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.
(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 unsavory.”
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, ‘Wo. 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 Creepsville. 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.