Dwight packed up his briefcase and walked out. He saw Jack Leahy at the elevator.
“Don’t tell me. You can’t sleep, and you’re starting to dig on the files.”
Dwight smiled. “You’re the only Fed on earth who has ever said the words dig on.”
“True enough, but you haven’t answered my question.”
Dwight pushed the down button. “Dirt files are addictive. Ask you-know-who about that.”
Jack laughed. “I haven’t spoken to the old girl in a dog’s age. I outrank you, but she talks to you much more than to me.”
“You’re being impolitic, Jack. You’re forgetting who you’re talking about and who you’re talking to.”
The doors opened. They stepped inside. The doors jerked and shut.
“Is there a spot tail on me, Jack? As long as we’re being insubordinate, I’d appreciate an answer.”
Jack shook his head. “Dwight ‘the Enforcer’ Holly. Buzzed on coffee and cigarettes for the twenty years I’ve known him, and finally starting to see things.”
He walked into the drop-front. The phone was ringing, persistent. He dumped his briefcase and fumble-caught the receiver in the dark.
Karen said, “Nobody dies,” and hung up.
97
(Los Angeles, 3/8/71)
Ali! Ali! Ali!
The Congo coursed with it. Bootleg broadcasts beamed from liquor stores and pool halls. They got the full TV monte. Sidewalk gangs got portable-radio squelch. Jugs and joints circulated. The groups ran ten to one hundred. Central Avenue was cooncaphony.
Cathode light bounced out windows. Pirate hookups: Mosque 19, Sultan Sam’s, Cedric’s Hair Process. The scene ran inside and outside. Parking-lot action boomed. Stacked-heel pimps laid down round-by-round bets.
Scotty cruised by Tiger Kab. The hut was SRO and boob tube-bright. The Krew was rapt. Fred O., Milt C., Peeper Crutchfield. Countless south-side Zulus. Junkie Monkey in boxing mitts, atop the TV set.
And Lionel D. Thornton-with a zippered cash sack.
Scotty idled by the lot. Marsh got in. He wore crepe-soled shoes and gloves. Scotty grabbed his gloves off the dashboard. They eyeballed the hut.
The radio fluttered. The signal cut in and out. Marsh tweaked the dial. Static and verdict-Frazier gets the nod.
Marsh turned it off. Scotty said, “He’s got a piece.”
“I know. Small revolver, back waistband.”
“He’ll walk. I don’t see his car.”
“It’s six blocks to the bank.”
Scotty passed his flask. Marsh took a nip.
“I lost a hundred.”
Scotty said, “I’ll underwrite you. I won three bills.”
“You bet against Ali?”
“I was at Saipan. Draft dodgers fuck with my head.”
Marsh passed the flask. “Give me the count. Jap infantry or 211 guys. Who gets the nod?”
Scotty took a nip. “I torched an ammunition bunker. I fried a hundred Japs in their sleep.”
“Did you win a medal?”
“The Navy Cross. Nice, but not as big as your deal.”
Marsh smiled. The flask moved contrapuntal. Lionel Thornton walked out.
He hoofed it southbound. The bank doors were side-street/south-facing. Scotty said, “We’ll take him there.”
Hut action exploded. Fuckers screamed, “Frazier.” Fuckers screamed, “Ali.” Two brothers traded blows. Fred O. broke it up. The TV set toppled. Junkie Monkey hit the deck.
Scotty hauled westbound and cut south on Stanford. He cut east on 63rd Street and parked across the street.
Marsh said, “That storage door just west of the main doors. He won’t see us there.”
Scotty put his gloves on. “He’s four minutes out.”
Marsh gulped. He was racy and a tad damp. Scotty sensed his pulse.
“How’s your wig, brother?”
“It be tight, brother. You knows I wants this.”
Scotty winked. “Let’s go, then.”
They walked across the street. The door well concealed them. Marsh checked his watch. Scotty heard footsteps.
Closer now. Louder. There’s his breath, there’s his shadow, there’s the jangle of keys.
There’s the key in the lock, there’s the click, there’s the door sweep.
They jumped.
They smothered him. They dog-piled him. They pushed him inside. The cash sack flew. Scotty hand-muzzled him. Marsh grabbed his piece. Thornton kicked and wriggled. Marsh caught a shoe in the face.
Thornton tried to bite. His mouth couldn’t move. Marsh rabbit-punched him. Thornton lost all breath. Marsh grabbed the keys and inside-locked the doors. Thornton kept thrashing. Scotty swooped him over his head and threw him twenty feet.
The cocksucker flew. His whole body cartwheeled. His feet brushed the ceiling. He landed by the front teller’s cage.
He screamed. Marsh pulled a standing lamp over and tossed light on his face.
The floor was dark. The lamp was a funnel spotlight. You got Thornton’s face, that’s it.
He screamed. Scotty stepped on his neck. He stopped screaming. His mouth was bloody. The crash landing took out his front teeth.
Scotty nodded. Marsh said, “We’re interested in the ink-and non-ink-stained cash and the emeralds. You know what we mean. We think you have information that might assist us.”
Thornton thrashed. Scotty stepped down harder. Thornton stopped thrashing. Scotty pulled out his reserve flask. Pastor Bennett’s confession brew: bourbon and Valium chips.
Marsh palmed it. Marsh grabbed Thornton’s hair and jerked. Thornton’s mouth went wide. Marsh poured him a jolt. Thornton almost tossed it. Marsh stepped on his face and kept it in.
Scotty nodded. Marsh withdrew his foot. Thornton gulped air. Thornton said, “No.”
Marsh slapped him. Thornton bit at his hand. Scotty grabbed his hair and pulled him behind the teller’s cage. Marsh unfurled the cord and carried the lamp over.
The teller’s cage was dark. The lamp was a funnel spotlight. Marsh framed Thornton’s face. The cage row got backlit.
Scotty said, “You can’t win here. You can make this easy or hard.”
Thornton dribbled blood on the floor. A bug skittered over. Marsh stepped on it. Thornton sucked in a breath.
“White-trash cracker. Uncle Tom piece of shit.”
Scotty nodded. Marsh pulled a sap and whipped Thornton’s knees. Thornton bit through his bottom lip and stifled a scream.
Marsh said, “Sergeant Bennett and I have pooled our information on this matter. We know that you’ve laundered at least a small portion of the heist money. Would you care to comment?”
Thornton spat blood and loose tissue. Thornton crawled to a wall post and propped himself up. Thornton shook his head-no, ixnay, fuck you.
Scotty pulled the lamp closer. Marsh tilted it for more glare. Thornton was mouth flap-bloody. Marsh grabbed the flask and poured in a jolt.
Thornton tried to retch. Scotty grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Marsh relubed him.
Gargles now-blood, bile and blend. It started to seep out. Marsh mouth-clamped Thornton and forced it back in.
He shook his head-nyet, nein, no. Marsh removed his mouth clamp and sap-whipped his legs.
“Sergeant Bennett and I have developed separate information that we’ve decided to share. We were both there that morning. It would be foolish for us not to cooperate.”
Thornton shook his head. A loose tooth flew. Scotty undamped his hair. Thornton proned out and back-swallowed blood. He shook his head-nein, nyet, nyet.
Marsh said, “I had a neighbor. He was an elderly black physician. He attended to a heist-gang member who had been left for dead by the leader of the gang. The doctor received twenty thousand dollars in ink-stained cash as a payment for his services. He gave the money to you and told you to leak it prudently out to the community. The surviving gang member recovered and has not been seen since. Would you care to comment?”