Blood's a rover

92

(Los Angeles, 12/20/70)

Blak-O-Rama: “thй New Afrodesi-essence.”

Crutch skimmed the debut issue. Phil Irwin and Chick Weiss laid it on him. Phil dug the spade babes with wide-wing hair and crocheted bikinis. The lead piece ballyhooed Tiger Kab. It was “the hip hub of the New Black Masculinity.” It was a “social laboratory that shows that integration can work.”

Biz was slow. Crutch perched in a Tiger limo. His tiger tux had dandruff. The tiger seats had the mange. He had baaaaad eye strain. He’d read Wayne Tedrow’s file six times.

He stashed the file at his downtown pad. The new boxes engulfed the place. The read-throughs taught him this:

Wayne did not connect Reggie Hazzard to the armored-car heist. Wayne did not know that the heist linchpinned the whole thing. Wayne did not heist-connect Joan Rosen Klein. Wayne did not fully connect Laurent-Jean Jacqueau/Leander James Jackson. Wayne did not determine which tank-town jail Joan bailed Reggie out of. Wayne died before the “Black-Militant Blastout.” Wayne did not know that Scotty B. and Marsh B. were now partners. Wayne did not make the heist connection at all.

Crutch skimmed Blak-O-Rama. Key clients offered quotes. Wilt Chamberlain said, “Finest rides in L.A., baby.” Archie Bell said, “Tiger Kab sticks it to The Man.” Allen Ginsberg said, “Tiger Kab is multiracial avant-garde.”

Phil Irwin brodied into the lot. He kabbed Chick Weiss and a Cuban whore. Chick was wild-eyed off ludes. Buzz Duber brodied out of the lot. He kabbed Lenny Bernstein and a he-she mulatto.

It’s the hip new hub. Moonlighting wheelmen and dexie-drenched coffee. Tiger Kab rocks round the clock.

Crutch de-limo’d and walked the lot. Lenny the B. checked out his basket. Chick and Phil popped ludes and went aaaah.

Chick said, “ ‘No-fault.’ You heard it here first. It spells the death knell for you loafing cocksukers.”

Phil said, “It’s coming in. It’s part and parcel to all this permissive hippie shit that’s sweeping the country. You don’t have to show cause for divorce no more.”

Chick said, “That means shysters like me don’t pay perverts like you to kick in doors and peep windows.”

Phil said, “Perverts? That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” Chick shushed him. Lenny the B. popped a lude and went aaaah.

Crutch flipped them off and hopped into the hut. The Coon Cartel was up and at it. Milt C., Fred O., stray Panthers and cops. Sonny Liston, on a toot.

He held up the Vegas Sun. He quoted it loud.

“Ex-champ on skids. Former heavyweight kingpin residing in Brokesville. Numerous confidential sources have told this reporter that local resident Sonny Liston, onetime world heavyweight boss and fierce fistic fountainhead, may be filing for food stamps or looking for a Joe Louis-like casino-greeter job soon. His coin is rumored to be going, going, gone, the result of hellacious habits, and talk of a third fight with Muhammad Ali, should he survive his March 8 title tiff with Smokin’ Joe Frazier, is considered by fight pros to be no more than a passing pipe dream.”

Redd Foxx said, “Sounds true to me.” Junkie Monkey said, “I turn your sweet ass out. You never be broke if you peddlin’ that big black booty for me.”

Sonny said, “This is fucking bullshit. I got fourteen G’s in Kellogg’s Rice Krispies stock and six G’s in my pocket.”

Freddy signaled Crutch. They walked into the can. Freddy bolted the door.

“How’d you like to work a fruit shake? I’ll pay you two grand.”

Crutch swooned. “Shit, yeah. I’ll do it.”

“We want Sal Mineo for the bait. You know him, so you recruit him. He gets three and a half and no right of refusal. Mention my name, which should quell any protests.”

Crutch gulped. “Who’s it for?”

“Scotty Bennett.”

Crutch re-gulped. “Who’s the mark?”

Freddy laughed. “That cop Marshall Bowen. Badass spade’s a rump ranger.”

Sonny geezed in the backseat. They were halfway to Vegas. Christmas was five days hence. The Tiger Krew wore Santa Claus caps.

Crutch took his off. It clashed with his tiger tux. Midnight evaporated-another deadhead.

Fruit shake. Trouble in paradise. It’s got to be heist-derived.

Sonny untied his arm. “I gots the word on you, Peeper. You tattled Wayne’s shit to Mary Beth. Santa’s elves told me alllllll about it. That means I be watching you.”

Crutch palpitated. A coyote ran across the road. He lost the wheel and almost plowed it.

The radio re-kicked. Mountains killed the signal forty miles back. Brenda Lee with “Jingle Bell Rock.”

