
.

Crutch got queasy. Tiger Kar ran rough roads on soft suspension. He was squished between Morales and Saldívar. His brainpan popped. He
kept checking the rearview mirrors. He'd had this surveillance vibe. He couldn't validate it.
Hell hound on my trail
.

They hit Tiger Kove at dusk.
Tiger Klaw
was gassed to go. The storm had passed over. Residual chop pushed them east. The north shore and the Mona Passage—one big whitecap. They made Point Higuero early. They smoked weed to kill time. The Puerto Rican spics trusted them now. Froggy called them their “Tiger
Kompañeros.
”

Crutch heard onshore movement. The spics popped out of the brush. They lobbed the dope suitcase on board. Gómez-Sloan lobbed the cash suitcase at them. It was kwick and kompanionable.

The Krew unmoored the
Klaw
and sailed away, kove-bound. White-caps bucked them. Crutch launched a torpedo for kicks. It hit a shit-flecked atoll and exploded.

They moored and draped
Tiger Klaw
with camouflage netting. They took Tiger Kar back to Santo Domingo. Crutch dozed off his dope jolt. Mosquitoes buzzed into his mouth and woke him up periodic.

It was dawn. The Krew decamped at the El Embajador. Froggy told Crutch to hold the suitcase. The Tonton guys would shag it to Port-au-Prince tomorrow. Crutch yawned and elevatored up to his suite.

He opened the door. He re-caught the vibe. He smelled cigarette smoke. He saw a tip glowing.

The light snapped on. There's Dwight Holly on the couch. There's some shit on the coffee table.

A paint can and a paintbrush. A syringe and a morphine Syrette.

Crutch shut the door and dropped the suitcase. Dwight pulled out a pocketknife.

“How much are you holding?”

“Three pounds.”

“That'll do.”

His mouth dried up. His bladder swelled. The walls loop-de-looped.

Dwight said, “Take your shirt off.”

“Man, you can't—”

“
I'm not saying it again
. You're taking your shirt off, I'm taking the suitcase. I won't stop you from running out the door. I'll call Wayne and rat out your dope business the moment you do.”

Crutch pulled his shirt off. His sphincter almost blew. Dwight opened the paint can and dipped in the brush. The paint was bright red.

He walked the walls and pulled off the artwork. He painted “6/14” above the couch. He re-dipped his brush. He painted “6/14!!!!” above the wet bar. He re-dipped his brush. He painted “Death to Yanqui Dope Peddlers” beside the door.

Crutch prayed and tried not to cry. Dwight popped the Syrette and
plungered the syringe. Crutch held his arm out. Dwight clamped his biceps and brought up a vein.

Crutch squeezed his Saint Chris medal. It snapped off his neck. Dwight poked the vein and geezed him up.

He went loosey-goosey. His bladder blew. He didn't care. His eyes rolled back.

Dwight flicked his lighter and warmed up his knife. Crutch braced his hands on the door. Dwight carved “6/14” on his back.

(Las Vegas, 3/14/70)

W
ayne linked boxes. His wall graph was Op Art. Boxes and arrows off at odd angles. Boxes and arrows. Reginald to Joan to the Haitian herb man.

Graph boxes and boxed carbons—LAPD and the L.A. County Sheriff's. His LVPD contact secured them. Call it a dim long shot. Occurrence reports, field-interrogation cards. The L.A. cops hard-rousted black kids routinely. Reginald's name might be there.

Wayne checked his watch. He had an hour, tops. His bags were packed. He had skim cash for Celia. He booked a red-eye to the D.R.

Arrows and boxes. “Library Books” to “Bailed Out of Jail.” A new box: “Leander James Jackson/BTA/Tonton Macoute.”

The hallway door creaked. He heard Mary Beth in the living room. Her keys jiggled. She dropped bags on a chair. She exhaled like she was pissed.

He stared at the graph. He locked his satchel and attached the handcuff chain. He check-marked “Leander James Jackson.”

“I want you to stop all this.”

Wayne turned around. Mary Beth stared at the satchel.

“I don't want you to find my son. He doesn't want to be found. If he's alive, he made that decision of his own free will, and I will not dishonor him by forcing a reunion.”

Wayne jammed his hands in his pockets. Voodoo-herb residue made his eyes run.

Mary Beth stepped close. “Whatever you've done in the past, I'll forgive
you. Whatever you're doing now, I'll forgive you. I'll forgive you for not trusting me, because you don't want to be forgiven, you just want to create more risk and intrigue and buy yourself more punishment.”

Wayne left-hooked the wall. He dented the molding, his knuckles bled, his wristwatch face shattered.

Mary Beth said, “
Who have you hurt? What have you done
?”

He walked to the safe house. Santo Domingo looked different. The visit was ad-libbed. He didn't call Ivar Smith or the Boys. He just wanted to
see
.

It felt like wide-screen hi-fi. He usually limousined. It bought him eyeball relief and less volume. This was the shit. The sewers reeked, the noise peaked, the cops perched and pounced.

It was winter-warm/night-air sticky. Wayne wore a sport coat over his cuff chain. The address was in Borojol. The district was all go-go bars and low-peso hotels. Haitian vendors sold klerin-laced ice cream.

Wayne found the address: a pink cube off the main drag. His free hand ached from the wall punch. He banged his bracelet on the door. Celia opened up.

She wore a bloody smock. The space behind her was crammed with cots and fluid-drip stands. Four boys and two girls were head-sutured. Barbed-wire sap wounds—Wayne saw the stitch cuts oozing.