Thornton said, “Fuck your mother. White-trash, peckerwood scum.”
Wall knocks started up. Marsh swung hard and fast. More dust and mortar shards blew. More mulch fallout settled.
Marsh kept it up. Thornton spat dust-thick blood. Scotty sat down and shut his eyes. He was all-over ache.
The banging stopped. Marsh went, “Wooooooooo!” He ran over. Scotty kept his eyes shut. The lids weighed ten thousand pounds apiece.
“It’s a clip file, brother. It goes back to spring ’64. You’ve got the clips on the beneficiaries and a list of their names and addresses. It’s History, man. There’s the families of some guys who got lynched in Mississippi, the church girls from Birmingham, this woman who lost her son in the Watts riot.”
Scotty opened his eyes. Marsh was cradling paper scrolls and news clips. Thornton gritted his mouth. His teeth were gone. It was a gum-to-gum grit.
Marsh dropped the paper load. It fell short of a blood spill. The chilled air fluttered it.
“Hundreds, partner. Police-shooting victims, sick people, protesters shot down south. You’ve got Mary Beth Hazzard and her dead husband all the way up to ‘Ex-Champ Liston on Skids.’ ”
Scotty love-tapped the Laundryman. “Tell me the combination.”
Thornton shook his head.
Scotty said, “Are the emeralds on the premises?”
Thornton said, “Fuck you.” Marsh grabbed his right thumb and broke it.
THAT’S a scream—ten seconds long.
Scotty said, “Tell me how well you know Reginald Hazzard.” Thornton said, “Fuck you.” Marsh grabbed his right pinkie and broke it.
THAT’S a shriek—twelve seconds long.
Scotty said, “Are the emeralds on the premises? Do you send them out? Are they sent to you to send? Is Reginald overseas somewhere? Who else is involved in all of this?”
Thornton said, “Fuck you.”
Marsh grabbed his left thumb and broke it.
Screams and shrieks. Earsplitting shit—a full minute.
Scotty pulled out his confession flask. Marsh grabbed Thornton’s hair and jerked. Thornton opened up wide. Thornton sucked like he wanted it. His eyes said Refill.
Sure, Boss. It’s on the house.
Thornton retched and kept it down. Scotty checked his watch. One minute to let it seeeeeep.
Thornton flushed and flexed his hands. Thornton kneaded fucked-up body kinks. Liftoff at forty-three seconds.
“I don’t know where Reggie is. I get mail drops from overseas. They’re sent under mail cover from different locations. I forward the emeralds, but they come to me through a cutout.”
“Cutout”—woooo—mother dog!
Scotty said, “Name the ‘cutout.’ ”
Thornton coughed. “I don’t know her name.”
Scotty said, “Her?”
Marsh said, “Describe her.”
Thornton dry-coughed. “White, in her forties, glasses. Dark hair with gray patches.”
Marsh did a double take. Scotty read it. Brother, I knows you.
Thornton wet-coughed. Blood dripped down his chin.
“Where’s the vault?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Give me the combination?”
“I’m not going to.”
“Put this thing together for us. We’ve got time to listen.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Explain the business code in the ledger.”
“I’m not going to.”
Marsh flexed his sap gloves. Scotty jerked his arms back.
“Go in his office and get his address book. It’s in the top right-hand drawer.”
Thornton leaned back and trembled. Marsh ran off, scanning his penlight. Scotty checked Thornton’s handcuffs. His wrists were ratchet-gouged deep.
Marsh ran back. Scotty skimmed the book name by name. They read by penlight. Marsh hovered over him. “A” to “K”—two women. Janice Altschuler, April Kostritch. A tweaker at “L”—SAC John Leahy/FBI #48770.
Two more women: Helen Rugert and Sharon Zielinski. Cutouts? Basic vibe: no.
Scotty tossed the book. Marsh said, “Altschuler, Kostritch, Rugert, Zielinski.”
Thornton hack-coughed. “Those women are city council staffers and lawyers. I told you, I don’t know the cutout’s name.”
Scotty cracked his knuckles. “Where do you call her?”
“I don’t. She calls me.”
Marsh picked the book up and thumbed through it. Scotty cracked his knuckles loud, upside Thornton’s face.
“Why is Jack Leahy’s name in your book?”
“We’re friends. We play golf.”
“Are you an FBI informant? Is 48770 your confidential Bureau number?”
“No, we play golf!”
Scotty slapped him. Thornton thrashed his head. Scotty wiped blood and snot on his pant leg.
“Are you a confidential Bureau informant?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever know or work with the late Dr. Fred Hiltz?”
“The fucking ‘Hate King’? Why would I?”
Truth serum—I’ll buy it.
“Who do you snitch to Jack?”
“Ghetto scum, man. Dope-pushers and Panther-type fools.”
