Crutch grabbed the envelope by the edges. He dropped it in a plastic bag and put a scrawled envelope down in its place.
Sonny dog-yipped in his sleep.
Clyde wired him three grand, c/o the Dunes. He ran it up to five at the wheel. He had his Reggie Hazzard pic. He bought a Nevada-California road map. He called in sick at Tiger Kab. He tucked the Tiger stretch in a day garage so he wouldn’t look like a geek.
He rented a Ford sedan. He dumped his tiger tux and bought a sport coat. He went out to grease shitkicker cops. Wayne should have done it at the get-go.
Tank towns. Border burgs and agri-dumps. Desert dots with six-, eight-and twelve-man PDs.
Rainbow Hill, Crescent Peak, Dyer, Daylight Peak. Woodford, Minden, Pahrump, Salisbury, Mid-Lockie. Fourteen towns with “Cal-Nev” in the mix.
He drove tank town to tank town. He flashed his photo attached to a C-note. He lubed redneck cops, straw-boss cops and wetback smuggling freaks. He stressed December ‘63. He described Joan. He mentioned the bail jump-may I check your records, please?
Some cops blew him off. Most cops took the cash. Some cops said they shitcanned their skip sheets. Most cops cited turnovers and plain stonewalled him.
He worked it for three days. He went through $3,400. He slept in cheap motels and had Joan dreams. He hit nine-tenths of the road-map towns. He worked his way back to L.A.
He hooked off I-15 at McKendrick. The PD was a Quonset hut upside a lettuce field. Jail trustees did stoop labor. The motor pool was four old Fords and sixteen horses. The lettuce pickers wore stenciled denims. The cops drove golf carts and quaffed brews.
Crutch parked beside a tethered roan. A sunburned cop walked up. He had malignant sores like Crutch Senior.
“Help you, young man?”
“I had a few questions, if you’d be so kind.”
The cop stuck his hand out. “Kindness costs money. Let’s not pretend that it don’t.”
Crutch threw him fifty. “A vag and gun-possession bust. December ‘63. A black kid got popped and a white woman with dark, gray-streaked hair bailed him.”
The cop stuck his hand out. Crutch shook his head. The cop said, “I was there that day. Kindness ain’t for free.”
Crutch forked over two fifties. The cop snapped his fingers. Crutch re-forked two more.
The cop picked a nose scab. “Nigger boy and a Jew broad. Absconders. Don’t ask to see records, because there ain’t any. The kid left some Commie books and chemistry books in his cell, might still be in Property.”
Tools:
Print powders and brushes. Print-transparency tape. A magnifying glass and Joan Rosen Klein’s print card.
Targets:
Sonny Liston’s envelope. Magruder’s Basic Chemistry. Franz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth.
He worked at the Vivian. He set aside desk space and laid it all out. His big gooseneck lamp supplied light.
The book pages were porous. They wouldn’t sustain prints. The dust jackets were glossy and would. The envelope was slick and smooth-surfaced. The print-lift odds were good.
Crutch dipped a brush in red powder. The dust jackets were white and light beige.
He put on rubber gloves. He folded the books open with the jackets in place. He got near-flat planes: front covers, back covers, spines. He placed the envelope to one side.
Deep breath now.
He light-dusted the books and the envelope. He got smudges, swirls and smears. He added a second dust coat. He got two viable prints on the Commie book. He got two viable prints on the envelope.
Deep breath now.
He grabbed the magnifying glass. He studied the book prints and Joan’s print card. One print looked good straight off.
Whorls, swirls and inversions. Comparison points: 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9-
Match.
Joan touched the Fanon book with her right-hand forefinger. It occurred 12/63 or before. The book was held by McKendrick PD since then.
Crutch studied the second book print. Do it-brain-stamp every bit.
He memorized it. He studied Joan’s print card and ran the magnifying glass back and forth. No-no second print match.
He laid down the transparency tape. He lifted the unknown print clean. He reinforced it with a black plastic strip. The print showed in exact detail, white on black.
Deep breath-one to go.
He switched to the envelope. He studied the two prints. He memorized them. He re-studied Joan’s print card. He squinted through the magnifying glass. No-no match.
He laid down two strips of transparency tape. He lifted the unknown prints clean. He reinforced them with black plastic strips. The prints showed in exact detail, white on black.
He laid the two envelope strips beside the one book strip. He ran the magnifying glass back and forth. One print strip was markedly different. One print strip matched perfectly.
That meant this:
Joan touched the Commie book in 1963. A second person touched the book then. The same person touched Sonny’s envelope, late 1970.
It couldn’t be the McKendrick cops. Wild guess: Reggie Hazzard.
Reggie had no rap sheet. That meant no print file extant. Reggie had a Nevada driver’s license. The Nevada DMV did not require fingerprints.
The envelope was L.A.-postmarked. Was the emerald sent from there? Was it sent to L.A. to send?
It’s not a real print make. It’s all suppositional. There’s still that second envelope print.
Deep breath now-more fucking work.
Christmas came and went. New Year’s blurred by in rainstorms. Sonny Liston OD’d a week later. The Tiger Kab wake was a happening.
Redd Foxx and Milt C. performed. Blak-O-Rama gave it feature ink. Fred O. supplied booze. Chick Weiss supplied dope and island-bred hookers. The Duber boys showed up. The drivers formed a kab kortege and bombed through darktown. Panthers and pigs noshed “Q” in perfect peace. Lenny Bernstein quoted Krishnamurti. Scotty Bennett sparred with Jerry Quarry. They traded for real. It almost got ugly.
The fruit squeeze was on hold. Freddy wanted fifteen grand. Scotty tried to Jew him down to ten and got nowhere. Scotty was hustling the gelt. Freddy told Crutch not to brace Sassy Sal just yet.
He did divorce jobs for Clyde. He sent Mary Beth Hazzard queries: did Wayne leave more paperwork? He part-time Tiger-kabbed. He studied print cards every night at the downtown DMV.
Insomnia and eye strain. Vials of Nembutal and vats of Visine. Hand-check print cards. Compare them to the two plastic strips.
He kept a head tally. He lost count at ten thousand. He kept a card-per-night tally. He lost track on January 6.
He showed up late on the seventh. He bribed the night clerk, SOP. He brought his print strips, his magnifying glass and his Visine.
He opened a new box. He went through eleven no-gos. He hit print card #12. The swirls talked to him.
Deep breath now. The second envelope print. No, yes, no-maybe.
Points: 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 9-up to 14-good measure.
Perfect matchup. Fuck-a name he knew.
Lionel Darius Thornton, male Negro. Born 12/18/19.
The Peoples’ Bank dude. Lionel the Laundryman. The Coon Cartel consigliere.
93
(Los Angeles, 1/9/71)
Chez Marsh: cultured and non-militant.
He got in with tungsten bolt-tappers. Infrared shades induced night sight. Leave the lights off to de-saturate.
Baldwin Hills. A one-level ranch off Stocker. Black bourgeoisie. Tubular furnishings. A coooooool-school aesthetic.