Yours truly,
A Friend
Hot potato.
The union was just off Fremont. His buzz was waning. Drop it, hex him, don’t candy-ass.
The office crew was filing out. People fast-walked to their cars. Crutch double-parked and scanned faces. He saw the woman approach an Olds 88.
He got out and sprinted at her. People ducked and went What? She turned around and saw him. He quick-read her eyes. Who’s this crazy young man?
He dropped it on her and ran around the corner. He ducked into a carpet joint and had three quick belts. It glued his shit together. He got this devil-may-care rush.
Fremont ran one way. The window overlooked the street. She had to drive by. Where’s that Rocket 88?
He waited twenty minutes and walked back to his sled. He gave the parking lot a look-see.
She was braced up against the Olds, sobbing. Her fingers were bloody. She was grabbing at the doorsill to hold herself up.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/21/70. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.
Los Angeles,
3/21/70
It happened just this morning. It was the single most shocking event of my life, both eclipsing and enhancing that day six years and one month ago. I have memorized it instant to instant and will extend the process of mindscaping it, so that I never forget.
I woke up later than usual; late fragments of a dream were passing through my head. The backdrop was an amalgam of the clubs on Central Avenue, replete with posing black militants and white hangers-ons. Benny Boles, Joan Klein and the late Jomo were in the mix; I cannot specifically recall anyone else. Music was playing—hard bop—and it faded into police-band radio crackle. I sat up in bed and realized that the pigs were parked in the driveway outside my apartment door.
I put on a robe, walked to the door and opened it. Scotty Bennett was standing there. He was wearing a tan poplin suit, a plaid bow tie and a straw porkpie hat. He handed me a bottle of Seagram’s Crown Royal with a red ribbon tied around the neck. He said precisely this: “Don’t say I never gave you anything but trouble.”
It wasn’t horrifying or intimidating or in any way erotic. Scotty smiled and said, “Let’s talk about the heist. There’s what you know and what I know. Let’s make up and make some money. Let’s get you back on LAPD.”
The doorjamb kept me upright as I went light-headed. Scotty said, “I picked up a tip. Some Commie woman wants to unload three pounds of junk on the BTA. Let’s see if we can make you a hero on that one.”
The word hero was transformative; the most vicious killer pig of his era grew a halo and angel’s wings. Scotty winked at me. I faltered at winking back and stuck out my hand. Scotty hugged me instead.
82
(Las Vegas, 3/22/70)
The Boys kept calling. Ivar Smith backstopped them. It was all anti-Red rage.
6/14 torched the sites. Prescient—the Midget just okayed four more builds. Wayne took the calls: Carlos, Santo, Sam. Terry Brundage called. Mesplede called. The rage level built. The calls stopped dead two days back.
He played along. He expressed his own faux rage. Dream State.
Wayne studied his wall graph. The Leander James Jackson box grabbed him. He stared at it. He drew connecting lines. He recalled his trip out.
The roundups were starting. He called Celia. She said his work inspired their work. Safe houses were hiding their people. La Banda would find people to interrogate and maim. There would be a fearful cost. We have to say it—belief works that way.
Airport security was threadbare. The customs crew got pulled for the Red raids. He flew out easy.
Wayne drew lines. The re-click clicked. Memory tug and loss. It clicked to Joan’s redacted file. It was a brain tweak. He got that tug and no more.
He stepped back and reframed the wall. He took in broad data. He saw a tacked-on note slip off to one side. He knew it wasn’t his.
“Dear Mrs. Hazzard.” Dipshit’s indictment. Mary Beth’s response scrawled below.
“I find this fully credible. If you had told me yourself, I might have forgiven you.”
• • •
He signed papers at his lawyer’s office. He went by the Hughes Tool Company and cashed out a bank draft. He flew to L.A. and drove to the Peoples’ Bank. Lionel Thornton let him into the vault. He bagged $1.4 million in casino skim, Tiger Kab receipts and after-hours club profits. He filled three briefcases. He called Hughes Charter and booked a Santo Domingo flight.
Trees grew upside down. Joan tossed emeralds and seeded clouds. Each raindrop was a mirror.
