“Don’t tell me. If I shoot somebody, there’s lots more where that came from.”
Dwight said, “That’s right.”
Bob said, “Wooo, boy.”
Dwight lit a cigarette. “You get fifty thousand. You take out the target and the fall guy right there. It’s two easy shots. That part doesn’t worry me at all. It’s bringing the two together. I’ll abduct the fall guy and position him if I have to, but I’d rather not.”
Bob picked his nose. “The target guy’s a big deal?”
Dwight winked. Bob said, “Talk’s gonna bubble.”
“I want it to. There’s a subtext here.”
“Who’s the target?”
Dwight laughed. “You’ll know him when you see him.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/6/71. Extract from the privately held journal of Karen Sifakis.
Los Angeles,
February 6, 1971
I’m going through with it, whatever it abuts, facilitates or foreshadows on Joan’s and Dwight’s end. I am taking the risk of implementing violence. I feel loyal to Joan and am grateful to her for the change she has created in Dwight. We have traveled a long road together. It would not be bragging for me to assert that my pacifism has mitigated Joan’s violent actions over the years. It is surely true that her brash being has sporadically brought me closer to God and non-violent confrontation. She is of me and I am of her and Dwight is of both of us. There is deep alchemy in where we connect and where we diverge. I continue to trust in our dialogue as much as I fear potential outcomes. My horrible fight with Dwight has forced me to admit the arrogance and speciousness at the core of my moral logic. The fire of his conversion has convinced me of the necessity of this risk.
Dwight now knows the length and breadth of my relationship with Joan, if not the specific details. Joan has laid hints, or has revealed the friendship in looks and asides that the brilliant and brilliantly paranoic Dwight has seized upon and brought to mental certainty. I have lied to Dwight by omission; I am now certain that Joan used me in order to get to him; now Dwight and Joan lie to me by withholding the details of their “Operation.” I am fully culpable for the creation of the Dwight-Joan bond. I should have told Dwight that Joan has deployed fake identities and that they have cloaked much of her subversion. I should have told Dwight that Joan had planned a series of armed robberies back east. I should have told him that we were in Algeria together and that I held a prayer vigil for the French paratroopers that Joan and her comrades ambushed outside Béchar. I should have told him that I was part of the 6/14 invasion, in a non-violent planning role. I did not tell him these things, because I ghoulishly desired the conflagration of Them, because I wanted to unleash Them to fulfill some buried rage in Me, to inflict Them on the circumspect, ideologically compromised, radically chic and ever-so-careful world I live in with the unique fury I knew They would evolve.
Now I must live out my creator’s role in this, play my supporting part, damn the vicissitudes of radical lifestyle as I pray for peace. I will break and enter, steal files, explicate the file-hoarding practices of an oppressive bureaucracy and hope that a much-anticipated boxing match between two gifted black fighters does not push my actions to back-page status. Irony: Dwight has called the break-in a “media event.” The Records Center is in Media, Pennsylvania.
The fight with Dwight took place here in my home; Dina and Ella heard the flare-up and storming-out conclusion. It was an altercation I spawned from my own hubris. I overestimated my influence on Dwight and belittled Joan’s influence. I was shrill, petty, jealous and philosophically unsound. Dwight came at me with a convert’s and converted lover’s fury. “You blow up things, you destroy symbols, you attack sympathetic portrayals of institutions forty fucking times removed,” he said to me. “It allows you to feel smug while people suffer and die, you’ll continue to do it until a chunk of exploding plaster from a Confederate monument puts out a black kid’s eye, then you’ll come back here and mope and pray and figure out something spectacular and Quaker-correct to do to put yourself back in the game you so dearly love, which is violent by its own basic nature.”
And he was right.
And then he said, “And do not ever patronize Joan Rosen Klein, because you gave her to me.”
And he was right. And so I will go forth with the task that he and Joan have assigned.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 2/21/71. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.
En route to Boston,
2/21/71
I have been traveling and tracking potential leads since my last meeting with Scotty. My accumulated work-leave time has served as a cover. I have allegedly been on a cross-country auto trip. I have now laboriously hand-checked the passport acceptance files and reject files in New Orleans, St. Petersburg and Milwaukee, with Lynn, Massachusetts, upcoming. These are the cities that Scotty has deemed to be the most lax, permissive and incompetent in their passport-issuing practices. I have indulged the Bent in those cities and have reveled in the freedom of cavorting in nonlocal-celeb locales. Reginald Hazzard was not issued a passport in those cities and was not to be found in the reject files. His photograph—with and without medically addressed burn scars—was not attached to any of the thousands of application cards I have scanned.
