Blood's a rover

16

(Las Vegas, 8/10/68)

The squadroom was dead. LVPD ran a light crew from midnight on. Four detectives caught city-wide squeals. They got paid to doze at their desks or shag ass.

They slept. Dwight couldn’t sleep. The desert fire still torqued him. He went by the Golden Cavern an hour back. Fred Otash was still up. They discussed his St. Louis trip. Freddy spent time at the Grapevine. The hit rumors: still escalating. The purveyors: six right-wing fucks. The ATF surveillance: intermittent, but sustained. The upshot: we can’t go in with ATF hovering. We hold for now.

Dwight yawned. Late-night squadrooms consoled him. They were cop still-life tableaux. The St. Louis SAC pledged a late-night teletype. Dwight chair-perched by the machine.

The squadroom was quiet. The cops dozed. The detention-cage winos snored. The teletype machine rattled. Dwight pulled a sheet out.

Terse and shitty news. Be advised: ATF has Grapevine Tavern under lockstep surveillance.

Dwight tore the sheet up and trash-canned it. A patrol cop ran in. He was a beanpole rookie type in a lather. He yelled his good news and woke the crew up.

Body count! Somebody nailed that hump Pappy Dawkins and some shine preacher!

The street was sealed. Dwight badged the perimeter cop and pulled right up to the tape. Inside it: three patrol cars, one coroner’s car and two dead jigs on gurneys.

Live jigs outside the tape: geeks in nightgowns, skivvies and pajamas. A fatso was snarfing chicken wings at 4 fucking a.m.

Two patrol cops by the house. Buddy Fritsch in civvies, looking justifiably freaked.

Dwight whistled long and shrill. Fritsch heard it and looked over. Dwight pointed to his Fed sled. Fritsch blew off the patrol cops and walked straight up.

Dwight opened the back door. Fritsch got in. He had the shakes. He pulled a hip flask and took two maintenance pops. Dwight got in and shut the door. Two tall men-their knees brushed.

“So?”

“So, who do you think? I got me four eyewits. White man walks in, shots fired, white man walks out. He’s six-one, one eighty, pale, with dark hair. Sound like anyone we know?”

The flask booze smelled good-heavy-sweet bourbon. Fritsch took two more pops.

“Wayne blew his cork again. When that boy don’t know what to do, he just goes out and hunts niggers.”

Mumbo jumbo down the block. Dwight looked over. Fatso led some Zulus in a black-power cheer.

Fritsch sucked on his flask. “To boot, I got me a morgue call. Janice Tedrow took some pills and checked out.”

Dwight said, “How much?”

“No, siree. I’m sorry, but there ain’t no buyout on this one.”

“How much, Buddy? You, Woodrell, the AG and anyone else we need to square this.”

Fritsch shook his head. “Uh-uh. No sale. Your boy don’t get no walk on this one.”

Dwight tugged at his law-school ring. “Give me a figure. Be generous with yourself. I’ll get you the money and let you grease everyone else.”

Fritsch shook his head. “Uh-uh. No sale. Sorry, Wayne, but you killed two coons too many. This is 1968, son. ‘The times, they are a-changin’.’ ”

Dwight laughed. Fritsch laughed. Dwight said, “Pick a figure.”

“Uh-uh. No sale. This is one that you and Mr. Hoover can’t buy Junior out of.”

“Are you sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. I am absolutely, positively goddamn sure that there’s no price tag on this one.”

“One last time, then. For the record.”

Fritsch jabbed Dwight’s chest. “For the record, no. For the record, you put some hurt on me a little while back, and that’s all the guff I’m taking from you. You may be Mr. Hoover’s number-one goon, but I am a ranking police officer and a decorated World War II vet, and I am not eating any more shit dispensed by some Hoosier hard-on who thinks he’s tough shit ‘cause he went to Yale.”

Dwight smiled and pointed to the flask. Fritsch smiled and passed it over. Dwight took a big pop and passed it back. Fritsch grinned and stretched. His suit coat gapped. Dwight pulled off his belt gun and stuffed it under the seat. Fritsch swallowed. His Adam’s apple bob-bob-bobbed.

Dwight pulled his Magnum, popped the cylinder and dumped five shells. Fritsch rolled his eyes-don’t shit a shitter. Dwight spun the cylinder and snapped it shut. Fritsch said, “You’re bluffing.”

Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber.

“How much?”

“Fuck you. You bluff, I call. I am a ranking police officer, and this is my crime scene.”

Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber. Buddy Fritsch shit his britches. Dwight caught the stench.

“How much?”

“Fuck you.”

Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber. Buddy Fritsch pissed his pants. Dwight watched the stain spread.

“How much?”

“Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you.”

Dwight put the gun to his head and pulled the trigger. The hammer hit an empty chamber. Buddy Fritsch sobbed.

Dwight said, “How much?” Fritsch kept sobbing. Dwight rolled down the window. He heard black-power chants and saw black fists raised.

Fritsch said, “Two hundred.”

Dwight said, “It’s yours.”

It required a proactive phone call. It recalled January ‘57. He left two dead on the Merritt Parkway. Mr. Hoover rescued him.

Dwight called from his hotel suite. He got two rings and “Yes?”

“It’s Dwight Holly, Sir.”

“Yes? And the most pressing emergency that you wish to discuss?”

“Wayne Tedrow killed two Negro men. I need a good deal of money to cover it, and I’d be grateful for your help.”

Mr. Hoover coughed. “And the amount?”

“Two hundred cold.”

“Is Junior in custody?”

“No, Sir.”

“And where would he be?”

“I would guess Wayne Senior’s cabin in Lake Tahoe.”

“Does he usually repose there after he kills male Negroes?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Does he watch the Soul Train TV show for upbeat entertainment and to expiate his guilt?”

“I would guess that he brews up narcotic compounds for the purposes of sedation and sleep.”

Mr. Hoover worked for breath. “You haven’t called me in a very long time, Dwight. It was January ‘58, I believe.”

“You’re close, Sir. It was ‘57.”

“Are you questioning my memory, Dwight?”

“No, Sir.”

“It was January of 1958. It was unseasonably warm that day on the Cross County Parkway.”

That night, icy roads, the Merritt-

“That’s right, Sir. I’d forgotten. It was so long ago.”

“I’ll wire the funds, Dwight. I’m as soft for you as you are for Junior.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“The Grapevine Tavern, Dwight. Outlandish talk is circulating. ATF cannot lockstep the location forever. That outrageous chatter will have to be muffled at some point.”

“I understand, Sir.”

“Good night, Dwight.”

He started to say “Good night, Sir.” Coughs and a hang-up click stopped him.

The kid had lost weight. His hair had thinned. Some fresh gray was there with the brown. He went fit to gaunt in a week.

The funeral home smelled like spearmint. Dwight caught embalming fluid as the underscent. Wayne sat beside Janice’s casket. The lid was closed. It was lustrous mahogany.

Dwight pulled a chair up. Wayne looked at him.

“Her golf clubs are in there.”

Dwight smiled. “She’d appreciate the touch.”

“I tried to warn him.”

“I figured it was that.”

“She was forty-six years, nine months and sixteen days old.”

“You’re a chemist. You’d know something like that.”

“You’re a lawyer. Tell me what this is about.”

Dwight said, “It’s chilled. I went to Mr. Hoover. If I went to Carlos, he’d have figured you’d lost it. Everyone will know sooner or later, so you’d better get back in the game.”

Wayne stood up and flanked the casket. He hovered and ran his fingers over the grain.

Dwight said, “We’ve still got the Grapevine.”

Wayne said, “I understand.”