Scotty Q amp;A’d Jomo with Dwight Holly present. Big Dwight heard Jomo’s Hiltz-case confession. He did not see Scotty’s second go-round.

The L.A. County Jail. The isolation cell block. Jomo’s one-man cell.

Jomo feared him now. Jomo called him “Mr. Scotty.” Jomo folded from two kidney shots.

He said a “cutout” fed him the Hiltz heist. You’ll find a bomb shelter. Steal the cash. Don’t kill Dr. Fred. Warn Dr. Fred. Tell him not to reveal shit per February ‘64. He’ll know what you mean.

Jomo had no heist knowledge. Scotty determined that. Jomo clammed up. Jomo refused to state the cutout’s name. Cutout: an intelligence-agency term.

Scotty pressed. Scotty rubber-hosed Jomo. Jomo screamed and held his mud. Scotty hit Jomo too hard and killed him. Scotty rigged a toilet water-soaked bedsheet and faked a suicide.

Marsh got the shakes. Son, did I scare you? Scotty built him a highball and dumped fresh chips on his plate.

It fortified him. He spilled the rest of his tale.

Guilt-tripper Wayne Tedrow. His Find Reginald Hazzard quest. The boy looked like the third man. Marsh just checked an LVPD file. The kid had chemistry knowledge. Marsh thought about it. An old vibe resurfaced: the deep-burned bodies meant chemical skills. The pellets and chemical scaldings-Scotty agreed.

He dipped a Frito. “We have to make the Hazzard kid’s blood type.”

Marsh air-drew dollar signs. Scotty air-drew 50-50. Marsh said, “This should be fun.”

89

(Los Angeles, 12/8/70)

Chick Weiss dug Negro art. Afro stuff and island stuff. Virility statues and armless spirit guards with wings.

They cluttered up his office. Doorstops and desk knickknacks. Carved wood with deep eyes sunk in.

Crutch and Phil Irwin pulled chairs up. A Zulu god stood between them. He was half life-size. His dick was three-headed. His rhinestone eyes looked cheap.

Chick prepped a panatela. He had a black-goddess cigar prop. He spread her legs, stuck the cigar in and severed the tip. He pushed a button. Her mouth wooshed out a flame.

Phil dug it. Crutch looked away. Chick cleared space and dumped his feet on the desk.

“Camera job. Papa’s a billboard mogul and mama’s a flower-power chick. Papa’s tight with LAPD. One of his guys showed him a surveillance tape of that Griffith Park love-in. Mama’s blowing a guy by the merry-go-round. Papa hired Clyde to get the goods on him. They’re shacking at the Sunset Breeze Motel on alternate Tuesdays. I want you to get in subtle. Live film, bubbles. No hit-and-run snapshots on this one.”

Crutch stood up. Phil stood and hangover-weaved. He bumped the Zulu god. Some sequins dropped off his dick.

Chick said, “Go, you fucking heathens. This is priceless art you’re so frivolous to.”

The day was hot. Phil bribed the desk guy. Crutch B amp;E’d the tryst room and fucked up the AC. They air-cracked the window. The camera lens would fit in. Phil said Chick was perved on surveillance film. He had a full library. He loved to watch plain-Jane chicks and chump Charlies fucking. It was illegal and unethical. Chick didn’t care. He had clout. He threw perv-film parties for the L.A. elite.

They car-staked the lot. Phil pressed Crutch on his recent shit. He kept it zipped. Unit 6 was their target. The flanking units were hippie hives. The geeks blasted loud rock all day. That meant air cover.

Crutch sipped coffee. Phil sipped 151. They schmoozed gossip and Mando Ramos at the Olympic. Freddy O. bought Tiger Kab-what a fucking hoot.

Phil loaded the camera. The target car pulled up. The wife and the hippie stud entered Room 6.

Crutch flash-shot them. His camera date-scrolled the arrival time. Phil lugged the film camera up to the window crack.

He poked the lens in. He hit the On switches. The film cans were full. Roll it, C.B.