So, I’ve been traveling and enjoying my time outside of L.A. I’ve been calling Scotty every few days, to report “no luck.” I’ve been mindscaping, having very vivid dreams and pondering Scotty’s “Cherchez la femme” remark a great deal.
It was a woman who ratted me out to Scotty. Dwight Holly reacted strangely when Scotty mentioned that fact to him. I’m becoming convinced that the woman is Joan Rosen Klein.
Joan cultivated me in late ’68 and early ’69. I was Dwight Holly’s infiltrator, and I knew that Mr. Holly had an informant in play. Joan was very worldly and seemed overqualified for the low-rent black-militant world. She was very persistent in her approach of me, she may have been trying to seduce me, but her finely tuned predator’s sense told her she’d have no luck there. It all felt mindscapingly right to me, up until the moment I ran into Junior Jefferson, shortly before I left on this trip.
Junior was gobbling chicken and waffles at Tommy Tucker’s Playroom and was grousing about the fate of Tiger Kab. First, the Boys buy Black Cat Cab away from him and rename it after that faggoty animal. Then the late Wayne Tedrow embezzled all the Tiger Kab cash and the Boys sold the biz to Freddy Otash. So, Freddy fires him and 86’s him from the premises. Now, Tiger Kab is the swingingest place on Planet Earth, they’re showing the Ali-Frazier fight on closed-circuit TV—and he can’t come.
We continued to commiserate. We talked up the “Blastout” with a certain wonderment. Junior said, “You was a fuckin’ FBI pig-snitch the whole time.” I admitted that was true. Junior said he was cool with it and very casually mentioned that he saw Dwight Holly and that “Joan Jew-Commie babe” holding hands at a chink joint on Pico last week.
Cherchez la femme.
Lynn is a dingy shoe-factory town amid scores of dingy towns of the same size, and I found the customs office to be dingy as I walked in. A florid Irishman was working the desk. He almost shit when a well-dressed black man flashed an LAPD sergeant’s badge. I’ll credit him with wit, though. After I explained the purpose of my visit, he said, “You don’t look like Jack Webb, Sergeant,” and led me back to the file stacks.
It was the sixth card in the fourth box I went through. The photo was of Reginald Hazzard, with a severely burn-scarred face. The name beside it was ink-smudged and unreadable. The routing stamp on the back was crystal-clear.
Reginald was granted a visa to travel to Haiti, 6/11/64.
It came to me instantly: I will not tell Scotty this.
94
(Los Angeles, 3/1/71)
Scotty said, “I got the bread.”
Fred O. said, “He robbed a liquor store. He’s got expertise in that regard.”
Fred Turentine said, “I hate fruit bugs. The audio tracks are unsavo
ry.”
Barone’s Pizza on Ventura. A noted Valley grease spill. They had a private room. It featured photos of notable wops.
The beer was scald-your-teeth cold. The pizza was burn-your-mouth hot. Scotty tossed the envelope on the table. The Crutchfield kid had ants in his pants. He kept scratching his balls.
Scotty poured brews. “Let’s talk about results. I second-mortgaged my house, so I’m not looking for big delays or fuckups.”
Fred O. knife-shaved the foam off his glass. Suds flew on the floor.
“I ran a fruit shake for Dwight Holly a while back. He’s a white man. We could use him for some added oomph.”
Scotty said, “No. Dwight and I clashed on his Fed thing. I don’t want him to know about this.”
Fred T. shagged a slice with anchovies. Ooooh, that’s hot.
“I’d just as soon avoid the guy. I heard he’s working the file slot at the L.A. Office. He had some kind of crack-up.”
Scotty sipped beer. “I want vivid shit. Snapshots, film, varied sex acts. The kid brings Sal in. Sal and Marsh get a hot thing going. I want fuck-and-suck action with different backdrops.”
The kid said, “I’ll locate Sal.”
Fred T. said, “Hey, he speaks.”
