Brainstorm.
He got out his sketch pad. He drew a facial likeness of Gretchen Farr/Celia Reyes. He added an airline stew’s outfit with the Janet name tag.
The Yellow Pages-there by the phone.
Airlines. Compile a list. Canvassing duty on tap.
Something was fucked. It was Beverly Hills, it was 2:00 p.m., it vibed major grief,
A bottleneck in Fat City. BHPD black amp; whites peeling out, lights and sirens. Two K-cars, two meat wagons, two news vans.
Crutch followed the cop cars. They peeled up through the biz district and hit the rare-air zone. The grief vibe intensified: more K-cars, choppers, cops with leashed bloodhounds. He cut west on Elevado. Traffic was dead-stalled. He saw a big bluesuit swarm outside Hate House.
He ditched his car and ran there. He dodged stalled cars and cut across front lawns. He sprinted down the neighbor’s driveway and monkey-climbed the fence. The bluesuit swarm expanded. There’s the statues and the bomb shelter and Dr. Fred. He’s on a blood-soaked gurney. He’s got shotgun pellets and scorched bone for a face.
The bluesuits saw him. He recognized some guys. Someone yelled, “Crutchfield, go to the station!”
Clyde was there. Ditto Phil Irwin. Ditto Phil and Clyde’s Jew lawyer, Chick Weiss.
The Detective Bureau hall was packed. BHPD murders ran one per decade. It was a roundup. The fuzz were hauling in Dr. Fred’s KAs.
Clyde said, “It’s just routine. They saw my name, Phil’s name and Crutch’s name in Dr. Fred’s appointment book.”
Chick said, “It’s got to be one of his ex-wives. He was married seven times. I did all his divorces. He was the biggest alimony defaulter on the planet.”
Phil said, “Live by the sword, die by the sword. I think it’s black militants. He wrote all these anti-coon tracts, so the coons waxed his hate-monger ass.”
Crutch flashed on Gretchen/Celia. Crutch flashed on Joan. Crutch flashed on the cash-stuffed clothes bin.
Clyde said, “Nix on the militants, but it plays like a shine caper. I talked to the watch commander. He thinks it’s that boogie heist team that robbed those people in Brentwood.”
Chick said, “I’m a boogie art connoisseur. I dig Caribbean statuary. That doesn’t mean I dig boogie 211 PC’s.”
Phil said, “Live by the sword, die by the sword.”
Clyde rolled his eyes. Chick said, “As your lawyer, my advice is don’t reveal shit. Dr. Fred was dirty in countless fucking ways. You don’t want guilt by association.”
The intercom buzzed: “Donald Crutchfield. Captain’s office, please.”
Crutch walked over. The door was ajar. He stepped inside. Dwight Holly was standing there.
“Hello, Dipshit.”
Crutch shut the door. Confluence, Clyde’s word, it’s who you know and who you blow and how you’re all linked.
“People keep calling me that. I keep trying to show them otherwise.”
“It’s the bow tie with the polo shirt. It’s hard to see through to the real, dynamic you.”
Crutch leaned on the door. His chest throbbed. Bile crept up. He felt like he looked green. Dwight Holly tossed him an antacid mint. He caught it and popped it. Dwight Holly winked.
“Wayne explained the stalemate you created. I said, ‘Let’s kill him anyway,’ but softer minds prevailed. If you want to look for that woman who skimmed Farlan Brown, swell. Obey orders, you live. Disobey them, c’est la guerre.”
Crutch shut his eyes and saw Dr. Fred faceless. Triple-aught buckshot. Big game-stopping loads. He tasted blood in his mouth. He’d bit his gums raw.
Dwight Holly said, “Mr. Hoover wants this homicide short-shrifted. Some jigs pulled a robbery and it got out of hand. Dr. Fred was a Bureau informant, a hate peddler, a dope fiend and a compulsive pussy hound. It was a high-risk lifestyle, and the world will not mourn. Are you starting to see your role in this?”
