Blood's a rover

100

(Los Angeles, 3/13/71)

Scotty doodled.

His cubicle was three-wall-wrapped. He drew little emeralds. He added that Greek gender symbol. It meant “Who’s the Woman?”

It was early. The night-watch shift left a mess. He connived the job. He sent his backup guys down dead-end roads. He oversaw the first forensic. They covered their tracks. The tech team got no leads off one walkthrough. That meant one more to go.

They stole the Tiger Kab receipts and no more. Jack Leahy was running point, FBI-adjunct. Mr. Clean was a Fed snitch. Circle-jerk aspects overlapped.

That hidden vault. So far, unfound. The conduit. Brother Bowen, hanging in strong.

Scotty scanned a list. Fred O. telexed it. The Tiger Kab fight guests, alphabetized.

Milt C. and Fred T. Lenny Bernstein and Wilt Chamberlain. There’s Sal Mineo-c/o Peeper Crutchfield. Sissy Sal was supposed to meet Macho Marsh that night.

Scotty skipped down the list. Aha: Marcus and Lavelle Bostitch.

They lived in Watts. They had a squatter’s shack behind Mumar’s Mosque #2. Junkies, heist guys, pedophiles. Nobel Peace Prize candidates.

The Bostitch boys bopped earless They were legendary that way. They rode Schwinn Sting-Rays with gooseneck risers and banana seats.

The bikes were gone. The door was unlocked. The mosque Moors were loudly absorbed with Allah. Scotty walked right in.

He brought an evidence kit. He carried a pocketknife and three tiger-band cash rolls. He brought print cards, print tape, print powder and six plastic bags.

The pad stunk. It was junkie stench. Poor hygiene and suppuration. He walk-tossed the place. No guns on the premises. That meant nothing.

Two upholstered chairs, linoleum floor, one mattress. No bathroom, kitchen, cupboards or shelves.

Let’s work.

Scotty slit the bottom of the mattress and tucked three cash rolls in. Scotty opened a plastic bag and sprinkled wall debris from the bank. Scotty pulled kinky hairs off a window ledge and bagged them.

He print-dusted the doorways and four touch-and-grab planes. He got two latent print sets. He card-compared them. The Bostitch boys, ten points apiece.

He tape-transferred them and secured them in print tubes. He bagged chair fibers and more hair. He bagged dirt and dust residue. He tucked a throwdown gun in a mattress slit.

The heathens were still chanting. Scotty walked by the mosque and shagged his car. A spade in a fez prayer-bowed to him. Scotty prayer-bowed him back.

Crime scene: LAPD/FBI. Yellow tape and point guards all around the bank.

Scotty badged the door guy. The guy let him in. The floors were drop-clothed. Sifting screens were stacked waist-high. Collected grit filled giant Baggies. The teller’s cage reeked of Luminal. They were going for blood type. Maybe Thornton cut the killers as they cut him.

Wrong.

Scotty walked into Mr. Clean’s office and inside-locked the door. He transferred the print strips to wall surfaces and shelves. He sprinkled hair, dirt and dust. He tucked a bloody C-note under a carpet pad.

He unlocked the door and walked outside. A lunch truck was feeding the point cops. Jack Leahy was lounging in a Fed sled.

Scotty walked over. “Let me guess. The Laundryman had some connections you need to be wary of. Mr. Hoover said take a look-see.”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“It’s a mess in there. SID got nothing on the first roll. I’ve ordered a second.”

Jack said, “You were always thorough that way.”

Scotty smiled. “Mr. Clean deserves the best. I won money on Frazier, so I’m feeling generous.”

Jack polished his glasses. “Suspects?”

“Two male Negroes. They were at Tiger Kab for the fight. I think they followed Thornton here and jumped him.”

A jalopy rolled down the street. Two brothers clench-fisted the fuzz.

Scotty laughed. “This is starting to remind me of the Fred Hiltz job.”

Jack said, “I’ll concede that.”

“You took that one over, but I won’t permit it here.”

Jack said, “For now, I’ll concede.”

“Hiltz was a Bureau informant. I’m thinking Mr. Clean was, too.”

Jack said, “No comment.”

Mumar’s Mosque was closed for the night. The two Schwinns were outside.

Jungle rides. Mock-croc saddlebags and mud flaps. Cheater slicks and aaa-ooo-gaaah horns.

Scotty looked in the window. Ah, brothers-how kind of you.

They were insensate. They were tourniquet-tied and nipping at Neptune. Spoons, spikes and white horse were out in plain view.

Scotty put on gloves and walked in. Marcus and Lavelle dozed in side-by-side chairs. Scotty pulled out two throwdowns. Marsh shot Mr. Clean with gun #1. Gun #2 was a dope-bust steal, circa ‘62.

Peace, brothers.

Scotty placed gun #1 in Marcus’ right hand and laid his right forefinger on the trigger. He raised the gun and placed the barrel against Marcus’ right ear. He placed his own finger over the trigger and squeezed.

The shot was loud. Marcus pitched back, dead. The bullet stayed inside his head. Scotty let his gun arm drop. The gun fell close to his hand.

Scotty placed gun #2 in Lavelle’s right hand and laid his right forefinger on the trigger. He raised the gun and placed the barrel against Lavelle’s right ear. He placed his own finger over the trigger and squeezed.

The shot was loud. Lavelle pitched back, dead. The bullet stayed inside his head. Scotty let his gun arm drop. The gun fell close to his hand.

Nice powder burns. Empirically correct and textbook-consistent. Nice mouth trickle. Late seepage out through their eyes.