Marsh dropped the address book. Scotty penlight-signaled him. Marsh signaled him back. They got each other’s eyes. They telepathized.
Scotty said, “Where’s the vault, Mr. Thornton?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Marsh said, “What haven’t you told us that you should have told us in the name of full disclosure?”
Thornton laughed. “Man, you are nothing but a nigger full of fourdollar words.”
Scotty said, “Please take us to the vault.”
“I’m not going to.”
Marsh said, “Where are the emeralds?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Scotty shrugged.
Marsh shrugged.
They penlight-drilled Thornton’s face. They got a big funnel target. Marsh pulled a throwdown piece and capped him.
98
(Los Angeles, 3/8/71)
Sassy Sal loved soul food. He dive-bombed the post-fight buffet and out-snarfed the brothers. He was reefer-ripped. He was libido-lashed. He wolfed chicken wings and grooved low-life maleness. Marsh Bowen was missing. Crutch wanted Sal to see him. Sal’s job: kickstart their vibe.
The party poked on. The re-hash ran sans pithy perception. Panther pedantry. Fractious Frazierites and mongoloid Muslims.
Fools milked the moment. The cover price included chow and a dope smorgasbord. Big Mama’s Kitchen catered. Fred O. supplied pharmaceuticals. On-site consumption raged. Geeks crawled into Tiger kabs and passed out.
Where’s Marsh?
Crutch yawned. He was nerve-numb. His re-hash ran rampant. Tattoo wants to meet movie men. She’s been de-hexed. The envelope prints: possibly Reggie Hazzard’s, for sure Lionel Thornton’s.
Sal noshed collard greens. Crutch yawned anew. He’d been reading. His new kick: chemistry and left-wing dialectic.
He was in his Reggie Hazzard head. He sent Mary Beth another file-request letter and got no answer. He was reading Reggie’s books. He performed some simple experiments, per instructions. He liquefied two powders and blew up a trash can. He learned about United Fruit in Guatemala. He went with the narrative. Good guy/bad guy roles got reversed. He got eyestrain. He started seeing RED.
Marsh walked into the hut. He looked shivery-shaky. What’s that trouser stain?
Sal noticed him. Sal made an ooo-la-la face. Marsh walked back to the can. Crutch tailed him. Marsh left the door cracked.
Marsh washed his hands. Dark smudges went light red and pink. He doused his shirt cuffs and wrung the fabric. Crutch smelled blood.
Marsh wiped his face. Marsh pulled out a pen and wrote on his left arm. Crutch squinted and caught it.
FBI/48770.
99
(Media, 3/8/71)
/>
Resident Agency. A two-room records drop. One office in a four-story building.
Media was Snoresville. A trolley ran twelve miles to Philly. The front door was made for thin-head pry bars.
It’s 11:49 p.m. The world’s abuzz: Frazier takes Ali.
Dwight parked on a side street. He had a near-diagonal view. He saw the front door and the office windows.
Karen ran him through it yesterday. They discussed outcomes.
His take: Mr. Hoover will stonewall it. That meant newspaper leaks. Go to the biiiiiiiig dailies. Include documents. Tweak some muckraking journos. Let it build on its own. Leak the file pages through cutouts. Invent a name for a lefty group. Claim the B&E under their flag.
Joan disagreed. Her take: we’re robbing the big revelation. His take: this is the prelude and primer. The Media files are bland. They detail prosaic hassles and routine surveillance. The juicy shit is elsewhere. Our operation will reveal it. The post-Hoover FBI cannot stonewall it. Media will have exposited the term COINTELPRO. Fed-speak will distort the truth. I will tell the world what it really means. The Bureau cannot regroup post-hit. Media will have created a file hue and cry. Obfuscation will not work post-hit. I will be found. I will break ranks. I will step forth to testify.
Dwight held up binoculars. A van entered his sight line.
Four people got out: two men, two women. They dressed like middle-aged squares. The women carried bulging purses stuffed with laundry bags. Karen wore a suburban-mom pantsuit.
They had his dupe key. They slow-walked to the front door and unlocked it. Karen pick-gouged the lock housing to simulate a B&E.
They shut the door. It stayed dark. Penlight bips reflected. Take the back stairs. Don’t risk the lift.
Dwight checked his watch. It hit midnight. He watched the four windows. A half minute elapsed. Penlight beams strafed.
A car passed the building. Late-model Merc, dud mom and dad, the country club set. Pops ran the radio. Dwight heard “Ali.”
The beams kept strafing. The windowpanes flickered. A black & white passed the building. Two fat cops yawned.
Dwight counted watch minutes. The second hand crawled. The windows stayed dark for a forty-eight-count. Okay, that’s it.
He watched the lobby. There they are. The laundry bags are bulging. Go out the door. Get the van and take off.
