Blood's a rover

97

(Los Angeles, 3/8/71)

Ali! Ali! Ali!

The Congo coursed with it. Bootleg broadcasts beamed from liquor stores and pool halls. They got the full TV monte. Sidewalk gangs got portable-radio squelch. Jugs and joints circulated. The groups ran ten to one hundred. Central Avenue was cooncaphony.

Cathode light bounced out windows. Pirate hookups: Mosque 19, Sultan Sam’s, Cedric’s Hair Process. The scene ran inside and outside. Parking-lot action boomed. Stacked-heel pimps laid down round-by-round bets.

Scotty cruised by Tiger Kab. The hut was SRO and boob tube-bright. The Krew was rapt. Fred O., Milt C., Peeper Crutchfield. Countless south-side Zulus. Junkie Monkey in boxing mitts, atop the TV set.

And Lionel D. Thornton-with a zippered cash sack.

Scotty idled by the lot. Marsh got in. He wore crepe-soled shoes and gloves. Scotty grabbed his gloves off the dashboard. They eyeballed the hut.

The radio fluttered. The signal cut in and out. Marsh tweaked the dial. Static and verdict-Frazier gets the nod.

Marsh turned it off. Scotty said, “He’s got a piece.”

“I know. Small revolver, back waistband.”

“He’ll walk. I don’t see his car.”

“It’s six blocks to the bank.”

Scotty passed his flask. Marsh took a nip.

“I lost a hundred.”

Scotty said, “I’ll underwrite you. I won three bills.”

“You bet against Ali?”

“I was at Saipan. Draft dodgers fuck with my head.”

Marsh passed the flask. “Give me the count. Jap infantry or 211 guys. Who gets the nod?”

Scotty took a nip. “I torched an ammunition bunker. I fried a hundred Japs in their sleep.”

“Did you win a medal?”

“The Navy Cross. Nice, but not as big as your deal.”

Marsh smiled. The flask moved contrapuntal. Lionel Thornton walked out.

He hoofed it southbound. The bank doors were side-street/south-facing. Scotty said, “We’ll take him there.”

Hut action exploded. Fuckers screamed, “Frazier.” Fuckers screamed, “Ali.” Two brothers traded blows. Fred O. broke it up. The TV set toppled. Junkie Monkey hit the deck.

Scotty hauled westbound and cut south on Stanford. He cut east on 63rd Street and parked across the street.

Marsh said, “That storage door just west of the main doors. He won’t see us there.”

Scotty put his gloves on. “He’s four minutes out.”

Marsh gulped. He was racy and a tad damp. Scotty sensed his pulse.

“How’s your wig, brother?”

“It be tight, brother. You knows I wants this.”

Scotty winked. “Let’s go, then.”

They walked across the street. The door well concealed them. Marsh checked his watch. Scotty heard footsteps.

Closer now. Louder. There’s his breath, there’s his shadow, there’s the jangle of keys.

There’s the key in the lock, there’s the click, there’s the door sweep.

They jumped.

They smothered him. They dog-piled him. They pushed him inside. The cash sack flew. Scotty hand-muzzled him. Marsh grabbed his piece. Thornton kicked and wriggled. Marsh caught a shoe in the face.

Thornton tried to bite. His mouth couldn’t move. Marsh rabbit-punched him. Thornton lost all breath. Marsh grabbed the keys and inside-locked the doors. Thornton kept thrashing. Scotty swooped him over his head and threw him twenty feet.

The cocksucker flew. His whole body cartwheeled. His feet brushed the ceiling. He landed by the front teller’s cage.

He screamed. Marsh pulled a standing lamp over and tossed light on his face.

The floor was dark. The lamp was a funnel spotlight. You got Thornton’s face, that’s it.

He screamed. Scotty stepped on his neck. He stopped screaming. His mouth was bloody. The crash landing took out his front teeth.

Scotty nodded. Marsh said, “We’re interested in the ink-and non-ink-stained cash and the emeralds. You know what we mean. We think you have information that might assist us.”

Thornton thrashed. Scotty stepped down harder. Thornton stopped thrashing. Scotty pulled out his reserve flask. Pastor Bennett’s confession brew: bourbon and Valium chips.

Marsh palmed it. Marsh grabbed Thornton’s hair and jerked. Thornton’s mouth went wide. Marsh poured him a jolt. Thornton almost tossed it. Marsh stepped on his face and kept it in.

