Blood's a rover

89

(Los Angeles, 12/8/70)

Chick Weiss dug Negro art. Afro stuff and island stuff. Virility statues and armless spirit guards with wings.

They cluttered up his office. Doorstops and desk knickknacks. Carved wood with deep eyes sunk in.

Crutch and Phil Irwin pulled chairs up. A Zulu god stood between them. He was half life-size. His dick was three-headed. His rhinestone eyes looked cheap.

Chick prepped a panatela. He had a black-goddess cigar prop. He spread her legs, stuck the cigar in and severed the tip. He pushed a button. Her mouth wooshed out a flame.

Phil dug it. Crutch looked away. Chick cleared space and dumped his feet on the desk.

“Camera job. Papa’s a billboard mogul and mama’s a flower-power chick. Papa’s tight with LAPD. One of his guys showed him a surveillance tape of that Griffith Park love-in. Mama’s blowing a guy by the merry-go-round. Papa hired Clyde to get the goods on him. They’re shacking at the Sunset Breeze Motel on alternate Tuesdays. I want you to get in subtle. Live film, bubbles. No hit-and-run snapshots on this one.”

Crutch stood up. Phil stood and hangover-weaved. He bumped the Zulu god. Some sequins dropped off his dick.

Chick said, “Go, you fucking heathens. This is priceless art you’re so frivolous to.”

The day was hot. Phil bribed the desk guy. Crutch B amp;E’d the tryst room and fucked up the AC. They air-cracked the window. The camera lens would fit in. Phil said Chick was perved on surveillance film. He had a full library. He loved to watch plain-Jane chicks and chump Charlies fucking. It was illegal and unethical. Chick didn’t care. He had clout. He threw perv-film parties for the L.A. elite.

They car-staked the lot. Phil pressed Crutch on his recent shit. He kept it zipped. Unit 6 was their target. The flanking units were hippie hives. The geeks blasted loud rock all day. That meant air cover.

Crutch sipped coffee. Phil sipped 151. They schmoozed gossip and Mando Ramos at the Olympic. Freddy O. bought Tiger Kab-what a fucking hoot.

Phil loaded the camera. The target car pulled up. The wife and the hippie stud entered Room 6.

Crutch flash-shot them. His camera date-scrolled the arrival time. Phil lugged the film camera up to the window crack.

He poked the lens in. He hit the On switches. The film cans were full. Roll it, C.B.

The camera ran soundless. It was cool. Visuals sufficed for California divorce. The wife and the hippie were loud. Crutch heard it over the rock noise. Cameraman Phil popped in earplugs.

Crutch tried to doze. Fuck me, fuck me’s killed it. Chick’s goddamn statues. Red rhinestone eyes. Wings where arms should be.

The love-nest door opened. Phil pulled out the camera and crouched. The wife and hippie shagged their sled and split. Phil carried the camera over.

“They went sixty-nine. I got the setup shot and the whole thing in one take. Chick will groove it.”

Crutch said, “You’re a loser.”

Phil grabbed his crotch and grinned.

She sent her card early. Christmas was weeks off. This one: postmarked Amarillo, Texas.

Crutch pocketed the five-spot. Crutch placed the card in his file box. ‘55 to ‘70-sixteen cards total. Margaret Woodard Crutchfield covers half the U.S.

His closet was file-stuffed. He hung his clothes in the bathroom. His case file ran six boxes here. He had nine boxes stashed downtown.

He looked out the window. Christmas lights were up. Yeah, it’s a ritual. Yeah, you should go.

He stole the red flag from Wayne’s file cove. He taped it to his dashboard. He’d ripped up his Joan pictures. It was a de-hexing move. Hancock Park was dead without the Joan pix. He needed her for juxtaposition.

Eight months home. Residual shell shock. He still can’t sleep. He can’t work his case. His nightmares are banal now. Barbiturates subsume them. He works for Clyde and chauffeurs part-time. Freddy Otash bought Tiger Kab. Wayne Tedrow had cash-drained it. Freddy got it cheap.

It’s a black lifestyle hub. It panders to hepcats, militants, and Motown fools slumming. Sonny Liston makes the scene. Rock Hudson trolls for dark dick in tigrified limos. Redd Foxx brings cocaine and moon pies. The white drivers wear tiger-stripe tuxes. The spades dig the slave roles reversed.

His case, Wayne’s case, the heist. Three cases united. He saw Wayne’s trove in April. He’s been immobilized since then. He thinks about it. He follows the loop.

L.A. to the D.R. and Haiti. Back here again. He’s tracking Gretchen Farr. She ripped off Fred Hiltz. She’s aka Celia Reyes. She kisses Joan. He sees Horror House. Body parts, voodoo powder, green glass. Celia’s linked to the D.R. Celia’s got a codebook. Months of code work. Success. Book symbols match the death-house signs. He ID’s the victim: Maria Rodriguez “Tattoo” Fontonette.

Joan and Celia are deep Red. Tattoo betrays the Cause. She ends up dead at Horror House. Celia’s embroiled with Sam G. She wants to fuck up the casino sites. Crazy Wayne gets there first. He gets mobbed up. He bugs Sam’s hotel room. He’s pushing dope with Luc Duhamel. Luc zombifies him. He hears “loose emeralds,” “1964,” “Laurent-Jean Jacqueau.” It’s all connected.

