James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (56 page)

A loose sheet fell out. Crutch unfolded it. A hand-drawn street map. 84th and Budlong, 2/24/64.
X
marks for the slaughter. Little houses street-numbered and sketched to scale.

Crutch studied the map. Something skimmed his skull. Some other file, some other fact, some complementary numb—

Oh, yes. That's it. Safe guess: Clyde doesn't know
.

Marsh Bowen lived on that block then. He was nineteen. He was fresh out of Dorsey High. He lived with his mom and dad
.

File work
.

Read files when bugged. Read files when buzzed. Read different files when other files scorch you.

Crutch holed up at the Vivian. He studied his mother's file. He picked at his 6/14 scabs and grooved on the scarring. Zombie Zone outtakes zapped him.

THE ELECTRIC CHAIR, THE EYES, THE HANDS AND FEET
. La Banda stunts and the black guy's hands melted.

He got scared. He popped two red devils with an Old Crow chaser. It un-scared him. He grabbed his binoculars and aerial-peeped.

Barb Cathcart watered her front lawn. She wore a shift dress. A cool wind gave her goose bumps. Gail Miller's mom breezed with the mailman. Old lady Miller hated him. He picture-peeped Gail and snapped a shot of her bush. He got kicked out of Hollywood High.

The phone rang. Crutch jumped on it.

“It's Crutchfield.”

“Donald, I am outraged.”

Cool it—
he doesn't know/he can't know
.

“What happened, Froggy? Tell me.”

“Wayne performed the sabotage. He was seen purchasing explosive material. He desecrated the northern sites in order to blame 6/14. He very obviously enlisted Communists to assist him. I think his
putain Rouge
comrades are the ones who robbed you.”

“Froggy, tell me—”

“Balaguer has made an expediently reasoned decision. He has decreed no reprisals on Wayne. He has decided that 6/14 should pay and that future dissidents should be taught a lesson. Tiger Krew will be part of this, which mandates your immediate return.”

He got sweaty hands. The phone slipped. It hit the floor. The receiver cracked.

The red devils hit full-on. He hated-hexed Wayne, pins to eyeballs. He got this voodoo-vile idea.

He knew her name and her job stats. He wrote the note at the Barstow rest stop. He used the hood of his car as a desk.

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.

(Las Vegas, 3/22/70)

T
he 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—ç
a 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.

(Los Angeles, 3/25/70)

“B
TA scored some smack. It was an old-prison-buddy deal. Ezzard Jones put it together.”

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.

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.”