Crutch checked the rearview. His pulse topped two hundred. Sonny was smack-back. His dentures had slipped halfway out.

Yule songs consoled him to Stateline. Diversion therapy meets memory lane.

Christmas, ‘54. Granny Woodard’s in from Ortonville, Minnesota. She strokes out in March. His mother splits in June.

Christmas, ‘62. Paul McEachern kicks his ass. Christmas, ‘66. He steals Dana Lund’s boyfriend’s car and cherry-bombs the gas tank.

Sonny stirred. What dat needle doin’ dere? Crutch kept it zipped. Vegas loomed thirty miles up.

Sonny said, “I ain’t broke and I ain’t no charity case. Vegas Sun runs some jive piece and some anonymous fucking fool sends me a green-ass emerald in the mail. Wraps the fucking thing up in the fucking newspaper, so’s I get the fucking point.”

Body shot-Crutch went airless and double-visioned. The road dipped. He clipped a fence post. The moon did a hop, skip and jump.

Sonny gripped the door ledge. Crutch steadied the wheel. The moon halfway re-settled.

“Can I see the envelope and the emerald?”

“No, Peeper. You can’t. You can get me to Vegas in one motherfucking piece and leave me the fuck alone.”

Emeralds, fruit squeeze, the Coon Cartel connection. It is all one.

He dosed himself asleep in the Sands parking lot. He woke up and re-dosed with waffles and Bloody Marys. Redd Foxx sold Sonny four bags in L.A. Sonny geezed one bag in the limo. Sonny should be comatose as we speaks.

Crutch staked his crib out. The Tiger stretch drew riveted looks. The crib was upscale by colored standards. The neighborhood was half ofay.

Now or never.

He had a wiggle shim and his lock picks. Sonny’s road-hog Buick was parked out front. The door knocker was a brass boxing glove.

Raise the dead. You don’t want errors here.

Crutch banged the knocker, rang the bell and kicked the door. He got no response and re-did the sequence. The dead air intensified. He wiggle-shimmed the door and walked straight in.

Snores hit him. Sonny was gaga on a Naugahyde couch. He used a bungee cord as a tourniquet. The spike was loose in his fist.

“Champ on skids?” Yeah. The crib was over-soiled and under-furnished. The ceiling leaked sawdust and freon juice. Dog dishes collected it.

Quick toss-no fuckups here.

He pre-walked the pad. Living room, kitchen, two bedrooms. No bookshelves, no dressers, clothes paper-sacked. Hit the kitchen built-ins first.

He went through the trash. He found scorched TV-dinner tins and pint-vodka empties. He went through the kitchen drawers-eureka, that’s it.

Plain white envelope, standard size, no return address. Sonny’s name and address block-printed. L.A. postmark, the clipping inside, no green-ass emerald.

Crutch grabbed the envelope by the edges. He dropped it in a plastic bag and put a scrawled envelope down in its place.

Sonny dog-yipped in his sleep.

Clyde wired him three grand, c/o the Dunes. He ran it up to five at the wheel. He had his Reggie Hazzard pic. He bought a Nevada-California road map. He called in sick at Tiger Kab. He tucked the Tiger stretch in a day garage so he wouldn’t look like a geek.

He rented a Ford sedan. He dumped his tiger tux and bought a sport coat. He went out to grease shitkicker cops. Wayne should have done it at the get-go.

Tank towns. Border burgs and agri-dumps. Desert dots with six-, eight-and twelve-man PDs.

Rainbow Hill, Crescent Peak, Dyer, Daylight Peak. Woodford, Minden, Pahrump, Salisbury, Mid-Lockie. Fourteen towns with “Cal-Nev” in the mix.

He drove tank town to tank town. He flashed his photo attached to a C-note. He lubed redneck cops, straw-boss cops and wetback smuggling freaks. He stressed December ‘63. He described Joan. He mentioned the bail jump-may I check your records, please?

Some cops blew him off. Most cops took the cash. Some cops said they shitcanned their skip sheets. Most cops cited turnovers and plain stonewalled him.

He worked it for three days. He went through $3,400. He slept in cheap motels and had Joan dreams. He hit nine-tenths of the road-map towns. He worked his way back to L.A.

He hooked off I-15 at McKendrick. The PD was a Quonset hut upside a lettuce field. Jail trustees did stoop labor. The motor pool was four old Fords and sixteen horses. The lettuce pickers wore stenciled denims. The cops drove golf carts and quaffed brews.

Crutch parked beside a tethered roan. A sunburned cop walked up. He had malignant sores like Crutch Senior.

“Help you, young man?”

“I had a few questions, if you’d be so kind.”

The cop stuck his hand out. “Kindness costs money. Let’s not pretend that it don’t.”