He saw his childhood in Peru, Indiana. He saw Dwight and Wayne Senior and the Klan in disarray. His mother walked into a raindrop. He learned chemistry at BYU. Molecular charts etched themselves green. Tree roots reversed their growth. They held his eyes and let him look in. He saw Little Rock ’57 and Dallas ’63. JFK waved good-bye. Wendell Durfee laughed. He apologized to Reginald Hazzard for not finding him.
The air melted. Moist particles produced snow. Dr. King whispered chemical equations. The world made sense for an instant. Joan rubbed emerald dust on her knife scar and watched it heal. Janice told him not to worry. The planets realigned themselves and explained physics as whim. He heard “belief works that way” and let his eyes rest on the sun.
A cab ran him to Borojol. The driver was spooked. Red alert—you could see it.
The door knocks, the traffic stops, the street roust/shakedowns. The cops on rooftops with binoculars. The cops scanning crowds and mug-shot sheets.
The cab dropped Wayne at the safe house. A window was half-cracked. He smelled blood and disinfectant and heard half a scream.
Joan appeared in the window. They looked at each other. She saw his suitcases and gestured to someone inside. The door opened. Wayne turned that way. A young man grabbed the suitcases and ran back in.
Wayne looked in the window. Joan placed her hand on the glass inside. Wayne placed his hand over hers. The glass was warm. Their eyes held. Joan walked away first.
A cab dropped him at the river. He crossed the bridge into Haiti at dusk. A Tonton man recognized him—ça va, boss.
Wayne walked into a village. Masked revelers danced through a graveyard. Men sat propped up on tombstones. They were motionless. Le poudre zombi—goblets rolled off their laps.
The revelers wore machetes in scabbards. Their masks were blood-smeared. The air was scent-thick: reptile powder and poultry musk.
Wayne walked into a tavern. Bizango-sect banners created a mood. He attracted a range of looks. He pointed to bottles and created a concoction he’d never tried before. The barman built his drink. A green foam burned his eyes as he drank it. He left much too much money on the bar.
Two graveyards bisected the next tavern stretch. Wayne walked across them and read headstones in French. His ancestors reburied themselves under his feet. He saw a zombified man convulse. He tasted the gunpowder and tree-frog liver in his drink.
Masked revelers followed him. A dog wearing a pointed hat bit him and ran off. He eyeball-tracked constellations. He fluttered his lids and made meteors arc.
The click revealed itself. Thomas Frank Narduno, dead at the Grapevine. Joan’s known associate. A Joan-to-Dwight motive yet to play out.
He entered a tavern and ordered a potion. Six bokurs watched him drink it. Two men offered blessings. Four men waved amulets and hexed him. He left much too much money on the bar.
He walked outside. The sky breathed. He felt the moon’s texture. Craters became emerald mines.
An alleyway appeared. A breeze carried him down it. Leaves stirred and sent rainbows twirling. Three men stepped out of a moonbeam. They wore cross-draw scabbards. They had bird wings where their right arms used to be.
Wayne said, “Peace.”
They pulled their machetes and cut him dead right there.
83
(Los Angeles, 3/25/70)
“BTA scored some smack. It was an old-prison-buddy deal. Ezzard Jones put it to
gether.”
Dwight said, “Keep going.”
“It came out of nowhere. A bunch of Panthers turned tail to Oakland after the December thing. A big connection got stiffed. His guys are willing to lay the stuff off on consignment.”
The Carolina Pines on Sunset. The 8:00 a.m. clientele: drowsy whores and Hollywood High teachers.
Dwight lit a cigarette. “Keep going.”
Marsh twirled his fork. “BTA’s got a pound and a half. The funny thing is that the lay-off guy dumped an equal amount on MMLF. I don’t know how it went down, but it was some kind of consensus. ‘Let’s have a powwow so our shit don’t go bad, brother.’ I’m supposed to mediate a ‘summit meeting’ next week.”
Fucking Joan. Stone-brilliant. She spread the wealth and doubled the indictments.
Dwight blew a Joan-style smoke ring. It came out blurry and dispersed too quick.
“Do it. Make it happen as fast as you can.”
Dwight went back to the drop-front. It was musty. He opened the shades and cracked the windows. He pulled a telex out of the tray.