Fred O. said, “Draw your shades. The peeping panther is loose.”
Scotty panther-growled and winked. Canned music hit the room. Dino warbled, “That’s amore.”
“Vivid shit. Remember, it’s not a cash shakedown. It’s a threat if push comes to shove.”
The crew was good. The pizza was shitty. His beer-burned teeth still stung.
Marsh was back. His customs-office tour went poof. The passport angle was dead. Reggie Hazzard: back to square one.
The gas gauge hit empty. Scotty eased off the freeway. There’s a Richfield with a phone booth up ahead.
He pulled in. He told the pump jockey full service. He dumped his chump change in the phone slots and called Marsh.
“Hello?”
“The Reggie bit is dead for now. I’m getting frustrated.”
“That’s two of us.”
“I’m thinking we should brace Lionel Thornton.”
“I don’t disagree.”
Scotty rubbed his teeth. “Be less equivocal. You won the fucking Medal of Valor. You’re Ramar of the Jungle now.”
Marsh laughed. “You’re right. We should do it.”
“When?”
“March 8. Thornton launders the Tiger Kab money. They’re showing the Ali fight. Thornton will be there and take the money back to the bank.”
Scotty said, “I dig it. We’ll grab him en route.”
95
(Los Angeles, 3/4/71)
Fruit loop:
He’d hit the Manhole, the Cockpit, the Anvil, the Tradesman, the Forge. It was Creeps-ville. Sicko Sids ogled his booty. Amyl-nitrate poppers, leather, bare chests in chain mail.
Sal was never home. Sal habituated homo hives and all-nite coffee shops. Pancake loop: the Pines, Arthur J.’s, Biff’s Char-Broil.
Crutch drove back to the Klondike. It was Sal’s home base. The barman cashed his residual checks. Sal got his regular schlong there. He was banging the owner, two busboys and the fry cook.
Crutch double-parked out front. Lounging fags swooned for his kab. Lenny Bernstein walked out with two sailors. Fags called sailors “sea food.”
Lenny waved to Crutch. Crutch waved to Lenny. Crutch thought, It all started here.
Summer ’68. Dr. Fred hires him. Find me Gretchen Farr. His case is almost three years old. It might be breaking.
Fingerprints. Joan touched one of Reggie Hazzard’s books. That’s validated. A second person touched the book and Sonny’s envelope. Good guess: Reggie H. A third person touched the envelope. Print confirmed: Lionel Thornton.
Question:
Does Reggie forward the emeralds to the black folks in need?
Answer:
Probably, yes.
Reggie survived the heist. Reggie had a portion of the cash and the emeralds. Reggie doesn’t live in L.A. Reggie’s elsewhere or Wayne would have found him. Reggie’s secretive. L.A. postmarks might attract heat. Reggie’s long gone.
A biiiiiig lead—now cluster-fucked by the fruit squeeze.
Crutch watched the door. Rock Hudson walked out with Arthur-Arlene Johannsson. Arthur-Arlene pushed Dilaudid and maryjane brownies. Chick Weiss did all his divorces. The wives paid alimony. You married a drag queen? Fuck you.
Rock waved to Crutch. Crutch waved to Rock. A Tiger kab pulled up. Phil Irwin drove. Chick Weiss rode shotgun. Arthur-Arlene pushed Rock in the back. His pressed-hair wig was askew.
Crutch twirled his red flag. Joan was gone. He couldn’t find her. He got a she’s-in-L.A. gestalt anyway. L.A. was L.A. L.A. was the Joan Zone. He tailed Dwight Holly twice. Dwight might be Joan’s lover. Dwight was tail-savvy and lost him.
There’s Sal. He’s got Natalie Wood and a butch bitch in tow. Natalie was a show lez. She muff-munched at Hollywood parties. Clyde rescued her from a dyke slave den, circa ’60.
Crutch whistled. Sal caught it and walked over. Natalie and the dom dyke French-kissed. Two limp-wristed lover boys clapped.
Sal leaned in the kab. “Don’t tell me. Clyde’s got a rope job.”
“Not exactly.”
“No girls. We tried that once, remember?”
Crutch said, “Freddy Otash. I know he’s got something on you, so it’s not like you can say no.”
