Blood's a rover

53

(Los Angeles, 12/27/68)

Sap gloves broke bones and spared your hands. They maximized hurt and minimized self-damage.

Dwight beat on a bantamweight Negro named Durward Johnson. Lionel Thornton watched. Johnson looked like Billy Eckstine, minus the mustache. The gig went down behind Johnson’s house. Baldwin Hills was high-end colored. The alley was paved. Christmas lights lined the fence tops.

Dwight pulled his punches, went in light and broke bones regardless. Thornton stipulated face work. Johnson grasped a fence link and kept himself upright. Thornton stood out of spray range.

Jabs and right crosses. The cheeks and the jaw-don’t fuck with his eyes or his brain.

His nose broke audibly. His teeth dribbled off his split tongue. Dwight’s glove seams popped and leaked ball bearings. Johnson’s toupee flew off his head.

He stayed upright. He spit out cracked bridgework and hit Thornton’s shoes. Thornton smirked. Johnson said, “I fucked your wife, nigger.”

Dwight threw a big right. Johnson grasped the fence two-handed. Dwight stumbled and fell into the punch. It landed full force. It took Johnson and a stretch of fence links down. Dwight fell along with them.

The world went upended. Christmas lights blinked above him. He got up and helped Johnson up. Thornton was gone. Johnson weaved into a neighbor’s backyard and crashed in a pool chair.

Dwight pulled the gloves off and walked back to his car. A business card was stuck under the wiper blades.

Sergeant Robert S. Bennett/Robbery Division/LAPD. Below that: “Vince amp; Paul’s, 1 hour.”

That pedophile was nothing. The guy fucked with kids and Joan wanted him hurt. He showed Joan the Poloroid. The perv was beat to shit. She touched his arm then. He leaned into her and let their hands brush. They held the pose to tell each other something.

Durward Johnson was shitwork. Thornton was a maladroit dwarf. It was ugly. His hands ached. It gave him that hide-out-and-drink-yourself-well-again thirst.

Dwight flexed his hands. He had two sprained fingers. His cuticles bled. Ball bearings were jammed under his nails.

He called Joan before the Johnson job. They discussed Nixon’s inaugural. She said some rogue Reds were flying to D.C. They had guns traceable to a Florida bank job. They planned to wear Nixon masks and clout three banks on inauguration eve. Joan provided their names and addresses.

He called the Miami Office. The bank team nailed the fucks at the airport. They were en route to Austin, Texas. They planned to clout three banks dressed as LBJ.

He called Karen then. He offered her a monument bombing to celebrate the bust. Karen was headed to the hospital. Eleanora wanted out now. Dwight heard What’s-His-Name in the background.

Vince amp; Paul’s was slow. The waitresses wore Santa’s wench garb. Dwight squeezed three ball bearings out of his hands and bloodied the tablecloth. He ordered just-this-one-drink-and-no-more.

The waitress brought him a double scotch. The first sip warmed him, the second sip blared an alarm. He felt his legs return. Scotty Bennett slid into the booth.

“You should have told me.”

Dwight stirred his drink. “Who, in fact, did tell you?”

“Those cops you paid to whip on Bowen.”

“I’ll apologize in advance, then. It’s Mr. Hoover’s operation. He wanted you bypassed.”

Scotty sipped his bourbon-rocks. “You’re sheep-dipping Bowen. The Panthers and US are too well infiltrated, so you’re sending Bowen in to work the BTA and MMLF.”

Dwight said, “Off the record, yes. On the record, our greatest chance at success stems from Bowen’s altercation with you.”

Scotty chewed an ice cube. “Let’s get this back on the right footing. I want to see all Bowen’s reports and all the filed Bureau paperwork.”

Dwight said, “No.” Scotty killed his drink. His barmaid girlfriend brought him a refill.

“The BTA and MMFL are clowns. They’re not worth working. They couldn’t find their ass on a toilet seat.”

Dwight shook his head. “I disagree.”

“Why?”

