James Ellroy_Underworld U.S.A. 03 (66 page)

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.”

(Los Angeles, 3/4/71)

F
ruit 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
.

Sal 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?”

(Los Angeles, 3/6/71)

P
rint 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.

Dwight applied print strips. Marsh mock-touched book covers. Dwight wrote queer crush notes. Smeared phone numbers, napkin rips, words half-obscured. Marsh: “I've got 9 inches. How about you?”

He kept his desk neat. He worked with rubber gloves. He plastic-bagged his piecework. He brainstormed a fake diary entry.

Think it through. Type it in. You've got an identical Underwood. Remember: tool-gouge the small
C
and
J
.

You'll be there at the convergence. Joan will insert the fake diary.

That means more B&E runs. He might have a real diary
.

Dwight cleared desk space. He bagged the books and notes and got out a scratch pad. The Silver Hill photo was up against a lamp. Karen, Dina, Ella. Their address/phone number. “If this man is lost, please return him.”

He covered it with a handkerchief. He mock-Marsh-ascribed:

“My process of radicalization truly began when I realized I could not control my perceptions. Physical symptoms manifested in direct proportion to my attempts to keep them suppressed. It was as if a virus had swept through me. It was significantly more discomfiting than the panic I endured when I became fully aware of my homosexuality a decade ago. A self-hatred took hold then and a politically defined and outwardly directed hatred has taken hold now. My hatred has lingered on immediate targets—the brutish Scotty Bennett, the imperviously exploitative Agent Holly and my racist alma mater, the LAPD—and it has gradually and inexorably ascended to an ineluctable plane. I cannot halt the spread of the virus until I dose myself with the anti-toxin that only JEH's death will create.”

He read it through again. He covered the desk with a drop cloth and walked out to the terrace.

Clouds top-framed Silver Lake. A haze covered Karen's house. Their fight rescrolled. It scared Dina. Ella seemed to study it. He kicked around a notion. Ella knew things that he didn't. Ella got them from Joan.

Shit stirs in the
spiritus mundi
. Karen tells Joan about him. Comrade Tommy's in Memphis hit day. Karen read his dreams and held him through his nightmares.
Joan just understood
.

A squirrel perched on the terrace ledge. Dwight soft-lobbed him acorns. He shagged them with his paws and skedaddled.

The door gizmo buzzed. Dwight looked through the side window. Eleanora hopped on the porch.

Dwight ran through the front room and opened the door. Ella stormed his legs. He scooped her up with one arm. Ella play-bit his neck.

Karen leaned on a porch post. Dwight said, “You could have broken in.”

“I was saving it for Media.”

“Thank you.”

“Don't mention it.”

Ella wriggled. Dwight put her down. She ran into the front room.

“How'd you find it?”

Karen stepped inside. “I tracked the binocular glint. I thought, I detect a voyeuristic presence, and applied spatial geometry.”

Dwight laughed. Karen draped an arm around him. He walked her away from the desk. Ella peeked in a cardboard box. Dwight grabbed her and whisked her off.

She broke free and pointed. She made a
What
? face.

Dwight said, “They're throwdown guns, sweetie.”

Karen dropped her purse and kicked it. Dwight said, “Do you love me?” Karen said, “Yes, goddamn you.”

Inserts:

He worked in the file section. He kept loose inside. He was nonchalant and late-night-clandestine.

He pulled Vice files and tattle files. He found field interrogation cards and inked in Marsh Bowen's name. Marsh at three fruit-bar sweeps, Marsh at a drag ball, Marsh at a hate-whitey bash.

He walked to the subversive-file bank. He dropped in a chemically aged file.

Joan created it. He supplied the perspective. A now-dead agent wrote the file, late '66. Marsh worked for Clyde Duber then. Marsh worked against Clyde for the Black Muslims. The agent had suspicions. Clyde never knew.

He cashed in stock. He secured Bob Relyea's down payment. He needed Mr. Hoover's travel schedule. Tomorrow a.m.: he flies to Media.

He skimmed the snitch-file index. Names sideswiped him. Bill Buckley snitched neocons. Chuck Heston snitched potheads. Sal Mineo snitched rump rascals wholesale. Salacious Sal: botched bait for the Bayard Rustin squeeze.