D.H.,
The Dominican embassy contacted me a few moments ago. Regretfully, I must inform you that Wayne Tedrow was murdered in Haiti sometime within this past week. The crime appears to have been motivated by political and racial grievance. The body was disposed of on the Dominican side of the Plaine du Massacre. Pieces of paper scrawled with garish symbols and anti-American slogans were found in the victim’s pockets. Please assess this situation per the victim’s dealings with RMN, Mr. Hughes and our Italian friends, et al. Call me upon receipt of this communiqué.
JEH
The dark room helped. The walls enclosed him. Street noise was steady. He ran the window unit and leveled out the hum.
He pressed himself into small spaces. His desk cubbyhole and the closet felt safe. He tucked up his legs and rode out the cramps. He covered his head for more darkness. He threw his gun down a heating shaft so he wouldn’t shoot himself. His shirt was soaked from sobbing all wrapped up.
Time drilled a hole someplace. He dumped his booze and pills down the shaft so he wouldn’t run to sleep. The phone rang and rang. It was all gunshots. He covered his ears. The phone kept ringing. He crawled out of his nest and threw the phone on the floor. The receiver was close, the line crackled, he heard her voice.
The hole expanded. He grabbed the phone. He got out “Yes?” and “You never called me here before.” His voice was Wayne’s.
The line fuzzed. He lost her voice. The line cleared. He got her again.
“Balaguer’s rounding up and torturing people. Wayne bombed the sites. Balaguer’s making a statement.”
Dwight coughed. The line fritzed and died. He cracked the shades and got sight back. His eyes swirled. He called his L.A. patch-call guy. A recorded message rolled. He asked for a callback: one minute with The Man.
The light hurt. He pulled the shades back tight. Blackout curtains and time travel: Wayne with his first chemistry set and his Scottish immigrant grandfather.
Peru, Indiana. Spring ’48. Wayne mixes powders and builds a rainbow.
The phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. A flunky said something. Dwight wiped his eyes. The line clicked. Richard Nixon said, “You’ve got balls to call me out of the blue.”
“Wayne Tedrow’s dead. Balaguer’s going nuts and rounding up people for some shit that Wayne pulled. We all go back with Wayne, Sir. With all due respect, this has to stop now.”
Nixon whistled. “Sure, Dwight. I’ll call the little prick. Jesus, those fucking Nevada Mormons are crazy.”
84
(Santo Domingo, 3/26/70)
Street view, mirror view. He couldn’t stop looking.
His suite was penthouse-high. The vista was wide. The fuzz kicked Red ass across a biiiiiig plane. The show was a week running. Roundups, hassles, brawls. Skirmishes up the ying-yang.
The window show got to him. His carved-up back, ditto. The 6/14 brand was a keeper. The scar was permanent. He sort of dug it. It astonished him and made him look.
Crutch walked mirror to window. He was shirtless, he was sweaty. Heart pings—bip, bip, bip.
Ivar Smith just called him. The Crutchfield hex worked. Some voodoo niggers whacked Wayne Tedrow’s nigger-lover ass.
His head hurt. His vessels vibrated. It was a top-ten Richter-scale migraine. L.A. scared him back here. L.A. was worse. He read the signs: Dwight Holly and Marsh Bowen had some fucked-up dope thing going.
Tiger Krew dope. His dope. One fucking obvious conclusion.
Crutch stared out the window. Shit perked far and near. It was an ant show. The street was an ant farm. Cops and Commies skittered.
Sirens blared. It was earache-loud and stereophonic. The sound felt citywide. Spic ant groups froze.
He walked to the mirror. His scar was pink and creased. 6/14, por vida.
That heist lead torqued him: Leander James Jackson as Laurent-Jean Jacqueau. He located Jackson in coontown and spot-tailed him. He learned buppkes. He spot-tailed Marsh Bowen. Paydirt: Marsh meets Scotty Bennett at Tommy Tucker’s Playroom.
Hated rivals—très chummy. Say what?
Crutch walked to the window. His head hurt. He sweated. He panted and fogged up the glass.
He wiped it clear. He blinked and squinted. The ant show was gone.
Coffee sounded good. Bop to Gazcue and slurp java. Re-calibrate and re-cogitate. Groove on the hex. Recap and reconsider the case.
Crutch strolled. He cut across the polo field. He scoped women at the paddock. He hit Calle Bolívar and made for the Malecón.