Crutch opened his eyes. “He had a bomb shelter. There was a big hamper full of-”
“The shelter was ransacked and the money is gone. Some jigs pulled a robbery and it got out of hand. They’ll blow the money on dope, Cadillacs and mink coats for their bitches, they’ll continue pulling robberies until some white cops shoot and kill them. Now, are you starting to see your-”
“Don’t tell BHPD about the Gretchen Farr gig. Don’t mention Dracula or Farlan Brown. Lie. Dissemble. Prevaricate. Don’t bring up you, Wayne, Freddy O., Mesplede, or any other dipshit-killer friends you might have. Don’t embarrass your pansy boss, Mr. Hoover.”
Dwight Holly grinned. “I thought I detected a brain there.”
Crutch swallowed some blood. Dwight Holly tossed him another mint. It fell short and hit the floor.
“May I ask you a question about your tie and your haircut?”
“Sure.”
“Do you have an unseemly crush on Sergeant Robert S. Bennett?”
Crutch said, “Fuck you.”
Dwight Holly roared.
37
(Las Vegas, 9/15/68)
Files, graphs, lists. His suite was a chem lab/paper mill.
Teamster Fund book loan defaulters. Deadbeats and stiffs. Transaction files and credit sheets. Debit-projection files and cost-analysis studies.
Wayne read files and jotted figures. He worked with a scratch pad and three different pens. His back hurt from hunkering down and his fingers hurt from writing. His eyes hurt from file reads and column-figure scans.
Let’s co-opt the Steve’s Kingburger chain in Akron, Ohio. Let’s buy a mall site in Leawood, Kansas. Let’s co-opt the Pizza Pit chain and wash casino skim through it. Let’s annex three low-life clubs in South L.A.: The Scorpio Lounge, Sultan Sam’s Sandbox and a dyke den named Rae’s Rugburn Room. Let’s grab the Peoples’ Bank of South Los Angeles, for its laundry potential. Let’s usurp Black Cat Cab. It’s an all-cash biz, it’s near the Peoples’ Bank, it’s close to the border and our foreign-casino sites.
Wayne put his pen down. He was wiped. He got off the dope that got him through West Vegas and the Grapevine. He got through his sobbing fits over Janice. He was getting fit again. He was getting impervious, because-
He was working.
He was mediating and colluding. He was working for Carlos Marcello and for and against Howard Hughes. Drac’s hotel spree was forestalled by Justice Department edict. Tricky Dick would put the skids to that, should he prevail at the polls. His dirty-tricks squad would lend support.
He was dispatching. Jean-Philippe Mesplede was set to scout casino-site countries. Mesplede was a mixed-bag grande plus. He was tireless and competent and prone to sentimental gaffes. He let the numbnuts kid live. The kid’s fail-safes were borderline sound. Borderlines were tenuous. He projected Dipshit’s life span as roughly six months.
The kid was a shit magnet. So was he. So was Dwight Holly.
Dwight called him yesterday. His news: the Fred Hiltz homicide. Mr. Hoover wanted it entombed. That was good: Drac and Farlan Brown might get offshoot publicity. He told Dwight his Don Crutchfield story. Dwight said, “Should I kill him?” Wayne said, “Not yet.”
He yawned and grabbed The. File. It ran four pages. Dwight pulled strings and shagged it for him.
LVPD-Clark County Sheriff’s: Missing Person Case #38992. Reginald James Hazzard/male Negro/DOB 10/17/44.
Scant and bleak. Pro forma: missing colored kids rated zilch.
Reginald Hazzard was a high school honors grad. He took college classes, worked in a car wash, kept his snout clean. The cops interviewed a few neighbors, learned zero, case closed.
The folder was unscuffed. The paper smelled new. It was an un-visited and un-mourned document.
He’d called Mary Beth three times. She never answered. He called at one-day intervals and let the phone ring twenty times.