Scotty nodded. Marsh withdrew his foot. Thornton gulped air. Thornton said, “No.”

Marsh slapped him. Thornton bit at his hand. Scotty grabbed his hair and pulled him behind the teller’s cage. Marsh unfurled the cord and carried the lamp over.

The teller’s cage was dark. The lamp was a funnel spotlight. Marsh framed Thornton’s face. The cage row got backlit.

Scotty said, “You can’t win here. You can make this easy or hard.”

Thornton dribbled blood on the floor. A bug skittered over. Marsh stepped on it. Thornton sucked in a breath.

“White-trash cracker. Uncle Tom piece of shit.”

Scotty nodded. Marsh pulled a sap and whipped Thornton’s knees. Thornton bit through his bottom lip and stifled a scream.

Marsh said, “Sergeant Bennett and I have pooled our information on this matter. We know that you’ve laundered at least a small portion of the heist money. Would you care to comment?”

Thornton spat blood and loose tissue. Thornton crawled to a wall post and propped himself up. Thornton shook his head-no, ixnay, fuck you.

Scotty pulled the lamp closer. Marsh tilted it for more glare. Thornton was mouth flap-bloody. Marsh grabbed the flask and poured in a jolt.

Thornton tried to retch. Scotty grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. Marsh relubed him.

Gargles now-blood, bile and blend. It started to seep out. Marsh mouth-clamped Thornton and forced it back in.

He shook his head-nyet, nein, no. Marsh removed his mouth clamp and sap-whipped his legs.

“Sergeant Bennett and I have developed separate information that we’ve decided to share. We were both there that morning. It would be foolish for us not to cooperate.”

Thornton shook his head. A loose tooth flew. Scotty undamped his hair. Thornton proned out and back-swallowed blood. He shook his head-nein, nyet, nyet.

Marsh said, “I had a neighbor. He was an elderly black physician. He attended to a heist-gang member who had been left for dead by the leader of the gang. The doctor received twenty thousand dollars in ink-stained cash as a payment for his services. He gave the money to you and told you to leak it prudently out to the community. The surviving gang member recovered and has not been seen since. Would you care to comment?”

Thornton wide-eyed it. His brain pulse went visible. Fucking brilliant Marsh. Scotty thought, Oh, you kid.

The cage was hot. Scotty was wet. Marsh was wet. Scotty saw a wall unit and hit the switch.

Cold air whooshed. Thornton sucked it up. Marsh sapped his knees. Thornton screamed. The wall-unit rattle blended in.

Marsh raised the sap. Scotty shook his head. Thornton blinked lamp glare out of his eyes. Scotty moved and provided shade. Marsh squatted by Thornton and sap-tickled his chin.

“Sergeant Bennett and I believe that the surviving gang member was a young chemist named Reginald Hazzard. I have a theory that I have not yet shared with Sergeant Bennett. I think that perhaps young Hazzard found a way to partially or fully obscure the ink markings and that perhaps you-a seasoned money launderer-ended up with the laundry list for all of the cash. Would you care to comment?”

Thornton wiiiiiiide-eyed it. It was truth serum-valid. Marsh, you genius cocksucker. The gang leader braced the Laundryman independently.

Thornton pissed his pants and shit his pants. Fey Marsh stood up and went phew.

Scotty winked. The wall-unit blew ice chips. A cockroach dipsey-doodled through the blood spill.

Marsh said, “Reginald Hazzard.”

Thornton sobbed and spit blood.

Marsh said, “Who sends the emeralds to the black people in need?”

Thornton rolled out of the lamplight. Marsh kicked him in the back. Scotty shook his head. Marsh went What now? Scotty pulled his penlight and wide-dialed the beam.

Marsh pulled out a roll of duct tape and sealed Thornton’s mouth. Scotty cuffed his right wrist to a wall pipe. It went telepathic: let’s toss the place.

They worked with two penlights and Thornton’s master keys. They sifted, dug, pored, overturned and upended. They triple-tossed the place.

They opened every office drawer and cash drawer.

They checked every cupboard.

They scanned every shelf.

They pulled up every rug.

They cut open every padded chair.

They went through every closet.

They broke every light fixture.

They scanned every surface, plane and cubbyhole for vault-combo stats.

