James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (69 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
DOCUMENT INSERT
: 5/12/71.
VERBATIM STAGE-1/CLOSED CONTACT/TOP-ACCESS ROUTING telephone call transcript.
Closed file #48297. Speaking: President Richard M. Nixon and Special Agent Dwight C. Holly, FBI.
RMN: Good evening, Dwight.
DH: Good evening, Mr. President.
RMN: It's been too long, my friend.
DH: I agree, Sir.
RMN: Are you keeping busy?
DH: I certainly am, Sir.
RMN: That's the ticket. Keep going until your hat floats.
DH: That is very sage advice, Sir.
RMN: It is. On that note, I would have to say that you-know-who must be very busy fretting over that break-in.
DH: He is, Sir. We were discussing it this morning. May I ask if he was the one who informed you?
RMN: The attorney general called me. He said, “The old girl may have her dick in the wringer.”
DH: May I be blunt, Sir?
RMN: By all means, Dwight. Why mince words? I only call you when I've been belting a few and I've got a yen for bluntness.
DH: The burglars will or will not claim credit and may or may not leak the files. Parenthetically, I would add that Media, PA, is the Siberia of file holes and that all the data in the files pre-dates your administration.
RMN: I like that.
DH: I thought you might, Sir.
RMN: Here's my fear. I'm thinking what's-her-name may be infirm to the point where she'll deploy her files on me to keep her job.
DH: You'll be reelected next November, Sir. Inauguration Day 1973 sounds like a good time to cut your losses.
RMN: I like that.
DH: I thought you might, Sir. And please let me add that should the break-in be claimed and the files go out resultantly, it will make you-know-who quite circumspect about releasing files in any sort of derogatory manner.
RMN: Dwight, you my main man.
DH: Thank you, Sir.
RMN: Per next year's election, then. The old girl has been dragging her heels on a certain front. “Black-bag job.” It's got soul as a concept, don't you think?
DH: Frankly, Sir, it's ghetto. I appreciate it that way myself.
RMN: Dwight, you're a sketch. Let's talk about that again next time.
DH: Yes, Sir.
RMN: Anything I can help you with?
DH: One thing, Sir.
RMN: I'm listening.
DH: The L.A. Office is security-fitting the file section. The agents are afraid you-know-who will show up unannounced before it's finished. Will you get me his travel schedule from someone at Justice?
RMN: Sure, Dwight. On the QT, baby. Just like all our chats.
DH: Thank you, Mr. President.
RMN: Straight ahead, kid.
(Los Angeles, 3/13/71)
S
cotty doodled.
His cubicle was three-wall-wrapped. He drew little emeralds. He added that Greek gender symbol. It meant “
Who's the Woman
?”
It was early. The night-watch shift left a mess. He connived the job. He sent his backup guys down dead-end roads. He oversaw the first forensic. They covered their tracks. The tech team got no leads off one walk-through. That meant one more to go.
They stole the Tiger Kab receipts and no more. Jack Leahy was running point, FBI-adjunct. Mr. Clean was a Fed snitch. Circle-jerk aspects overlapped.
That hidden vault. So far, unfound. The conduit. Brother Bowen, hanging in strong.
Scotty scanned a list. Fred O. telexed it. The Tiger Kab fight guests, alphabetized.
Milt C. and Fred T. Lenny Bernstein and Wilt Chamberlain. There's Sal Mineoâc/o Peeper Crutchfield. Sissy Sal was supposed to meet Macho Marsh that night.
Scotty skipped down the list. Aha: Marcus and Lavelle Bostitch.
They lived in Watts. They had a squatter's shack behind Mumar's Mosque #2. Junkies, heist guys, pedophiles. Nobel Peace Prize candidates.
The Bostitch boys bopped carless. They were legendary that way. They rode Schwinn Sting-Rays with gooseneck risers and banana seats.
The bikes were gone. The door was unlocked. The mosque Moors were loudly absorbed with Allah. Scotty walked right in.
He brought an evidence kit. He carried a pocketknife and three tiger-band cash rolls. He brought print cards, print tape, print powder and six plastic bags.
The pad stunk. It was junkie stench. Poor hygiene and suppuration. He walk-tossed the place. No guns on the premises. That meant nothing.
Two upholstered chairs, linoleum floor, one mattress. No bathroom, kitchen, cupboards or shelves.
Let's work.
