Blood's a rover

129

(Los Angeles, 5/1/72)

May Day.

Red flags swirled up Silver Lake Boulevard. Political banners were mixed in. END THE WAR, BLACK PRIDE, WOMEN’S RIGHTS. Marchers diverting traffic. Pissed-off cops working overtime.

Joan watched from the terrace. Dwight’s binoculars got her in close. She recognized faces from Free the Rosenbergs, twenty years ago.

She’d be leaving soon. Their paper was built. She’d start out again as Jane Anne Kurzfeld. Karen was set to go. She wouldn’t reveal her surname. They’d communicate through phone drops.

She had a good sum of money. She gave Karen an equal amount. Jack would administer the rest.

Cars skirted the parade route. Some drivers honked for peace. Some drivers lobbed balloons filled with piss and flipped off the marchers.

The boy disappeared. Something was distressing him the last time they met. Karen agreed with her. He’s persistent and rich in synchronicity. We’ll leave him our paperwork.

Joan lit a cigarette, took two hits and snuffed it. She shouldn’t. That change in her body had persisted. Yes, I’m sure this is it.

(Washington, D.C., 5/1/72)

May Day.

Red flags and yippies, aging peaceniks galore. Boocoo banners and causes. Mounted cops like Chicago in ‘68. Nowhere near the bloodshed.

A few skirmishes, a few chases, some tramplings. Goofballs with red spray paint, ghouls in Nixon masks.

He blended in. He wore paste-on hippie hair. His mustache and beard itched. His headpiece fit askew. His overstuffed knapsack enhanced the effect.

He flew in two days ago. He pseudonymed his ticket and his hotel-stay stats. He cruised the target three times. The basement door looked impregnable. The basement fuse box looked easy. The laundry-room window was always ajar.

No live-in help. No stakeout Feds parked outside. No watchdogs.

She’d ask him if he did it. He’d wink like Scotty Bennett. He’d say, “I’m not telling you.”

The day marches became night parties. He hung out at Lafayette Park. The White House was across the street. He got Tricky Dick elected. The Frogman assisted. It was a billion pre-Red years ago.

Hippies smoked weed and cavorted. A few chicks went topless. Cops made pro forma passes through.

Crutch ambled off to Rock Creek Park. D.C. was full of squares and renegades. Nobody noticed him.

He hit a Texaco station and changed back to his normal duds. He cut up his camouflage threads and hair and flushed them. He walked into the park and found a quiet spot. We’re on-go for midnight.

The L.A. papers tagged Chick Weiss a drug OD. Phil Irwin held his mud. He remembered some things Joan told him. Esteban Sanchez kicked through his head.

It was muggy. Night insects bombed him. He was secluded. Fireworks popped on the other side of the park.

The countdown was endless. His watch hands got de-sprung. Midnight hit finally. He was woozy up to 12:03. Bam-reserve adrenaline popped on.

He walked, he ambled, he strolled. Nice night, nice neighborhood. I’m a nice kid lugging school clothes home to my mom’s.

There’s Northwest Thirtieth Place. There’s the driveway. There’s the neo-Georgian house.

Por la Causa. Be brazen, be bold.

The window was unscreened and ajar. He walked over, pushed the sill up and vaulted in. He hit the floor light on his feet.

The downstairs lights were off. The kitchen smelled like Lemon Pledge. He’d seen photos in Antique Monthly and diagrammed floor plans. He pulled his penlight and walked to the basement door.

It was locked. He inserted a #6 pick and popped the tumblers. Outside access was impossible. Inside access was easy.

He walked down the stairs. He narrow-dialed his beam.

It was his file space and Wayne’s file space and Reggie’s lab gone mammoth. The basement ran the length and breadth of the house. The ceiling was raised for more paper. The shelves topped Mount Matterhorn and almost scraped clouds.

He had forty-four paper bombs, mesh-netted and screw-topped. He uncinched the duffel bag and placed them shelf by shelf. He got to the bottom. His heart-attack potion had spilled. His syringe had been crushed.

He stood there. A million voices said, “Dipshit, Peeper, pariguayo.” He covered his ears. It didn’t stop them. The voices beat on him. He sat on the floor and let them yell themselves out.

He put on his gas mask. He ran through the basement. He popped all forty-four screw tops.

The fumes went up.

Colored clouds rose.

The walls contained them.

Paper singed, curdled, crackled and charred. Little explosions went off. The file shelves rattled. Paint peeled off the walls. The fumes turned re-colored: dark/light, dark/light. Paper flecks vaporized in thin air.

Crutch walked up the steps and shut the door behind him. The kitchen light snapped on. Mr. Hoover stood by the fridge.

Crutch reached in his pocket and pulled out the emerald. Mr. Hoover trembled and homed in on it.

The sparkle was incessant. It eyeball-magnetized. The green glow grew and grew. Mr. Hoover weaved and drooled. Mr. Hoover clutched his chest and staggered upstairs.