Sure, Boss. It’s on the house.
Thornton retched and kept it down. Scotty checked his watch. One minute to let it seeeeeep.
Thornton flushed and flexed his hands. Thornton kneaded fucked-up body kinks. Liftoff at forty-three seconds.
“I don’t know where Reggie is. I get mail drops from overseas. They’re sent under mail cover from different locations. I forward the emeralds, but they come to me through a cutout.”
“Cutout”-woooo-mother dog!
Scotty said, “Name the ‘cutout.’ ”
Thornton coughed. “I don’t know her name.”
Scotty said, “Her?”
Marsh said, “Describe her.”
Thornton dry-coughed. “White, in her forties, glasses. Dark hair with gray patches.”
Marsh did a double take. Scotty read it. Brother, I knows you.
Thornton wet-coughed. Blood dripped down his chin.
“Where’s the vault?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“Give me the combination?”
“I’m not going to.”
“Put this thing together for us. We’ve got time to listen.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Explain the business code in the ledger.”
“I’m not going to.”
Marsh flexed his sap gloves. Scotty jerked his arms back.
“Go in his office and get his address book. It’s in the top right-hand drawer.”
Thornton leaned back and trembled. Marsh ran off, scanning his pen-light. Scotty checked Thornton’s handcuffs. His wrists were ratchet-gouged deep.
Marsh ran back. Scotty skimmed the book name by name. They read by penlight. Marsh hovered over him. “A” to “K”-two women. Janice Altschuler, April Kostritch. A tweaker at “L”-SAC John Leahy/FBI #48770.
Two more women: Helen Rugert and Sharon Zielinski. Cutouts? Basic vibe: no.
Scotty tossed the book. Marsh said, “Altschuler, Kostritch, Rugert, Zielinski.”
Thornton hack-coughed. “Those women are city council staffers and lawyers. I told you, I don’t know the cutout’s name.”
Scotty cracked his knuckles. “Where do you call her?”
“I don’t. She calls me.”
Marsh picked the book up and thumbed through it. Scotty cracked his knuckles loud, upside Thornton’s face.
“Why is Jack Leahy’s name in your book?”
“We’re friends. We play golf.”
“Are you an FBI informant? Is 48770 your confidential Bureau number?”
“No, we play golf!”
Scotty slapped him. Thornton thrashed his head. Scotty wiped blood and snot on his pant leg.
“Are you a confidential Bureau informant?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever know or work with the late Dr. Fred Hiltz?”
“The fucking ‘Hate King’? Why would I?”
Truth serum-I’ll buy it.
“Who do you snitch to Jack?”
“Ghetto scum, man. Dope-pushers and Panther-type fools.”
Marsh dropped the address book. Scotty penlight-signaled him. Marsh signaled him back. They got each other’s eyes. They telepathized.
Scotty said, “Where’s the vault, Mr. Thornton?”
“I’m not telling you.”
Marsh said, “What haven’t you told us that you should have told us in the name of full disclosure?”
Thornton laughed. “Man, you are nothing but a nigger full of four-dollar words.”
Scotty said, “Please take us to the vault.”
“I’m not going to.”
Marsh said, “Where are the emeralds?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Scotty shrugged.
Marsh shrugged.
They penlight-drilled Thornton’s face. They got a big funnel target. Marsh pulled a throwdown piece and capped him.
98
(Los Angeles, 3/8/71)
Sassy Sal loved soul food. He dive-bombed the post-fight buffet and out-snarfed the brothers. He was reefer-ripped. He was libido-lashed. He wolfed chicken wings and grooved low-life maleness. Marsh Bowen was missing. Crutch wanted Sal to see him. Sal’s job: kick-start their vibe.
The party poked on. The re-hash ran sans pithy perception. Panther pedantry. Fractious Frazierites and mongoloid Muslims.
Fools milked the moment. The cover price included chow and a dope smorgasbord. Big Mama’s Kitchen catered. Fred O. supplied pharmaceuticals. On-site consumption raged. Geeks crawled into Tiger kabs and passed out.
Where’s Marsh?
Crutch yawned. He was nerve-numb. His re-hash ran rampant. Tattoo wants to meet movie men. She’s been de-hexed. The envelope prints: possibly Reggie Hazzard’s, for sure Lionel Thornton’s.
Sal noshed collard greens. Crutch yawned anew. He’d been reading. His new kick: chemistry and left-wing dialectic.
He was in his Reggie Hazzard head. He sent Mary Beth another file-request letter and got no answer. He was reading Reggie’s books. He performed some simple experiments, per instructions. He liquefied two powders and blew up a trash can. He learned about United Fruit in Guatemala. He went with the narrative. Good guy/bad guy roles got reversed. He got eyestrain. He started seeing RED.
Marsh walked into the hut. He looked shivery-shaky. What’s that trouser stain?
Sal noticed him. Sal made an ooo-la-la face. Marsh walked back to the can. Crutch tailed him. Marsh left the door cracked.
Marsh washed his hands. Dark smudges went light red and pink. He doused his shirt cuffs and wrung the fabric. Crutch smelled blood.
Marsh wiped his face. Marsh pulled out a pen and wrote on his left arm. Crutch squinted and caught it.
(Media, 3/8/71)
Resident Agency. A two-room records drop. One office in a four-story building.
Media was Snoresville. A trolley ran twelve miles to Philly. The front door was made for thin-head pry bars.
It’s 11:49 p.m. The world’s abuzz: Frazier takes Ali.
Dwight parked on a side street. He had a near-diagonal view. He saw the front door and the office windows.
Karen ran him through it yesterday. They discussed outcomes.
His take: Mr. Hoover will stonewall it. That meant newspaper leaks. Go to the biiiiiiiig dailies. Include documents. Tweak some muckraking journos. Let it build on its own. Leak the file pages through cutouts. Invent a name for a lefty group. Claim the B amp;E under their flag.
Joan disagreed. Her take: we’re robbing the big revelation. His take: this is the prelude and primer. The Media files are bland. They detail prosaic hassles and routine surveillance. The juicy shit is elsewhere. Our operation will reveal it. The post-Hoover FBI cannot stonewall it. Media will have exposited the term COINTELPRO. Fed-speak will distort the truth, I will tell the world what it really means. The Bureau cannot regroup post-hit. Media will have created a file hue and cry. Obfuscation will not work post-hit, I will be found, I will break ranks, I will step forth to testify.
Dwight held up binoculars. A van entered his sight line.
Four people got out: two men, two women. They dressed like middle-aged squares. The women carried bulging purses stuffed with laundry bags. Karen wore a suburban-mom pantsuit.
They had his dupe key. They slow-walked to the front door and unlocked it. Karen pick-gouged the lock housing to simulate a B amp;E.
They shut the door. It stayed dark. Penlight bips reflected. Take the back stairs. Don’t risk the lift.
Dwight checked his watch. It hit midnight. He watched the four windows. A half minute elapsed. Penlight beams strafed.
A car passed the building. Late-model Merc, dud mom and dad, the country club set. Pops ran the radio. Dwight heard “Ali.”