“They’re career criminals with a valid grievance. A fair segment of this society condones their actions. There’s a rule of thumb to organizations like these. The most forceful psychopath assumes leadership and creates the agenda, and the BTA and MMLF have some doozies.”

Scotty smiled. “You talk like a lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer.”

“And you know about psychopaths, because you’ve spent twenty years doing strongarm jobs for Mr. Hoover.”

Dwight raised his drink-touchй.

“It’s that ‘valid grievance’ line I’m not buying.”

“Come on, Sergeant. We’re both white cops. We didn’t create the world, but we both know how it works and we both know you can’t let pissed-off coloreds cash in and fuck up the world because their people got a raw deal and some hopped-up white kids think they’re cool.”

Scotty cracked his knuckles. “If Bowen goes bad, on his own or in a context you placed him in, I will not hesitate to take him down for it. That means any and all criminal actions. That means I’ll go in unilaterally, without fear of you, Mr. Hoover, Chief Reddin or anyone else involved in this operation.”

Dwight cracked his knuckles. His shirt cuffs were exposed. They were blood-soaked.

“Will you keep quiet about this operation?”

“Yes.”

“Will you refrain from entrapping Marsh Bowen or going after him pro-actively?”

“Yes.”

“Will you inform me of any tips you may have picked up on the BTA or MMFL?”

“No.”

“Will you maintain a hands-off policy on the BTA and MMLF during this operation?”

“No.”

“Suppose I go over your head and talk to Chief Reddin?”

Scotty smiled. “You won’t do that. We both know where it would take us.”

Dwight smiled. “Let’s step back and give each other one concession.”

Scotty said, “I’ll go first. Will you inform me of any pending armed robberies to be performed by BTA or MMLF members?”

“Yes. My operating parameters are very strict on that. Bowen will inform me of pending robberies, and I will inform you.”

“And if Bowen has no knowledge and I learn of pending robberies on my own?”

Dwight raised his glass. “Then embellish your reputation and kill the motherfuckers with my best wishes.”

Scotty raised his glass. “What’s my concession?”

“Talk up your hatred of Bowen to cops, your informants, anyone who’ll listen to you. The more you hate him, the more clout he’ll have with the brothers.”

Scotty shrugged. “That’s not much of a concession. I’m doing it anyway.”

The jukebox snapped on. The music went LOUD. Dwight pulled the cord out. The music swooped and died. Dwight got a range of schizzed looks.

Scotty stretched. His shit got exposed: belt gun, shoulder gun, toad-stabber, knucks.

“It’s Christmas. Ask Santa for another concession.”

“Try not to kill Marsh Bowen. It goes against your nature, but it’s the white thing to do.”

Scotty said, “Deal.” His barmaid girlfriend walked over. Scotty motioned her away.

“You know, I have quite a few southside informants.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I picked up a nice tip today.”

“I’m listening.”

“Marsh Bowen is a faggot.”

The hospital sent a telegram to the drop-front. Eleanora Sifakis, seven pounds and four ounces, healthy. “Mother will call soon.”

Dwight poured himself just-one-more-drink and ice-packed his hands. His head swerved-Karen/Joan, Karen/Joan, Karen/Joan.

He sipped his drink. He salved his fingers. He swerved with Eleanora on earth and Marsh Bowen as a queer. The phone rang at 11:14 p.m.

He picked up. Wayne said, “I burned through most of the file pages, but all I got was one KA name. Thomas Frank Narduno. It sounded familiar to me, but I couldn’t place it. Ring any bells?”

Big bells:

The lefty Grapevine vic. Heist suspect: New York and Ohio. Bug devices found on his body.

Wayne said something about fluoroscopes and hydroxic acid. Dwight hung up and poured just-one-more-drink.

It burned and brought up shudders. Dwight dialed the scrambler-phone number.

No rings on scramblers. Just faint hiss and “Hello, Mr. Holly.”

“May I sleep with you tonight?”

Joan said, “Yes.”