They did it once, twice, three times. They mini-checked all the fucked-up debris.

Marsh said, “There’s nothing here.”

Scotty said, “Yes, there is.”

“Man, he’s not that stupid. He’s got a spot at his house or a stash hole someplace.”

Scotty shook his head. “He’s complacent. He launders out of here. He’s got to have records he can tap into. He’s got a vault somewhere.”

Marsh ran back to Thornton. He was Mr. Clean and the Laundryman. Now he’s all shit, blood and piss.

Marsh slipped on sap gloves. Twelve ounces per-lead palm and finger strips.

Marsh said, “You tell me now.” Marsh flexed his hands. Marsh punched Mr. Clean in the back.

Thornton sobbed and curled up tight. Scotty ran over and eased Marsh back.

“No. Don’t. Be calm now, brother. We hit the walls first.”

Marsh went limp. Yes, brother-okay-yes, yes.

Scotty let him go. Marsh crashed into the wall unit. Scotty ran to the storage closet and grabbed a crowbar. Marsh goofy-grinned.

They banged the walls.

They ripped and gouged the walls.

They took turns swinging.

They threw sweat. They got drenched. They took turns to catch their breath and kept swinging.

They hit Thornton’s office walls and the break-room walls and the teller’s cage walls. They hit the bank proper walls and kept swinging. They ripped out baseboard and timber. They ate plaster dust and chips. They heard Thornton moaning and coughing. They swung and ripped and traded shots and weaved on their feet.

They hit the rear hallway. Scotty leaned back, dead limp. Marsh took the first swing. A wall chunk fell out. A cloth ledger dropped in his hands.

It was plastic-wrapped and tape-sealed. It was twelve-by-eight and paper-packed. Scotty tore the cover off. Marsh scanned the first page. It was all bisecting columns and numbers. Dates on the far left. The first one: 4/64.

They wiped their eyes. They turned the pages. They saw dates, figures and number-coded designations. They saw the day-by-day/held-at-bank sums. Final figure: seven mil plus.

Marsh said, “The heist cash was seed money. He launders it and lends it. They started with two, and it stands at seven now. That’s what they’ve got here. It’s an on-the-premises tally.”

Scotty said, “There’s a vault.”

The ledger was leather-lined. Marsh knife-slashed the edges and reached in and around. A piece of paper slid out.

Schematic drawing. A black box. Numbers noting size and placement. A tuck-away. Maybe here, maybe not. A secret vault. Not the main vault.

They walked back to Thornton. He was sitting up. His blood was sticky-thick and crusting. He made a little tooth pile. Plaster dust covered him. His sweat made it mud.

Scotty said, “Where’s the vault?”

Thornton shook his head.

Marsh held up the drawing. “The vault. The combination.”

Thornton said, “No.”

Scotty kicked him in the leg. Thornton flipped him the bird. Marsh bent the finger back and broke it. Thornton mouth-muzzled a scream.

Marsh grabbed the crowbar and ran to the hallway. Scotty checked his watch-three hours inside. Thornton spit a tooth in his lap. Scotty winked at him.

“I’m always amazed when bright guys like you go the hard way. We should all be celebrating now.”

Thornton said, “Fuck your mother. White-trash, peckerwood scum.”

Wall knocks started up. Marsh swung hard and fast. More dust and mortar shards blew. More mulch fallout settled.

Marsh kept it up. Thornton spat dust-thick blood. Scotty sat down and shut his eyes. He was all-over ache.

The banging stopped. Marsh went, “Wooooooooo!” He ran over. Scotty kept his eyes shut. The lids weighed ten thousand pounds apiece.

“It’s a clip file, brother. It goes back to spring ‘64. You’ve got the clips on the beneficiaries and a list of their names and addresses. It’s History, man. There’s the families of some guys who got lynched in Mississippi, the church girls from Birmingham, this woman who lost her son in the Watts riot.”

Scotty opened his eyes. Marsh was cradling paper scrolls and news clips. Thornton gritted his mouth. His teeth were gone. It was a gum-to-gum grit.

Marsh dropped the paper load. It fell short of a blood spill. The chilled air fluttered it.

“Hundreds, partner. Police-shooting victims, sick people, protesters shot down south. You’ve got Mary Beth Hazzard and her dead husband all the way up to ‘Ex-Champ Liston on Skids.’ ”

Scotty love-tapped the Laundryman. “Tell me the combination.”