No fuzz, no ant farm. That siren blare was some kind of all-clear.
His head still hurt. The pain re-circulated and stung. He heard a car idling behind him. He heard foot slaps on pavement. He saw shadows up ahead.
Pile drive:
Two guys behind him, two guys up front. They’ve got bandanna masks, one’s slipping off, it’s Felipe Gómez-Sloan.
They slammed him. He flailed. He got clotheslined, he got rabbit-punched, he got tape slapped on his mouth. He got an arm free and ripped Canestel’s mask off. The street flipped, the sky hit him, he saw Tiger Kar.
They dumped him in the trunk and threw the lid down. He pulled the tape off. He kicked at the latch point and gagged on stale air. Tiger Kar peeled out. He heard backseat banging. The trunk lining ripped and let air and light in. A knife blade stabbed and carved space.
There’s more light. There’s a hand. There’s Froggy’s pit-bull tattoos.
Froggy yelled. It was word bouillabaisse. Cochon, pédé, putain Rouge. “L’héroïne” en français, “cocksucker” in English.
The blade kept stabbing. Crutch squirmed away from it and kicked out. He hit Froggy’s hand. The blade ripped his tennis shoe. He contorted and pulled his feet back.
Fumes filled the trunk—five fuckers smoking. Crutch saw Froggy’s eyes in the trunk hole.
“It was not 6/14. It was Dwight Holly. There was a security camera in the lobby at the hotel. The camera was equipped with a timer. It cannot be anything else.”
The Cubans tiger-hissed. Saldívar blew smoke in the trunk. Crutch gagged and kicked at his face.
Froggy laughed. Crutch squirmed against the truck latch. Cigarettes bombarded him. He swatted out the coals.
He prayed. His headache lodged behind his eyes and white-bordered things. Froggy said, “The bombings have greatly upset Sam and Carlos. Sam and Carlos do not know of your part in this, although I have told them you may well be soft on Communists. I doubt that President Balaguer will risk another round of construction and potential sabotage. Sam and Carlos think you should embellish your anti-Communist credentials.”
Tiger Kar zoomed. It felt like the full-bore Autopista. Crutch prayed. He zoomed through the psalms and the Gloria Patria. His head pounded. His eyes burned. He saw Jesus and Martin Luther at Wittenberg. Smoke filled the trunk. Cigarette butts followed. Tiger hisses, tiger growls, mugging faces at the hole.
&
nbsp; Pariguayo, pariguayo, pariguayo.
Crutch vomited and gasped. Road bumps sent Tiger Kar swerving. Crutch pressed his face to the trunk hole and sucked air in. Gómez-Sloan jabbed a cigarette at his nose.
He screamed and rolled away from the hole. He heard pariguayo, pariguayo, pariguayo. Tiger Kar braked and brodied. The doors slammed. The trunk lid popped and let I-see-Jesus light in. Hands grabbed him and placed his feet on the ground.
It’s a shit-ass place. It’s a garbage dump with six shacks adjacent.
Paper refuse and mulch. Fifty tons of ground something. Bones poking out of an ash mound. Wiggles inside it—gator tails snapping through.
Pariguayo, pariguayo, pariguayo.
The sun burned his headache out through his eyes. The grabbing hands held him and walked him. Somebody strapped a big weighty thing on his back. The thing had a hose, a nozzle and a trigger. Somebody put a spout thing in his hands.
Pariguayo, pariguayo, pariguayo.
It was L.A. or the D.R. It was the Boyle Heights dump or Watts swampland or some 6/14 deal. The sun melted the spout thing into his hands. Other hands pushed him to an open-front shack. Two dozen people were bound and tape-gagged.
Black people. Men, women and kids—bone-thin and squirming. Pus-packed sores. Yellow eyes jumping and glazing.
The spout thing smelled like gasoline. The yellow eyes talked to him. It was L.A. or Haiti. The people were darktown riffraff or voodoo lords. The psalms kept replaying.
Hands steadied him. Hands flexed his hands on the spout thing. Clouds doused the sun for a moment.
He stepped forward and turned around. He saw all five of them and got their names straight for the first time. The sun re-eclipsed and winked at him. He tapped the trigger.