Scotty slit the bottom of the mattress and tucked three cash rolls in. Scotty opened a plastic bag and sprinkled wall debris from the bank. Scotty pulled kinky hairs off a window ledge and bagged them.
He print-dusted the doorways and four touch-and-grab planes. He got two latent print sets. He card-compared them. The Bostitch boys, ten points apiece.
He tape-transferred them and secured them in print tubes. He bagged chair fibers and more hair. He bagged dirt and dust residue. He tucked a throwdown gun in a mattress slit.
The heathens were still chanting. Scotty walked by the mosque and shagged his car. A spade in a fez prayer-bowed to him. Scotty prayer-bowed him back.
Crime scene: LAPD/FBI. Yellow tape and point guards all around the bank.
Scotty badged the door guy. The guy let him in. The floors were drop-clothed. Sifting screens were stacked waist-high. Collected grit filled giant Baggies. The teller's cage reeked of Luminal. They were going for blood type. Maybe Thornton cut the killers as they cut him.
Wrong
.
Scotty walked into Mr. Clean's office and inside-locked the door. He transferred the print strips to wall surfaces and shelves. He sprinkled hair, dirt and dust. He tucked a bloody C-note under a carpet pad.
He unlocked the door and walked outside. A lunch truck was feeding the point cops. Jack Leahy was lounging in a Fed sled.
Scotty walked over. “Let me guess. The Laundryman had some connections you need to be wary of. Mr. Hoover said take a look-see.”
“In a nutshell, yes.”
“It's a mess in there. SID got nothing on the first roll. I've ordered a second.”
Jack said, “You were always thorough that way.”
Scotty smiled. “Mr. Clean deserves the best. I won money on Frazier, so I'm feeling generous.”
Jack polished his glasses. “Suspects?”
“Two male Negroes. They were at Tiger Kab for the fight. I think they followed Thornton here and jumped him.”
A jalopy rolled down the street. Two brothers clench-fisted the fuzz.
Scotty laughed. “This is starting to remind me of the Fred Hiltz job.”
Jack said, “I'll concede that.”
“You took that one over, but I won't permit it here.”
Jack said, “For now, I'll concede.”
“Hiltz was a Bureau informant. I'm thinking Mr. Clean was, too.”
Jack said, “No comment.”
Mumar's Mosque was closed for the night. The two Schwinns were outside.
Jungle rides. Mock-croc saddlebags and mud flaps. Cheater slicks and aaa-ooo-gaaah horns.
Scotty looked in the window. Ah, brothersâhow kind of you.
They were insensate. They were tourniquet-tied and nipping at Neptune. Spoons, spikes and white horse were out in plain view.
Scotty put on gloves and walked in. Marcus and Lavelle dozed in side-by-side chairs. Scotty pulled out two throwdowns. Marsh shot Mr. Clean with gun #1. Gun #2 was a dope-bust steal, circa '62.
Peace, brothers.
Scotty placed gun #1 in Marcus' right hand and laid his right forefinger on the trigger. He raised the gun and placed the barrel against Marcus' right ear. He placed his own finger over the trigger and squeezed.
The shot was loud. Marcus pitched back, dead. The bullet stayed inside his head. Scotty let his gun arm drop. The gun fell close to his hand.
Scotty placed gun #2 in Lavelle's right hand and laid his right forefinger on the trigger. He raised the gun and placed the barrel against Lavelle's right ear. He placed his own finger over the trigger and squeezed.
The shot was loud. Lavelle pitched back, dead. The bullet stayed inside his head. Scotty let his gun arm drop. The gun fell close to his hand.
Nice powder burns. Empirically correct and textbook-consistent. Nice mouth trickle. Late seepage out through their eyes.
(Los Angeles, 3/14/71)
F
BI/48770
.
Blend in. You're a worker. You'll make it fly.
He studied the crew yesterday. They wore jumpsuits and lunch-boxed it on the Fed Building lawn. Agents head-counted them in the a.m. The afternoonânix. You're just another tool-belted geek.
Clyde said the Feds got B&E'd outside Philly. It mandated a file-room blitzkrieg. Clyde said five-digit numbers were snitch codes. Shit/fuckâlet's try.
Crutch ate a salami hero. The crew guys ignored him.
It is all one
. Mr. Clean dies. Marsh with bloody hands. Scotty gets the case, junkie suicides, case closed.
A whistle blew. The crew stood up and stretched. Six guys plus him. Please, no head count.
Crutch blended in. Nobody said boo. He had a two-day growth and a painter's cap pulled low. He paint-smeared his face.