The other three walked ahead. Karen stood on the sidewalk and faced him. He kissed his fingers and touched the windshield. Karen raised a clenched fist.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/12/71. Los Angeles Herald Express article.
SHOCK WAVES FROM SOUTHSIDE ROBBERY-MURDER
COMPLEX PORTRAIT OF VICTIM EMERGES FROM INVESTIGATION
Lionel D. Thornton, 51, the president of the Peoples’ Bank of South Los Angeles, died a horrible death Monday night. Returning from a viewing of the Ali-Frazier boxing match at a popular local taxicab stand, he was waylaid outside the bank and forced inside. He was subsequently robbed of his cab-stand receipts, tortured and killed. Preliminary investigation by the Los Angeles Police Department has revealed that the robber-killer or killers went through the bank in a fit of rage, perhaps looking for a hidden vault or perhaps currency secreted by Mr. Thornton on the premises. Sadly, the crime may have derived from never-substantiated rumors pertaining to Mr. Thornton himself.
“I’ve got nothing but good things to say about Mr. Thornton,” the lead investigator, Sergeant Robert S. Bennett, told reporters at a hastily called press conference Tuesday afternoon. “He’s been a mainstay of the local black community for many years, as one can feel in the outpouring of grief over his death and in the number of glowing tributes we have heard since the news broke this morning.”
Sergeant Bennett, 49, is overseeing six full-time detectives charged with solving the case and bringing the suspect or suspects to justice. “I personally believe Mr. Thornton to have been a blameless individual,” he told reporters. “That stated, I believe that this crime stems from the long-held southside rumor that perhaps Mr. Thornton had organized-crime ties and was hoarding laundered money on the bank’s premises. I do not believe the rumors. I believe that the crime stemmed from persistently held misinformation. The tragedy is that Mr. Thornton gave his life for $2,000 in cab receipts, and that the suspect or suspects killed him and decimated the bank interior in a search for something that was not there.”
The investigation continues. Sergeant Bennett and his six-man team will spearhead the drive to apprehend the slayer or slayers of Lionel D. Thornton. A backup investigation will be fielded by the Los Angeles Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, supervised by Special-Agent-in-Charge John C. Leahy.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/12/71. 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.
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: It is decidedly not.
DH: Sir?
JEH: The Resident Agency in Media, Pennsylvania, was burglarized Monday night. A great many files were stolen.
DH: Is it secured, Sir? And forgive my ignorance, but I don’t know where Media is.
JEH: It’s a two-man office space near Philadelphia. The file bank holds overflow from the New York, Boston and Philadelphia offices. The break-in occurred while local police officers were at Shakey’s Pizza Parlor, watching replays of the Cassius Clay–Smokin’ Joe Frazier Battle of the Apes.
DH: Sir, is it secure?
JEH: It is. The break-in was discovered by the agents themselves. They bypassed the Media PD and called the Philadelphia SAC. Media has not yet made the media.
DH: The files, Sir?
JEH: Bland, by your Los Angeles Office standards. Damning by the standards of addlepated civil libertarians. We lost adjunct surveillance files, tap files and COINTELPRO addendum sheets.
DH: It’s a shocking breach, Sir.
JEH: You are muddle-headed and swoony with emotion today, Dwight. Extended stays in sanitariums undermine strong people. They confuse their emotional states with the world.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: That’s better. The old “Enforcer.” Hard-edged and submissive.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Better yet.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I’m sure we’re thinking along similar lines. Which lunatic fringe group will claim credit? Will they release the files? Which treasonous leftist rag will they release them to?
DH: How many agents are on it, Sir?
JEH: Forty-six, full-time. Of course, there are no witnesses and the thieves left no physical evidence.
DH: I’ll query my informants, Sir.
JEH: Do that. Offer cash incentives and employ your generally intrusive methods with my full sanction.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I have sent out a general memo to all our field offices. The file sections are being security enhanced at this very moment.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Do not underestimate my resolve to forestall future break-ins. Do not underestimate the robust state of my health. My physician, Dr. Archie Bell, considers me to be an outstanding specimen.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: President Nixon is mentally ill. He refuses to inform me that he will reappoint me as director after his fait accompli reelection next year. I’m telling it like it is, Brother Dwight. Tricky Dick has asked me to black-bag the major Democratic candidates, which I have declined to do. I’m dragging my heels. Nixey boy is starting to sweat.
DH: I can dig it, Sir.
JEH: I’m sure you can. And your mental health? Have you regained your brusque grasp of life?
DH: In spades, Sir.
JEH: We lost some files, but we will prevail in the end. The files in my superbly secure basement would bring down the world.
DH: Right on, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Dwight.
DH: Good day, Sir.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/12/71. VERBATIM STAGE-1/CL
OSED 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.