Blood's a rover

112

(Los Angeles, 1/22/72-3/18/72)

He got the word late. It knocked him down. It sent him sideways.

He’d spent weeks running one way. It sent him running back and running out and sitting still to think. He missed him more than anything. He had a friend in this. The friend fucked him and ran. He missed him anyway.

Marsh got snuffed in Haiti. He knew that he’d fled there. He stiffed an LAPD query and got a late response. He couldn’t go there. His white-pig status would deep-six him. Extradition was out. Marsh was AWOL, but Marsh was clean. IA cops searched his house. They found fruit-bar listings in his address book. They interviewed Scotty. You and Marsh clashed in ‘68-tell us about it.

He tattled Marsh’s Fed-plant deal. The IA guys jumped on it and braced Dwight Holly. Dwight told them Marsh did an outstanding job. The IA guys laid out dumb-ass theories. Marsh ratted black militants. It might be belated revenge.

Scotty pooh-poohed it. Haiti-who cares. Let it go. Call it a fag junket. Don’t reveal his fruitness. Don’t soil LAPD. Don’t shit on his elderly dad.

Marsh might have left a diary. That prospect gored him. He tossed his crib and found a stash hole in a ceiling beam. It reeked of leather and paper. Obvious-Marsh took the diary with him. IA decided to drop the case. It was best all around. The “Black-Militant Blastout” cop’s a swish. He won the Medal of Valor-go figure that.

The news curveballed him. He’d been hamstrung and schizzed all the preceding weeks. He brooded in his den. He worked stakeouts. He took Ann and the kids to Disneyland. He took four of his girlfriends to Vegas on consecutive weekends. He spread tip cash around darktown and waited for callbacks. Who’s the Commie woman?

Marsh was always secretive. They pulled outrageous shit together. Marsh rabbited and held his mud. He respected him for it. He walked on their shit. Marsh died behind it. Fucking Haiti-flying centipedes and voodoo. Marsh was a closet mystic. He talked that jive sometimes. Reggie and the emeralds-a dead-issue bust. The money was another thing.

Somebody tipped Marsh. The fruit summit had just ended. Suspects: Sal M., Fred O., Peeper C. Sal and Fred had no motive. That left Peeper. He spent weeks thinking it through.

Peeper was ubiquitous. He drove around and peeped and kept his yap zipped. Fred O. implied that he knew things. He’s seen shit and done shit- don’t short-shrift that kid.

Peeper lived in his head. So did he, lately. The heist lived all in his head now. Marsh was there that day. So was he. They knew what it meant and why they had to have it. No one else did.

He postponed the Peeper issue. He cruised by the wheelman lot and induced fear. Pieces fell together at the summit. It came down to this:

Jack Leahy worked the heist. The details didn’t matter. He went in with the bank team. He got the money out first.

It’s a soft confrontation. He’ll see the light and okay the split.

He saturated the southside. Mr. Scotty spreeeeads that long green. He got big consensus leads last week.

The probable call: Joan Rosen Klein. She’s got a hard-Left pedigree. There’s missing cop files. There’s 211 rumors. She’s a Federal informant. She might be Big Dwight’s squeeze.

He tallied all his tip sheets. He chewed breath mints and worried it. It felt kosher. She’s Red, she’s wrong. She’s been margin-hopping black-militant shit since ‘68.

She mandates a rogue-cop summit. One order of business: the extended cash split.

It supersedes all agendas. It’s essentially left-wing. Let’s share the wealth. I don’t want to cause pain.

He taps Dwight. Dwight taps Jack and Joan. The dollar count depletes. It’s big coin just the same.

He missed Marsh. It stuck with him. He did this grand-gesture thing.

The fruit gig went kaput. Fred O. returned half of his money. He cut a check and sent it to Marsh’s dad in Chi-town.

Hey, pops. Our deal went south, but I was fond of your kid.