“Do you hang out at Vince amp; Paul’s?”
“Black cops aren’t welcome there.”
“What happened to ‘Negro’?”
“It went out last year. ‘Black’ is more bold. It’s got that tell-it-like-it-is quality that my people revere.”
Dwight pushed his plate back. Ollie Hammond’s Steak House outclassed Vince amp; Paul’s. Their booth was secluded. Marsh Bowen picked at a salad.
“It’s Scotty Bennett’s hangout. Is that why you asked me?”
Dwight popped an antacid mint and lit a cigarette. His food had gone cold.
“I can read people, Mr. Holly. I know you’ve been mulling over Scotty.”
“Don’t fish for compliments. If I didn’t consider you smart and perceptive, you wouldn’t be here.”
“But you’re wondering how adaptable I am.”
“That’s correct.”
“I’ll consider that a compliment and move on, then.”
Dwight tugged at his law-school ring. “The inked-cash thing. How brutal was he?”
Marsh toyed with his fork. “He asked me questions with exaggerated courtesy and hit me with a phone book when he disapproved of my answers.”
“Does he hate Negroes?”
“It’s ‘black,’ Mr. Holly.”
“Don’t correct me, Officer.”
No twitch or flinch. Spreading goose bumps and a forehead vein tapping.
“Does he hate Negroes?”
“More than you, but less volubly. And I’m sure he’s killed a few more than you have.”
Dwight flinched. “He seems to relish his time on the southside.”
“He does, yes. He’s ‘Mr. Scotty’ south of Washington Boulevard.”
“This decorously expressed hatred of his. Is he well known for it?”
“Oh yes.”
Dwight cracked his knuckles. “Scotty’s the bait in your expulsion scenario. Tell me how you think we should play it.”
Marsh did a pantomime. He squinted through a viewfinder. He framed the shot. He spoke through a megaphone.
“Vince amp; Paul’s Steak House. The bar in full swing. Officer Marshall E. Bowen hits on Sergeant Robert S. Bennett’s torrid waitress girlfriend with the man himself right there.”
Dwight stuck his hand out. Marsh let it hang there. The moment built and fizzled. They both saw how dumb it looked. They laughed at the same time.
36
(Las Vegas, 9/14/68)
How suite it is.
His killer pals lived in hotel suites. Freddy O. had the Cavern. The Frogman had new Fontainebleau digs. Wayne Tedrow had this spread at the Stardust. Dwight Holly crashed in suites nationwide.
Crutch waited for Wayne T. His suite featured four rooms and a chemistry lab. His killer pals had college degrees. He got expelled from high school. He snapped that pic of Gail Miller’s bush and blitzed his shot at a higher education.
Crutch waited. The foyer was velvet-flocked and gilt-mirrored. Caustic fumes wafted from the next room. The Vegas paper sat on a table. Wayne made the headline, secondhand.
The LVPD hung a posthumous beef on a shine named Pappy Dawkins. Said beef: the Wayne Senior snuff. “Heart attack”-bullshit. It was a sop to appease the family.
His killer pals made headlines. His killer pals rigged headlines. The inside rumor: Wayne offed his old man.
Crutch leaned against the wall. The flocking made him sneeze. Wayne and Froggy let him live. Yeah, he bluffed them. Yeah, he built the fail-safes. But, he had to spill.
He’d spilled partial. He spilled that Dr. Fred Hiltz hired him. Go, kid- goose Farlan Brown and Count Dracula. It’s a thieving girlfriend gig. They grokked that part of it and believed him. He did not spill on Gretchen Farr as Celia Reyes or on Joan Rosen Klein. He did not reveal the foreign passports or Sam G.’s calls to Gretchen/Celia or the dead woman in Horror House.
Wayne opened the door and walked past him. No nod, fuck you, you’re this bug I don’t see. Crutch chased his shadow. A stink announced the chem lab. It was all vats and beakers on shelves.
Crutch hovered in the doorway. Wayne pressed a beaker up to his hairline. It was a Shit, I’ve got a headache thing.
“You wanted in. Okay, you’re in. If you do what Mesplede and I tell you to do, you may survive. If you lie to us or steal from us or double-deal us or withhold information from us, we will kill you and bluff our way out of the jeopardy that you placed us in.”
Crutch gulped. His Adam’s apple popped. He stretched out his tie. Let those little 2’s show.
“I’ve killed two men. I’m committed to the Cuban Freedom Cause.”
Wayne gave him This Look. “The ‘Cuban Freedom Cause’ is right-wing bullshit. Mesplede is a deluded firebrand, I am not, and I would advise you not to become one. If indeed you did kill two men, it was out of your kid desire to suck up to Mesplede or your fear that he would kill you if you disobeyed him. Don’t jerk my chain with your kid bullshit. Don’t give me a reason to kill you.”
Crutch said, “Okay.” He smirked like Scotty B. He willed his voice octaves deep.
Wayne said, “You work with Mesplede. Your job is to disrupt Hubert Humphrey’s campaign rallies, for three hundred dollars a week. Humphrey’s travel schedule is coming, so you talk to Clyde Duber, get a left-wing front list and find some politically motivated fools to help you out. You do not indulge your extracurricular kid activities on my time card. Do you understand me?”
Powder fumes swirled. The lab felt toxic. Crutch wiped his nose. Wayne laughed at him.
“I talked to Farlan Brown this morning. He’s willing to forgive you for any kid shit you might have pulled while you were working for Fred Hiltz. He told me to tell you that Gretchen Farr took him for $25,000, and you can keep half if you find her and make restitution. He told me that at one point he bribed an alcoholic chum of yours off the case with an anonymous payment, because he feared unfavorable publicity, but now that you’re working for me, you might as well stick with it, on a contingency basis.”
Crutch grinned. Wayne revived This Look. Crutch un-grinned quick.
Wayne swallowed three aspirin. “Brown told me to forward this information to you. He said he got suspicious of Gretchen once and went through her closet. He saw an airline stewardess’ uniform, with no airline designation and a name tag with the first name Janet. That’s all he told me, and now I’ll tell you. Do what you want with this, on your own time. Do not neglect your duties for me, and tell Dr. Fred and Clyde Duber that you’re withdrawing from this idiot ‘case’ as of now.”
Crutch held off a sneeze. Wayne said, “Get out of here. Common sense keeps telling me to kill you.”
“Work F.B.’s stewardess lead.”
“Giancana bootleg #-???”
“To date: no viable police paperwork on GF. Can’t ask Scotty B. about JRK’s (‘51 amp; ‘53) armed-robbery arrsts (no #s to indicate convictions) without alerting Clyde. Likewise, can’t request JRK Fed file. Per GF/CR: check nationwide birth recs or assume foreign parentage?”
“GF/CR amp; victim: check local PD Intelligence, Vice amp; missing person files while on campaign trip.”
Crutch drew on his wall graph. His head bounced-L.A. to Vegas and back in four hours. His nose still itched. Wayne dismissed him with “Good-bye, Dipshit.”
He needed more graph paper. He needed more file boxes. He might need a third file pad. Wayne warned him: do not withhold information. His case was high-risk now.
Crutch scanned the graph. Words swam. Through lines and clue nuggets cohered. He studied Joan’s mug shots. He pulled a floor lamp up and made her gray streaks glow.