Blood's a rover

91

(Los Angeles, 12/19/70)

Customs kicked loose. Rejected passport app. #1189, 3/14/64.

It’s two and a half weeks post-heist. Reggie’s in New Orleans. He applies for a passport, under his own name. He’s got bogus ID and gets nixed. The New Orleans office: known to be lax. The ID: forged, for sure.

Scotty put the phone down. The squadroom was quiet. His cubicle was clutter-free. He took two drags off a cigarette and stubbed it out. He started brain-jamming.

Reggie’s the linchpin. Reggie tries to split the country. He gets rebuffed in New Orleans. Did he try again? Did he get the passport and split successfully?

Jomo Clarkson, baaaad Negro. Jomo’s fed dope on Dr. Fred Hiltz. You heist that racist mofo. You scare him per 2/64.

Jomo said a “cutout” fed him the dope. “Cutout”: pure intelligencese. Jomo died abruptly, but try all this:

A woman prompted the fake Marsh Bowen. She told him to snitch Jomo. A woman phone-ratted Marsh as a queer. Dwight Holly observed his first Jomo grilling. The word woman quasi-torqued him.

Scotty lit another cigarette and took two more hits. His brain jam accelerated.

Junkie Monkey said, “I smells pig. I sees me a giant pork roast on two feet. Why dat porcine motherfucker wearing dat funny little tie?”

The loafing brothers chortled. Scotty doffed his hat and bowed. Sonny Liston froze, snorting. The dispatch table was all powdered up.

Fred O. plugged switchboard calls. Scotty pointed him out back. They worked Central nightwatch in ‘52. Freddy could carve a buck. Freddy had secret skills.

The lot needed a sweep-up. The discarded rubbers and malt-liquor cans offended him. Fred O. said, “Get my interest. It’s costing me money to talk to you.”

Scotty popped a Tums. “Fruit squeeze. There’s a homo I do not trust.”

Fred O. poked his ears with a Q-tip. “It’s an expensive proposition. You’ll need the bait, a bug man and a watchdog.”

“I can get you five grand.”

Fred O. pointed upward. Scotty said, “Ten.”

“Fifteen. Final call. Since we’re old-soldier buddies, I’ll get going on it and give you time to rouse the bread.”

Scotty said, “Okay.”

Fred O. said, “I worked a fruit squeeze with Pete Bondurant back in ‘67. We put the boots to a civil-rights cat. It was Fed-adjunct. A guy named Dwight Holly financed it.”

Scotty rolled his eyes. “I know Holly. I don’t want him privy to this.”

“Fine by me.”

“Give me the personnel.”

“Pete and I had a homicide wedge on Sal Mineo. He got miffed at his pansy boyfriend and sliced him. Fags dig his action. We could use him again.”

Scotty chewed his Tums. “I’ve met Sal. If it’s male, he’ll fuck it. He was a movie star for six seconds. My mark might go for that.”

Freddy lit a cigarette. “Fred Turentine for bug man and Phil Irwin for watchdog. Fred T.’s the best in the West. Phil’s a damn good wheelman, and he’s driving part-time for me.”

Scotty shook his head. “Phil’s an alky and a mud shark. Every gin joint and black girl he sees distracts his attention.”

Freddy shrugged. “Okay, the Crutchfield kid. He knows Sal, via Clyde Duber. He’s got balls in his own pervert way.”

Scotty bummed a cigarette, took two hits and tossed it.

“All right, I’m in. There’s three caveats at the start, though. One, this is an ace-in-the-hole gig for me. Two, I want to hold all the film and the snapshots. Three, I control the threat of exposure.”

“Sure. I’m cool with that. It’s your money, it’s your call.”

A Tiger kab peeled out. Wilt Chamberlain rode shotgun. The headliner smooshed his Afro.

“The mark’s a cop. We’ve got to be very careful. He’s not some silly faggot you can ride roughshod.”

“So Reggie files out of New Orleans and gets rejected. Let’s assume he files out of other offices with better ID or fake-name ID and gets rejected or accepted then. Another run of phone calls won’t cut it. We need to see the fucking reject files, because they’ve always got pictures. I’ve done some research. The most lax customs offices are Milwaukee, St. Pete and Lynn, Mass. Fucks with bum IDs or forged IDs hit those places first. You’ve got leave time accrued. You go there, you get badge-heavy, you check out the files.”

Pipers on Western. The 4:00 p.m. clientele: ambulance fools slurping coffee.

Marsh said, I’ll do it.”

Scotty said, “Right on, brother.”

“What about the Peoples’ Bank? I’m thinking we could brace Lionel Thornton.”

Scotty shook his head. “It’s too dicey. One, he’s up the ass of every L.A. politician worth half a shit. Two, you had a job there and learned nothing. Three, I put kid-cop plants in the bank in ‘66 and ‘67, and they learned nothing.”

Marsh picked at his food. He was finicky. He allllllllmost vibed swish.

Scotty ketchup-doused his french fries. “Okay, it’s ‘64. Dr. Fred’s looking to glom those emeralds. Now, it’s ‘68, and Dr. Fred gets 211’d and offed. Now, it’s ‘69. Jomo tells me that a ‘cutout’-his fucking term-told him to warn Dr. Fred about February ‘64.”

Marsh nodded. “Keep going.”

“Okay, you snitch Jomo, but it’s not really you. It’s spring ‘64. The Fed gig is hopping and you’re Dwight Holly’s plant. Wayne Tedrow’s your cutout, he’s looking for Reggie, too bad Reggie’s mama tossed his file, it’s water under the bridge and I’m betting Wayne was stretched too thin work-wise to make much progress on the search front. It’s the term cutout that keeps coming back to me. It’s stone intelligence-cop slang. I’m thinking there’s some kind of left-wing/right-wing/cop-confluence thing going on here.”

Marsh nodded. Scotty said, “Cherchez la femme.” Marsh shrugged. Brother, what you mean?

“There was a woman whispering to the fake you. Big Dwight hinks when I mention it. Let’s go to last March now. I get a tip that some Commie woman wants to unload three pounds of junk.”

Marsh scrunched his face up. Marsh smoooothed his face out. Instant reversal. Brother, dat vibes wrong.