Crutch threw him fifty. “A vag and gun-possession bust. December ‘63. A black kid got popped and a white woman with dark, gray-streaked hair bailed him.”

The cop stuck his hand out. Crutch shook his head. The cop said, “I was there that day. Kindness ain’t for free.”

Crutch forked over two fifties. The cop snapped his fingers. Crutch re-forked two more.

The cop picked a nose scab. “Nigger boy and a Jew broad. Absconders. Don’t ask to see records, because there ain’t any. The kid left some Commie books and chemistry books in his cell, might still be in Property.”

Tools:

Print powders and brushes. Print-transparency tape. A magnifying glass and Joan Rosen Klein’s print card.

Targets:

Sonny Liston’s envelope. Magruder’s Basic Chemistry. Franz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth.

He worked at the Vivian. He set aside desk space and laid it all out. His big gooseneck lamp supplied light.

The book pages were porous. They wouldn’t sustain prints. The dust jackets were glossy and would. The envelope was slick and smooth-surfaced. The print-lift odds were good.

Crutch dipped a brush in red powder. The dust jackets were white and light beige.

He put on rubber gloves. He folded the books open with the jackets in place. He got near-flat planes: front covers, back covers, spines. He placed the envelope to one side.

Deep breath now.

He light-dusted the books and the envelope. He got smudges, swirls and smears. He added a second dust coat. He got two viable prints on the Commie book. He got two viable prints on the envelope.

Deep breath now.

He grabbed the magnifying glass. He studied the book prints and Joan’s print card. One print looked good straight off.

Whorls, swirls and inversions. Comparison points: 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9-

Match.

Joan touched the Fanon book with her right-hand forefinger. It occurred 12/63 or before. The book was held by McKendrick PD since then.

Crutch studied the second book print. Do it-brain-stamp every bit.

He memorized it. He studied Joan’s print card and ran the magnifying glass back and forth. No-no second print match.

He laid down the transparency tape. He lifted the unknown print clean. He reinforced it with a black plastic strip. The print showed in exact detail, white on black.

Deep breath-one to go.

He switched to the envelope. He studied the two prints. He memorized them. He re-studied Joan’s print card. He squinted through the magnifying glass. No-no match.

He laid down two strips of transparency tape. He lifted the unknown prints clean. He reinforced them with black plastic strips. The prints showed in exact detail, white on black.

He laid the two envelope strips beside the one book strip. He ran the magnifying glass back and forth. One print strip was markedly different. One print strip matched perfectly.

That meant this:

Joan touched the Commie book in 1963. A second person touched the book then. The same person touched Sonny’s envelope, late 1970.

It couldn’t be the McKendrick cops. Wild guess: Reggie Hazzard.

Reggie had no rap sheet. That meant no print file extant. Reggie had a Nevada driver’s license. The Nevada DMV did not require fingerprints.

The envelope was L.A.-postmarked. Was the emerald sent from there? Was it sent to L.A. to send?

It’s not a real print make. It’s all suppositional. There’s still that second envelope print.

Deep breath now-more fucking work.

Christmas came and went. New Year’s blurred by in rainstorms. Sonny Liston OD’d a week later. The Tiger Kab wake was a happening.

Redd Foxx and Milt C. performed. Blak-O-Rama gave it feature ink. Fred O. supplied booze. Chick Weiss supplied dope and island-bred hookers. The Duber boys showed up. The drivers formed a kab kortege and bombed through darktown. Panthers and pigs noshed “Q” in perfect peace. Lenny Bernstein quoted Krishnamurti. Scotty Bennett sparred with Jerry Quarry. They traded for real. It almost got ugly.

The fruit squeeze was on hold. Freddy wanted fifteen grand. Scotty tried to Jew him down to ten and got nowhere. Scotty was hustling the gelt. Freddy told Crutch not to brace Sassy Sal just yet.

He did divorce jobs for Clyde. He sent Mary Beth Hazzard queries: did Wayne leave more paperwork? He part-time Tiger-kabbed. He studied print cards every night at the downtown DMV.

Insomnia and eye strain. Vials of Nembutal and vats of Visine. Hand-check print cards. Compare them to the two plastic strips.

He kept a head tally. He lost count at ten thousand. He kept a card-per-night tally. He lost track on January 6.

He showed up late on the seventh. He bribed the night clerk, SOP. He brought his print strips, his magnifying glass and his Visine.

He opened a new box. He went through eleven no-gos. He hit print card #12. The swirls talked to him.

Deep breath now. The second envelope print. No, yes, no-maybe.

Points: 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 8, 9-up to 14-good measure.

Perfect matchup. Fuck-a name he knew.

Lionel Darius Thornton, male Negro. Born 12/18/19.

The Peoples’ Bank dude. Lionel the Laundryman. The Coon Cartel consigliere.