Williamson, Goldenson, Broward and Faust. Joan in 1949. Joan three, five and seven years later.
She’s younger, she’s darker-haired, she’s still short of fierce. She’s always defiant. She’s blinky-eyed sans glasses. Her shoulders are smoother. Her jaw hasn’t set in as harsh.
Crutch stared at the pictures. The summit just concluded. He tracked Scotty’s brain waves. Scotty picked up on Haiti and Marsh.
He kicked the key and cruised south. Clyde had work. He had Tiger Kab gigs. His case was breaking out and breaking back in on him.
Dwight Holly called and warned him. Do nothing, Dipshit. Celia was looking for Tattoo’s killer, just like him. Scotty was going after Marsh, post-fucking-haste.
He drove through Hancock Park. He daylight-peeped windows. There was no kick extant.
Christmas was coming. His mother would send a postcard and a five-spot. He’d buy Dana Lund a gift.
He drove by the wheelman lot. Phil Irwin and Buzz Duber waved. Chick Weiss pawed a mulatto whore.
The babe limped to the service bay. Mud-shark Chick scowled at her. Crutch pulled up and idled. Chick leaned in the car.
“You look blue, boychik. You should join Voyeurs Anonymous.”
“Fuck your mother.”
“I tried to once. She rejected me and packed me off to law school.”
A warm wind kicked on. Crutch aimed the AC vent at his balls.
“Get me a rope job.”
Chick said, “Nix. Phil’s my guy. I’ve got that donkey-dick Filipino on retainer, so I can’t stretch my overhead to accommodate your ennui.”
Crutch laughed. Chick said, “Get out of here. Do something dumb and brave, so the world will think you get laid.”
He drove by Tiger Kab. LAPD had some jail trustys there. They wore tiger-striped jumpsuits. They did coerced wash-and-wax jobs. Redd Foxx served them soul-food plates.
He was avoiding it. He couldn’t just let it go.
Milt C. saw him and waved. Junkie Monkey waved one paw. Crutch waved back and cut west to Stocker.
The pad was nice. Baldwin Hills was top-end colored. Ray Charles and Lou Rawls lived down the street. He Tiger-kabbed them both.
Crutch got out and rang the doorbell. Marsh Bowen opened up. He was in uniform. His Medal of Valor pin glowed.
Marsh did a double take. Oh, yeah-Clyde Duber’s kid.
Crutch said, “Scotty knows you went to Haiti. I think you’d better run.”
111
(Washington, D.C., 12/7/71)
Harvey’s was packed. He waited at the bar. Howard Hunt was late. The lunch crowd table-hopped.
Ted Kennedy and John Mitchell. Veep Agnew with a multi-table joke. Dwight caught fragments. A lion was fucking a zebra, ha ha.
He was jet-lagged and up-for-days shot. He had lunch with Jack Leahy yesterday. It was nails-on-blackboard raw. They did not discuss the Operation. Joan told him about it. He approved of it and wanted it. His looks signaled sanction. That much was clear.
Jack came to talk-his terms solely. He said he went back with Joan. He said he got the money out. They did not discuss the heist. Jack said he hated Hoover like Joan did. Dwight asked him why. Jack said, “I’m not telling you.”
Hunt was late. It pissed him off. Karen and the kids were here. Dwight sipped coffee and scanned the restaurant. Ronald Reagan walked in. He got ooohs, aaaahs and jeers.
He’d worked three days straight with Joan. They combined the fake-diary excerpts with Marsh’s real-life text. It was now seamless. They deleted the Lionel Thornton murder. It would throw huge heat on Scotty and induce him to talk. The omission might convince him to stay silent. Joan had been close to Lionel Thornton. The omission would spare his family.
The new text revealed Marsh’s heist fixation. He partnered up with the equally fixated Scotty and pursued fruitless leads. Marsh was now all greed and perversion. He came to political grievance late. He was pawn and puppetmaster. His psyche had disarticulated sixteen million ways. Cops took him in and gave him an identity. Cops told him to retain it while he assumed an antithetical one. The search for the money and emeralds went nowhere. He didn’t know who he was, where he was or what to do. He decided to kill a public figure to make it all click.
Howard Hunt walked in. Dwight waved him over. The barman saw him and built a martini.
He took two sips and packed a pipe. He cleaned his glasses with his necktie.
“I can’t stay for lunch.”
“I didn’t expect you to.”
“It’s warm out. The spring’s going to be a bear.”
Dwight passed him an envelope. Hunt palmed it and lit his pipe.
“So?”
“This summer. The Watergate. Your call on the exact timing and the personnel.”
“The old girl turned him down. I’ve heard rumors.”
“The Man likes me. Let’s leave it at that.”
Hunt drained his martini. “You’re in charge?”
Dwight shook his head. “Look in the envelope. There’s a drop-phone you can call. The Man has a thing for Cubans. You’ve been here before. It’s all drops, cutouts and flash paper. I’m walking away from it now.”
Hunt put down a five-spot. Dwight handed it back.
“It’s on me.”
“Dwight ‘the Enforcer.’ Ever the gent.”
“Nice seeing you, Howard.”
Hunt put on a golf cap and walked outside. The door swung wide. Sunshine hit the bar and the table floor. Two big guys ushered in a frail old man.
He shuffled. His clothes fell off him. His glasses slipped down his nose. Liver spots, palsy, slack neck. Half-inch mincing steps.
The old man looked over and saw him. He had filmy dark brown eyes. Nothing clicked outward. Dwight blinked and refocused. Mr. Hoover dead-eye stared.
The bodyguards eased him to a table. It took three minutes to walk fifteen yards. He looked around the restaurant, unfocused. Nobody noticed him. People table-hopped around him. A waiter brought pre-cooked food out.
Dwight had him head-on. A short space stood between them. He stepped away from the bar. He built a big, simple frame.
Mr. Hoover looked over. Dwight waved. Mr. Hoover stayed blank.
One bodyguard cut up his steak. One bodyguard fed him. Ted Kennedy noticed him and looked away. Ronald Reagan smiled and waved his way. Mr. Hoover dead-eyed it. Saliva dripped down his chin.
Dwight walked three steps closer. It built a clearer frame. Mr. Hoover coughed. Saliva pooled on his plate. A waiter pounced and snatched it. Dwight stepped forward. He hovered now. Mr. Hoover was very close. He looked straight at Dwight and never saw him.
The girls skipped around the monument. Dwight and Karen held hands on a bench.
“Have you told them Washington was the father of our country?”
Karen smiled. “Your American history is not my American history.”
“I might dispute that now.”
“Given recent events, I might concede the point.”
The lawn was full of nannies with strollers and kids kicking balls. A little boy saw Dwight’s belt gun and grinned.
Karen said, “We’ve been together for seven years.”
“I know. You’ll be forty-seven in February.”
“Take me somewhere for a weekend. I’m bracing myself all the time. You’re doing something irreparable. I want a few moments with you first.”
Dwight tucked a knee up and faced her. Karen looked at him. He held her face. Some tears rolled. He brushed them off with his thumbs.
“I’m not doing it.”
Karen leaned away from him. Her tears rolled crazy. She took off her sweater and blotted her eyes.
The mauve cashmere cardigan. His first Christmas gift. She’d said, “What? You didn’t buy me reef?”
“Why?”
Dwight said, “Nobody dies.”
He had a big suite at the Willard. Bureau-vouchered digs. The bathroom featured a walk-in shower.
Room service sent up a bottle of bourbon. It made him salivate. He carried his briefcase and the jug into the bathroom. He dumped the diary pages in the shower and poured the bourbon on top.