Dwight pulled away. Karen’s bathroom light went on. He strained his ears. No music played.
“Tell me about Lionel Thornton.”
“He was a comrade of sorts.”
“He laundered the money for you and Jack.”
“Yes.”
“Jack went in with the bank examiners. He got the basic sum out beforehand. He left some money behind to be found.”
Joan said, “Yes, you’ve got all of it, but there’s the thing you haven’t said and the question you haven’t asked.”
Dwight looked at her. “I don’t blame you for any of it. Given what I’ve done, I simply can’t.”
“And the question?”
“The question is, ‘Who got the money?’ The answer is, ‘It’s all been going to the Cause.’ ”
The music started low. Dissonant strings. It was very late. She wanted them to hear it soft.
Joan said, “I don’t want to lose this.”
Dwight strained for the music. A low wind obscured it.
“Marsh knows about you, Scotty could learn about you. You’d be in danger then, and your name would be revealed in the end.”
Joan shook her head. “Scotty doesn’t know about me. Marsh won’t tell him or anyone else. He’s a greedy, covetous little man. He wants everything for himself. You saw the diary pages. No one else did. I’ll be kept out of it, and no one will believe anything that Scotty says about you. He’s the faggot nigger’s white cop buddy, and you’re the government’s star witness who cracked up and has to confess.”
Dwight brushed tears from his eyes. Joan squeezed his hands, white-knuckled.
“Tell me what Mr. Hoover did to you.”
Joan said, “No. I’m not going to.”
Sir,
Per your last telephone request, please be informed that SUBJECT’S travel schedule has been reduced, due to recent recurrences of poor health. As of this date, SUBJECT will be traveling to Miami on 4/14/72, Cleveland on 5/5/72 and Los Angeles on 6/10/72. Any changes or updates will follow, per your request. As always, please destroy upon reading.
JEH: Good morning, Dwight.
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: (Coughing fit: twelve seconds.)
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: Don’t repeat yourself.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I don’t know why I continue to talk to you.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Stop repeating yourself. I’m not senile. I’m in perfect health.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: You did it again. Stop it. I’m telling you not to respond.
(Silence; fifty-three seconds.)
JEH: Slippery Dick asked me to black-bag the Watergate Hotel. I declined. I’ll keep my job as long as I string him along. I’m a cock-tease. I’m stringing that cocksucker along. He called me a sissy. He called my hemorrhoid surgery a “hysterectomy.”
(Coughing fit: nine seconds.)
JEH: I’ve got a file on Slippery Dick. He called me a sissy. My basement is reinforced with Kryptonite. No file thief on earth could break in.
(Coughing fit: sixteen seconds/phone transcript terminates here.)
109
(Los Angeles, 12/5/71)
“Sal, you’re a cute side of beef. Why can’t you land this chump in the sack?”
Fruit squeeze summit #2. Sergeant Robert S. Bennett, presiding. Also there: Sal, Fred O., Peeper Crutchfield.
“Listen, there’s guys who just won’t bite. Sometimes they’re Little-Miss-Hard-To-Get, sometimes they just don’t crave stick.”
The Silver Star on Western. Scotty dined gratis there. The owner was stickup-prone. He called Scotty direct.
A waiter served gin fizzes and pretzels. Their booth faced the door. Scotty insisted. He knew faces quicksville. He had cop total recall.
Fred O. picked a hangnail. Peeper scratched his balls. Silky Sal was depressed. He was a coal burner. He craved Marsh’s deep mine shaft.
The waiter split. Sal said, “I met you before, Sergeant. It was on this movie shoot.”
“I know. Southside Crackdown. I took my kids to see it. My daughter had the hots for you. I told her, That guy’s a fruit fly, you’re shit out of luck.’ ”
Sal yukked. Fred yukked. Peeper did not. Peeper was always off in his head. Yonder windows loomed.
Scotty snarfed pretzels. “Lay it on me. Why won’t this stupe come around?”
Sal shrugged. “Marshey’s a tough nut. He’s got his tight little world all figured out, and he doesn’t appreciate interruptions. He’s got his cop thing and his speech thing and his art thing. And now all he talks about are these trips he took to Haiti.”
Hel-lo.
Softball. Easy lob, easy catch. Marsh was holding back. Haiti adjoined the D.R. The emeralds shipped from there. Haiti meant Reggie and the stones.
Sissy Sal blathered. Scotty tuned him out. Peeper fidgeted. Note the sweaty hands and neck.
Scotty chugalugged his drink. “You keep pressing, Sal. I’ll get you some Quaaludes. A little Soul Train on the stereo and va-va-va-voom.”
Sal tee-heed. “It’s not like I don’t want it. Marshey is a stone fox. I call him ‘the African Queen.’ ”
Fred O. clutched his belly. Peeper howled out loud. Pretzel gack flew.
Scotty said, “This is all between us white men. You cannot go to Dwight Holly. This is our fruit shake. His fruit shake is old news.”
Hel-lo.
Sal flushed at “Dwight Holly.” Peeper residual twitched.
Sal twirled his spit curl. “I only saw Mr. Holly way back when. My Fed guy was always Jack Leahy. He was bugging me with questions on Southside Crackdown. Remember, Sergeant? You were, too. Armored-car heist this, armored-car heist that, as if this girl would know anything about that kind of action.”
Hel-lo.
Peeper blinked at “Leahy.” Peeper blinked at “heist.” There’s Peeper’s darty eyes and light sweat.
Scotty glared at Sal. Sal wet his lips and smirked. Fred O. picked his hangnail. The charged air whizzed by him. Peeper gulped and regulped. His Adam’s apple did the Frug and the Peppermint Twist.
Scotty walked to the can. The cold tiles beckoned. He leaned his head on the wall. Okay, okay, okay-let’s logic this out.
Leahy. Heist questions then. Peoples’ Bank ruckus now. Jack went in with the bank team. He was in on the heist. He’s got the big money now.
“Haiti” meant Marsh goes.
(Los Angeles, 12/5/71)
Dashboard frieze: all-new photos.
His ink-scorch spree got him one hot lead and four fake IDs. He tracked the names to mug-shot numbers. He got four new Joans.