Sal sighed. His spit curl wiggled. Crutch popped the door. Sal got in and lit a Kool menthol. Crutch smelled the hash/mint blend.
He pulled around the corner and parked. Sal said, “I hope he’s hung.”
“You get three and a half.”
Sal toked his quasi-joint down to the filter. Sal did his doe-eyed thing.
“We’ve been here before. I’ve parked with lots of men, but with you it wasn’t the least romantic.”
Crutch said, “Don’t start with me.”
“Believe me, I’m not.”
“The mark’s a guy named Marshall Bowen. He’s that cop who’s half-assed famous.”
Sal groaned. “Another spade. With Freddy, it’s always a spade. I like dark meat, but not as a steady diet.”
Crutch popped the glove box and pulled out his flask. Sal grabbed it and snatched a quick hit.
“So, sweetie. Did you ever find the erstwhile Gretchen Farr?”
Crutch re-grabbed the flask. “No. Close, but no cigar.”
Sal grabbed it back. He took a hit and re-passed it. Crutch took a hit. Sal re-grabbed it and held it in his lap.
“I haven’t seen her, either. Gretchie was strictly fly-by-night, in her own unique way.”
Crutch grabbed the flask. Sal relinquished it, reluctant.
“You told me everything you knew, right?”
“Well …”
“Come on, man.”
“Well …”
Crutch balled his fists. Sal went oooo, I’m scared. Crutch drained the flask. Sal rubbed his thumbs and forefingers. Crutch laid out a yard. Sal held up two fingers. Crutch re-dipped his wallet and re-laid him.
Sal cranked the seat back and stared at the headliner. He snuggled and futzed with his spit curl.
“Well … you know our Gretchie’s MO. She fucked strings of men, borrowed bread from them and disappeared. Are we up-to-date now, sweetie?”
Crutch nodded. “Yeah. You introduced her to guys, but you can’t remember their names. She was always careful not to bang guys in the same social circle, so they couldn’t compare notes.”
Sal nodded. “That’s riiiiiiight.”
Crutch punched his seat bolster. Sal jiggled. It made him laaaaaugh.
“You don’t scaaaare me, Crutchy. And, frankly, I don’t believe all those silly rumors about those Communists you killed.”
A headache freight-trained him. Behind the eyes, a beaut. He dug out his aspirin and dry-popped three. Keep it zipped/do not fucking blow this.
S
al kicked off his sandals and toe-curled the dash. Miss Froufrou had big, smelly feet.
“So, right before we talked about her the first time, I saw Gretchie at a party. I didn’t tell you about it because it all seemed so unreal.”
“And?”
“Well … Gretchie said there was this chick named María, also known as ‘Tattoo.’ She bought her way out of the ‘book of the dead,’ she betrayed “the Cause,” but she ‘did penance.’ Believe me, none of it made the leeeeast bit of sense to this girl, until Gretchie told me that María was coming to L.A., she was ‘wild,’ could I set her up with some movie-biz guys? That was more my language, so I said I’d ask around, which I did not do, because Gretchie owed me money for some referrals I gave her, but she never paid me, so where was the incentive if she was just going to rip me off again? Soooo, it all just went away. Gretchie never mentioned María again, but she sort of paid me for the referrals. She gave me this teeny little emerald and this herb stash. It was Haitian dope, and it was a bummer.”
Deep breath now.
Sal said, “Really, dear heart. Have you ever heard such fantasia?”
96
(Los Angeles, 3/6/71)
Print work and ink work. Get the details.
Homo napkin notes. Fake diary excerpts. Print transfers to fag porn novels and propaganda texts.
The fallback was quiet. Dwight worked alone. He bar-hopped last night. He hit the Jaguar, the Tradesman and the Falcon’s Lair. He laid down dollar bills and snatched the napkins. The fruits smelled fuzz en masse.
He printed herky-jerky. “Love your hair!”
“Anytime, sweet” and a phone-number smudge. “I saw you on TV!!!! Can’t believe I saw you here!”
Varied print styles. Crinkly paper. Pocket debris, lifestyle minutae.
“The Hard and the Hung” by Lance Greekman. “AmeriKKKan Gestapo” by Richard T. Saltzman, Ph.D. “Blow the Man Down” and “Semen Demon.” Dissertations on Mr. Hoover’s war on Dr. King.