Blood's a rover

2/21/71

I have been traveling and tracking potential leads since my last meeting with Scotty. My accumulated work-leave time has served as a cover. I have allegedly been on a cross-country auto trip. I have now laboriously hand-checked the passport acceptance files and reject files in New Orleans, St. Petersburg and Milwaukee, with Lynn, Massachusetts, upcoming. These are the cities that Scotty has deemed to be the most lax, permissive and incompetent in their passport-issuing practices. I have indulged the Bent in those cities and have reveled in the freedom of cavorting in non-local-celeb locales. Reginald Hazzard was not issued a passport in those cities and was not to be found in the reject files. His photograph-with and without medically addressed burn scars- was not attached to any of the thousands of application cards I have scanned.

So, I’ve been traveling and enjoying my time outside of L.A. I’ve been calling Scotty every few days, to report “no luck.” I’ve been mindscaping, having very vivid dreams and pondering Scotty’s “Cherchez la femme” remark a great deal.

It was a woman who ratted me out to Scotty. Dwight Holly reacted strangely when Scotty mentioned that fact to him. I’m becoming convinced that the woman is Joan Rosen Klein.

Joan cultivated me in late ‘68 and early ‘69. I was Dwight Holly’s infiltrator, and I knew that Mr. Holly had an informant in play. Joan was very worldly and seemed overqualified for the low-rent black-militant world. She was very persistent in her approach of me, she may have been trying to seduce me, but her finely tuned predator’s sense told her she’d have no luck there. It all felt mindscapingly right to me, up until the moment I ran into Junior Jefferson, shortly before I left on this trip.

Junior was gobbling chicken and waffles at Tommy Tucker’s Playroom and was grousing about the fate of Tiger Kab. First, the Boys buy Black Cat Cab away from him and rename it after that faggoty animal. Then the late Wayne Tedrow embezzled all the Tiger Kab cash and the Boys sold the biz to Freddy Otash. So, Freddy fires him and 86’s him from the premises. Now, Tiger Kab is the swingingest place on Planet Earth, they’re showing the Ali-Frazier fight on closed-circuit TV-and he can’t come.

We continued to commiserate. We talked up the “Blastout” with a certain wonderment. Junior said, “You was a fuckin’ FBI pig-snitch the whole time.” I admitted that was true. Junior said he was cool with it and very casually mentioned that he saw Dwight Holly and that “Joan Jew-Commie babe” holding hands at a chink joint on Pico last week.

Cherchez la femme.

Lynn is a dingy shoe-factory town amid scores of dingy towns of the same size, and I found the customs office to be dingy as I walked in. A florid Irishman was working the desk. He almost shit when a well-dressed black man flashed an LAPD sergeant’s badge. I’ll credit him with wit, though. After I explained the purpose of my visit, he said, “You don’t look like Jack Webb, Sergeant,” and led me back to the file stacks.

It was the sixth card in the fourth box I went through. The photo was of Reginald Hazzard, with a severely burn-scarred face. The name beside it was ink-smudged and unreadable. The routing stamp on the back was crystal-clear.

Reginald was granted a visa to travel to Haiti, 6/11/64.

It came to me instantly: I will not tell Scotty this.

(Los Angeles, 3/1/71)

Scotty said, “I got the bread.”

Fred O. said, “He robbed a liquor store. He’s got expertise in that regard.”

Fred Turentine said, “I hate fruit bugs. The audio tracks are unsavory.”

Barone’s Pizza on Ventura. A noted Valley grease spill. They had a private room. It featured photos of notable wops.

The beer was scald-your-teeth cold. The pizza was burn-your-mouth hot. Scotty tossed the envelope on the table. The Crutchfield kid had ants in his pants. He kept scratching his balls.

Scotty poured brews. “Let’s talk about results. I second-mortgaged my house, so I’m not looking for big delays or fuckups.”

Fred O. knife-shaved the foam off his glass. Suds flew on the floor.

“I ran a fruit shake for Dwight Holly a while back. He’s a white man. We could use him for some added oomph.”

Scotty said, ‘Wo. Dwight and I clashed on his Fed thing. I don’t want him to know about this.”

Fred T. shagged a slice with anchovies. Ooooh, that’s hot.

“I’d just as soon avoid the guy. I heard he’s working the file slot at the L.A. Office. He had some kind of crack-up.”

Scotty sipped beer. “I want vivid shit. Snapshots, film, varied sex acts. The kid brings Sal in. Sal and Marsh get a hot thing going. I want fuck-and-suck action with different backdrops.”

The kid said, “I’ll locate Sal.”

Fred T. said, “Hey, he speaks.”

Fred O. said, “Draw your shades. The peeping panther is loose.”

Scotty panther-growled and winked. Canned music hit the room. Dino warbled, “That’s amore.”

“Vivid shit. Remember, it’s not a cash shakedown. It’s a threat if push comes to shove.”

The crew was good. The pizza was shitty. His beer-burned teeth still stung.

Marsh was back. His customs-office tour went poof. The passport angle was dead. Reggie Hazzard: back to square one.

The gas gauge hit empty. Scotty eased off the freeway. There’s a Richfield with a phone booth up ahead.

He pulled in. He told the pump jockey full service. He dumped his chump change in the phone slots and called Marsh.

“Hello?”

“The Reggie bit is dead for now. I’m getting frustrated.”

“That’s two of us.”

“I’m thinking we should brace Lionel Thornton.”

“I don’t disagree.”

Scotty rubbed his teeth. “Be less equivocal. You won the fucking Medal of Valor. You’re Ramar of the Jungle now.”

Marsh laughed. “You’re right. We should do it.”

“When?”

“March 8. Thornton launders the Tiger Kab money. They’re showing the Ali fight. Thornton will be there and take the money back to the bank.”

Scotty said, “I dig it. We’ll grab him en route.”