Thornton shook his head.

Scotty said, “Are the emeralds on the premises?”

Thornton said, “Fuck you.” Marsh grabbed his right thumb and broke it.

THAT’S a scream-ten seconds long.

Scotty said, “Tell me how well you know Reginald Hazzard.” Thornton said, “Fuck you.” Marsh grabbed his right pinkie and broke it.

THAT’S a shriek-twelve seconds long.

Scotty said, “Are the emeralds on the premises? Do you send them out? Are they sent to you to send? Is Reginald overseas somewhere? Who else is involved in all of this?”

Thornton said, “Fuck you.”

Marsh grabbed his left thumb and broke it.

Screams and shrieks. Earsplitting shit-a full minute.

Scotty pulled out his confession flask. Marsh grabbed Thornton’s hair and jerked. Thornton opened up wide. Thornton sucked like he wanted it. His eyes said Refill.

Sure, Boss. It’s on the house.

Thornton retched and kept it down. Scotty checked his watch. One minute to let it seeeeeep.

Thornton flushed and flexed his hands. Thornton kneaded fucked-up body kinks. Liftoff at forty-three seconds.

“I don’t know where Reggie is. I get mail drops from overseas. They’re sent under mail cover from different locations. I forward the emeralds, but they come to me through a cutout.”

“Cutout”-woooo-mother dog!

Scotty said, “Name the ‘cutout.’ ”

Thornton coughed. “I don’t know her name.”

Scotty said, “Her?”

Marsh said, “Describe her.”

Thornton dry-coughed. “White, in her forties, glasses. Dark hair with gray patches.”

Marsh did a double take. Scotty read it. Brother, I knows you.

Thornton wet-coughed. Blood dripped down his chin.

“Where’s the vault?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Give me the combination?”

“I’m not going to.”

“Put this thing together for us. We’ve got time to listen.”

“I’m not going to.”

“Explain the business code in the ledger.”

“I’m not going to.”

Marsh flexed his sap gloves. Scotty jerked his arms back.

“Go in his office and get his address book. It’s in the top right-hand drawer.”

Thornton leaned back and trembled. Marsh ran off, scanning his pen-light. Scotty checked Thornton’s handcuffs. His wrists were ratchet-gouged deep.

Marsh ran back. Scotty skimmed the book name by name. They read by penlight. Marsh hovered over him. “A” to “K”-two women. Janice Altschuler, April Kostritch. A tweaker at “L”-SAC John Leahy/FBI #48770.

Two more women: Helen Rugert and Sharon Zielinski. Cutouts? Basic vibe: no.

Scotty tossed the book. Marsh said, “Altschuler, Kostritch, Rugert, Zielinski.”

Thornton hack-coughed. “Those women are city council staffers and lawyers. I told you, I don’t know the cutout’s name.”

Scotty cracked his knuckles. “Where do you call her?”

“I don’t. She calls me.”

Marsh picked the book up and thumbed through it. Scotty cracked his knuckles loud, upside Thornton’s face.

“Why is Jack Leahy’s name in your book?”

“We’re friends. We play golf.”

“Are you an FBI informant? Is 48770 your confidential Bureau number?”

“No, we play golf!”

Scotty slapped him. Thornton thrashed his head. Scotty wiped blood and snot on his pant leg.

“Are you a confidential Bureau informant?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ever know or work with the late Dr. Fred Hiltz?”

“The fucking ‘Hate King’? Why would I?”

Truth serum-I’ll buy it.

“Who do you snitch to Jack?”

“Ghetto scum, man. Dope-pushers and Panther-type fools.”

Marsh dropped the address book. Scotty penlight-signaled him. Marsh signaled him back. They got each other’s eyes. They telepathized.

Scotty said, “Where’s the vault, Mr. Thornton?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Marsh said, “What haven’t you told us that you should have told us in the name of full disclosure?”

Thornton laughed. “Man, you are nothing but a nigger full of four-dollar words.”

Scotty said, “Please take us to the vault.”

“I’m not going to.”

Marsh said, “Where are the emeralds?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t tell you.”

Scotty shrugged.

Marsh shrugged.

They penlight-drilled Thornton’s face. They got a big funnel target. Marsh pulled a throwdown piece and capped him.