They entered the lobby. A Fed keyed the elevator. Crutch crouched between two fat Polacks. Nobody said shit.
The elevator stopped at floor 11. The Fed led them down a hallway. Dwight Holly walked by, with a clipboard. He didn't see shit.
The file section was off the main squadroom. It was airplane hangarâsize.
The Fed waved bye-bye. The crew dispersed. They went around unscrewing shelf runners. Crutch moved six aisles down and mimicked them.
He worked slow. The other guys schlepped around panels.
Now I get it. Cover the file shelves. Gain access by lock and key
.
File shelves, file banks, file rows. Chained binder directories. “CBI.” Abbreviated Fed-speak: “Confidential bureau informants.”
The real workers
worked
. Panels and lock placements went up
faaaaast
. Crutch quick-walked. Look officious now. Tighten some screws.
He walked away from the other guys. He flipped open binders. He hit sixteen file rows. Abbreviations blurred. Number 17: “CBI/00001.”
He gulped. He looked up. He counted numbers and shelves to the ceiling. Motherfuckerâthe high-4 series was up at the top.
No shelf ladders here. You've got to shimmy up.
He climbed. The shelves wobbled. He fucking monkey-grabbed, hoisted and pulled. He reached the summit. The ceiling loomed.
He crawled. He ate dust, rubber bands and age-old dead bugs. He peeked over the side and saw file tabs. He got the 4â5's, the 4â6's, the 4â7's. He stifled sneezes. The shelf shimmy-shimmied. He hit the 4â8's. He saw the red tab for the
one
.
He plucked it.
He read the first page.
The Black Pride Laundrymanâcraven Fed snitch.
He snitched heist guys exclusively. He reported to the office boss, Jack Leahy. The relationship started back in '63. The robbers' names were inked over.
It's all too close, it's all as one
. Nothing's tangentialâit's all right here in my fist.
The shelf wobbled. Crutch almost blew lunch. Robbery rat-outs. Dissemination and disinformation. It had to be.
Crutch sneezed. The shelf dipped. He almost dropped the file. A page fell out. He saw a black-inked paragraph. God spoke to him: Jack Leahy redacted Joan Rosen Klein.
(Los Angeles, Rural Mississippi, 3/15/71â11/18/71)
T
he Operation
.
They never named it. They didn't need to or want to. They never exchanged memoranda. There was no need to paper-reference their tasks. Acronyms were self-indulgent and satirical. They reeked of puerile Feds fucking the disenfranchised for kicks.
He worked his file-room job in a perfunctory manner and worked the Operation full-tilt. A Nixon aide sent him Mr. Hoover's travel list. The old girl was frail. She was traveling less. There were no planned L.A. trips this year.
His sleep was good. His nerves were sound. He chucked his booze and sleeping-pill stash. He imagined spot tails. He took evasive action. The tail cars disappeared. It was just residual fear.
The old girl trusted him. The Operation was secure. The fallback was inviolate. There was no surveillance.
He gave up the tail checks and drove place to place. He was post-crack-up now. He went task to task, un-paranoic. The Operation was incomprehensible. Nobody would suspect their goal or dispute the outcome. A paper avalanche would follow. Media preannounced it. The Event was inevitable.
Joan worked with him, task by task. She understood the level of detail required. They talked, they plotted, they built a giant paper maze. Joan refused to embellish her astonishing statement.
“
I've wanted to kill him since I was a child, and I won't tell you why.
”
He did not ask her again. He did not ask Karen. He ran more records checks on her known family members. Every file had been lost, misplaced,
diverted, destroyed or stolen. He gave up. He wasn't supposed to know. She'd tell him or she wouldn't. He found himself less curious. The Operation was theirs. Its brutal scope was their bond.
The Media break-in worked. Karen and her team stayed anonymous. She leaked files through a series of cutouts. The
Washington Post
hit on March 24. The
New York Times
and
Village Voice
followed. A hue and cry escalated. Karen attributed the leaks to the “Citizen's Committee to Investigate the FBI.” Joe Public got a gander at bland surveillance files. Jane Public got hip to COINTELPRO. Mr. Hoover made flabbergasted remarks. The prez was relieved. The files revealed only pre-Nixon chicanery.
It worked. Joan conceded the point. The event faded in and out of public play. Lefty journos kept teething on it. COINTELPRO was subtextually planted. The Event would etch the concept in blood.
