Blood's a rover

115

(Los Angeles, 3/19/72)

Sultan’s Sam’s. The Sandbox at 8:00 a.m.-far-out surreal.

Scotty had a key. Sambo snitched for ATF and LAPD. Sambo hosted retirement bashes. Redd Foxx performed for instant bail release. Redd worked the room like a mofo. He was a closet white-pig groupie.

The booth section needed a sweep-up. The bandstand was a scrap heap. The Soul Survivors left all their shit onstage. The walls were lime velour. They absorbed cigarette smoke. The rugs were deep shag. They absorbed piss.

Keep it short. Summitry was brevity. Hold your nose, shake hands and split.

Scotty sat in a back booth. He lit a cigarette, took two hits and snuffed it. He left the door ajar. Dwight Holly walked in.

The dim light hit him. He eye-adjusted in the doorway. He got his bearings. He saw Scotty and joined him.

Their knees brushed under the table. They scooched around and created some space.

“Thanks for coming.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it.”

“It won’t take long.”

Dwight said, “We’re both good negotiators. I think we’ll get there fairly quick.”

Scotty twirled an ashtray. Leftover butts spilled.

“You’ve told the others, right? You’re negotiating for them?”

Dwight shook his head. “We’ll cut the deal. I’ll make sure that they accept it. We all know it has to end. If you’re reasonable, we’ll get it done today.”

Scotty tipped his hat. “I thought you’d pat me down for a wire.”

“I thought you’d feel me up for an ankle piece.”

Scotty laughed. “It took so goddamn long for it all to fall together.”

“Mr. Hoover got some things going. I’ll concede that.”

“Just to let me know I’m not crazy. The heist was Jack Leahy, Joan Klein and that burned-up colored kid. It was all nutty political shit.”

Dwight smiled. “That’s about it.”

Scotty said, “I’m giving you a walk on the emeralds.”

Dwight said, “That’s white of you.”

“Leahy got the cash out.”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Slightly more than seven million.”

Scotty cracked his knuckles. “It’s all been washed? There’s no more ink stains?”

Dwight nodded. “Clean, non-consecutive bills. Fives up to hundreds. It’s the best-looking money you’ve ever seen.”

“I want half.”

Dwight shook his head. “40%.”

Scotty said, “45.”

Dwight said, “Deal.”

The room felt itchy and toxic. The velour was shredded. Scotty felt particles eat his skin.

“Let’s talk about Peeper. He’s a side issue here. I think he knows a lot of it.”

Dwight said, “I’m sure he does.”

“He’s been around forever. He knows all the players. He’s potential grief we don’t need.”

Dwight nodded. Scotty said, “He goes.” Dwight said, “No sale. I’ll up you to 50, but I don’t want him hurt.”

“Lets rethink this. The 50 is generous, but I have to insist.”

“No sale. I’ll give you another concession, but I’m not folding on him.”

A horn blared outside. Dwight jerked a bit. He was thin. His chest was bulked off-size. Odds on a load-stopper vest.

“We can’t have him peeping around and coming around with his hand out. The little fucker just will not desist.”

Dwight said, “No.” He jerked a little. His shirt stretched. The vest fabric showed underneath.

“I have to insist. It’s a rough go now, but you’ll thank me some day.”

“No. Let’s start over again. I’ll up you to 55 and give you one more free one. I step up, you step back, it all works.”

A horn blared. Dwight jerked. His hand dipped under the table. Scotty gripped the table ledge. Dwight watched his hands. Scotty read his mind. He’s thinking cross-draw or side-draw/vest or no vest?

Their eyes clicked. Their eyes held. Their hands disappeared.

Dwight fired. The shot ricocheted under the table. A seat cushion exploded. Scotty ducked and rolled low. He saw Dwight’s legs and gun hand. He pulled two throwdowns. Dwight fired twice. He hit the booth post and Scotty’s vest. Scotty flew back and bounced forward. The impact double-visioned him. He pushed the table up and over. Dwight fired. The bullet caromed and tore out his neck. The table fell on him. He gouted blood and shot wide. Scotty rolled out of the booth and fired two-handed. He hit Dwight in both legs and the groin. He shattered Dwight’s gun hand.

Dwight fired. A wall section ripped. Dwight dry-fired. His fingers didn’t work. The gun didn’t work. Blood covered the cylinder and the trigger. Scotty rolled close and kicked the gun out of his hand.

Dwight spat blood in his face. Scotty pulled his vest up and gut-shot him. The air was cloud-thick. The cordite fumes stung.

Scotty got his breath and his legs. He pat-checked himself. Okay-no grazes, no hits. They both shot revolvers. No stray shells extant.

He pulled out a roll of tiger-band C-notes. He tucked it in Dwight’s coat pocket. He rubbed his own chest. He felt the slug vest-embedded. Okay- you can walk now.

He did it casual. He stroooooled. He saw the mailbox on the corner and dropped the envelope in.

Snitch-out. Anonymous. Written in ghetto-ese. The L.A. Office would get it. Jack Leahy would see it. Rogue Fed D.C. Holly. He suborned and offed the Bostitch brothers. Look close, don’t act. The Enforcer’s good for the Peoples’ Bank.

Low clouds over darktown. Powder fumes out the door. A rainbow due south.

Lawdy-it’s 2/24/64 redux.