The camera ran soundless. It was cool. Visuals sufficed for California divorce. The wife and the hippie were loud. Crutch heard it over the rock noise. Cameraman Phil popped in earplugs.

Crutch tried to doze. Fuck me, fuck me’s killed it. Chick’s goddamn statues. Red rhinestone eyes. Wings where arms should be.

The love-nest door opened. Phil pulled out the camera and crouched. The wife and hippie shagged their sled and split. Phil carried the camera over.

“They went sixty-nine. I got the setup shot and the whole thing in one take. Chick will groove it.”

Crutch said, “You’re a loser.”

Phil grabbed his crotch and grinned.

She sent her card early. Christmas was weeks off. This one: postmarked Amarillo, Texas.

Crutch pocketed the five-spot. Crutch placed the card in his file box. ‘55 to ‘70-sixteen cards total. Margaret Woodard Crutchfield covers half the U.S.

His closet was file-stuffed. He hung his clothes in the bathroom. His case file ran six boxes here. He had nine boxes stashed downtown.

He looked out the window. Christmas lights were up. Yeah, it’s a ritual. Yeah, you should go.

He stole the red flag from Wayne’s file cove. He taped it to his dashboard. He’d ripped up his Joan pictures. It was a de-hexing move. Hancock Park was dead without the Joan pix. He needed her for juxtaposition.

Eight months home. Residual shell shock. He still can’t sleep. He can’t work his case. His nightmares are banal now. Barbiturates subsume them. He works for Clyde and chauffeurs part-time. Freddy Otash bought Tiger Kab. Wayne Tedrow had cash-drained it. Freddy got it cheap.

It’s a black lifestyle hub. It panders to hepcats, militants, and Motown fools slumming. Sonny Liston makes the scene. Rock Hudson trolls for dark dick in tigrified limos. Redd Foxx brings cocaine and moon pies. The white drivers wear tiger-stripe tuxes. The spades dig the slave roles reversed.

His case, Wayne’s case, the heist. Three cases united. He saw Wayne’s trove in April. He’s been immobilized since then. He thinks about it. He follows the loop.

L.A. to the D.R. and Haiti. Back here again. He’s tracking Gretchen Farr. She ripped off Fred Hiltz. She’s aka Celia Reyes. She kisses Joan. He sees Horror House. Body parts, voodoo powder, green glass. Celia’s linked to the D.R. Celia’s got a codebook. Months of code work. Success. Book symbols match the death-house signs. He ID’s the victim: Maria Rodriguez “Tattoo” Fontonette.

Joan and Celia are deep Red. Tattoo betrays the Cause. She ends up dead at Horror House. Celia’s embroiled with Sam G. She wants to fuck up the casino sites. Crazy Wayne gets there first. He gets mobbed up. He bugs Sam’s hotel room. He’s pushing dope with Luc Duhamel. Luc zombifies him. He hears “loose emeralds,” “1964,” “Laurent-Jean Jacqueau.” It’s all connected.

He’s back in L.A. He’s adjunct to Dwight Holly’s Fed gig. He’s bugging Marsh Bowen. “Marsh, it is Leander James Jackson.” That means it’s Laurent-Jean Jacqueau.

It’s all connected. Marsh lived at 84th and Budlong Then. Marsh is tight with Scotty B. Now. Their peace pact preceded “the Black-Militant Blastout.”

Wayne’s file. Weird emerald giveaways. Reginald H., long missing. Reggie splits Vegas two months pre-heist. The kid knows chemistry. The kid studied Haitian herbs. Joan taught Reginald at the Freedom School. Joan bailed him out of jail. It’s December ‘63. The heist bodes.

Joan’s omnipresent. She’s Dwight Holly’s snitch and probable lover. Dwight’s rubber room-resting. Where’s Joan and why can’t I find her?

Crutch drove to 2nd and Plymouth. Dana’s Christmas lights were up. Her tree filled the front window. Gift boxes were stacked branch-high.