He’s back in L.A. He’s adjunct to Dwight Holly’s Fed gig. He’s bugging Marsh Bowen. “Marsh, it is Leander James Jackson.” That means it’s Laurent-Jean Jacqueau.

It’s all connected. Marsh lived at 84th and Budlong Then. Marsh is tight with Scotty B. Now. Their peace pact preceded “the Black-Militant Blastout.”

Wayne’s file. Weird emerald giveaways. Reginald H., long missing. Reggie splits Vegas two months pre-heist. The kid knows chemistry. The kid studied Haitian herbs. Joan taught Reginald at the Freedom School. Joan bailed him out of jail. It’s December ‘63. The heist bodes.

Joan’s omnipresent. She’s Dwight Holly’s snitch and probable lover. Dwight’s rubber room-resting. Where’s Joan and why can’t I find her?

Crutch drove to 2nd and Plymouth. Dana’s Christmas lights were up. Her tree filled the front window. Gift boxes were stacked branch-high.

Corny music-Ray Conniff-her usual yule slush.

He bought her a cashmere sweater at Bullock’s. It was black and cable-knit. Elk horns fit through little toggles.

It was Christmas-wrapped. He walked up and placed it on the welcome mat. He rang the bell and vamoosed.

Radical chic:

Four Tiger kabs peeled out of the lot. Crutch saw FranЗois Truffaut, some black dudes and Hanoi Jane herself. A Tiger stretch rumbled up. Phil Irwin drove it. His tiger tux shed faux fur all over the seat. His passengers: Chick Weiss, Cйsar Chavez and Leonard Bernstein.

The stretch bombed southbound. Crutch walked into the hut. Fred O. worked the switchboard. Redd Foxx sniffed coke. Milt C. had Junkie Monkey up on his lap. Sonny Liston was toking maryjane.

Junkie Monkey said, “March 8, Jew York City. Muhammad Ali versus Smokin’ Joe Frazier. See it on closed-circuit TV at Tiger Kab, the home of the Coon Cartel.”

Sonny blew smoke in Junkie Monkey’s face. Milt made the Junkster gag and cough.

“Ali is a sissified draft dodger. Islam is a gutter religion. Ali takes it up the shit chute from Gamal Abdel Nasser and the Dishonorable Elijah Muhammad.”

Redd Foxx howled. White powder and snot flew. Fred O. yukked. Crutch haw-hawed.

Sonny unwrapped a morphine suppository. Quick hands: he dug into his pants and popped it up his ass.

“Come on, kid. You’re driving me to Vegas.”

The champ nodded out at San Berdoo and passed out at Barstow. Crutch Dexedrine-all-nightered. I-15 was dead. Crutch drove 105. The desert was dead cold. Six zillion stars burned.

The radio hummed low. Mountain ranges broke up reception. Crutch caught an oldie string. Circa ‘60 prom songs. The Peeper Magical Mystery Tour.

The music re-sputtered. Crutch flicked off the dial. Sonny yipped like a dog in a dream.

Crutch checked the rearview. Sonny was prone, with his feet out the window. Sand blew into the car. Sonny said, “Shit.”

“Are you okay, champ?”

“Don’t call me ‘champ.’ ‘Champ’s’ what you call all them stumblebum sparring partners you see on skid row.”

“Okay, boss.”

Sonny lit a cigarette. He torched the filter, dropped the match and tried again. Six more swipes got him combustion.

Crutch said, “I saw you fight Wayne Bethea. You kicked his fucking ass.”

Sonny dog-yawned. “I knew a cat named Wayne. He kept killing black guys he didn’t want to. That boy just didn’t have no hate for anybody, but shit kept finding him. He kept trying to find niggers to kill and niggers to save, and this woman of his thought it was all the same goddamn thing.”

They hit a rise. The Vegas Strip emanated. Colored lights compressed by darkness.

Sonny said, “Drop me at the Sands. I’m meeting some people.”

Crutch goosed the gas. He felt re-hexed and de-hexed. Sonny dropped three RDs in his tux pocket. His tiger koat was all pilled-fur balls up the wazoo.

“Don’t deadhead back. Park somewhere and rest up.”

It was 4:00 a.m. The Strip was a-go-go. Lots of cabs and golf-cart travel. The carts were wet bar-fitted. The passengers quaffed cocktails, the drivers swerved.

Crutch pulled up to the Sands. Sonny laid a C-note on him and ruffled his hair. The coffee shop was glass-fronted. People saw the crazy limo and howled.

Sonny got out. People waved. He weaved into the coffee shop. Mary Beth Hazzard walked over and hugged him.

The dexies fought off the RDs. He parked the limo under the Stardust and thrashed until noon. His tiger tux shed. Fur threads tickled his snout. He felt full-force-fucked in the soul.

He gave up on sleep and opted for pancakes. A short stack and coffee re-vivified him. Do it, fucker. You’ll get re-zombified if you don’t.

He drove to the Hotel Workers’ Union. The limo took up two parking slots. He got some pissy looks. They turned to yuks quick. His tiger tux was a roar.

A janitor gave him directions. He was all pins and needles. Her office door was open. She looked up from her desk.

He said, “I’m sorry about Wayne.”

She put down her pen.

He said, “He tried to warn me about some things.”

She straightened her desk blotter.

He said, “I see things that other people don’t see. I know how to find people.”

She opened her purse and pulled out a key ring.