Corny music-Ray Conniff-her usual yule slush.
He bought her a cashmere sweater at Bullock’s. It was black and cable-knit. Elk horns fit through little toggles.
It was Christmas-wrapped. He walked up and placed it on the welcome mat. He rang the bell and vamoosed.
Radical chic:
Four Tiger kabs peeled out of the lot. Crutch saw FranЗois Truffaut, some black dudes and Hanoi Jane herself. A Tiger stretch rumbled up. Phil Irwin drove it. His tiger tux shed faux fur all over the seat. His passengers: Chick Weiss, Cйsar Chavez and Leonard Bernstein.
The stretch bombed southbound. Crutch walked into the hut. Fred O. worked the switchboard. Redd Foxx sniffed coke. Milt C. had Junkie Monkey up on his lap. Sonny Liston was toking maryjane.
Junkie Monkey said, “March 8, Jew York City. Muhammad Ali versus Smokin’ Joe Frazier. See it on closed-circuit TV at Tiger Kab, the home of the Coon Cartel.”
Sonny blew smoke in Junkie Monkey’s face. Milt made the Junkster gag and cough.
“Ali is a sissified draft dodger. Islam is a gutter religion. Ali takes it up the shit chute from Gamal Abdel Nasser and the Dishonorable Elijah Muhammad.”
Redd Foxx howled. White powder and snot flew. Fred O. yukked. Crutch haw-hawed.
Sonny unwrapped a morphine suppository. Quick hands: he dug into his pants and popped it up his ass.
“Come on, kid. You’re driving me to Vegas.”
The champ nodded out at San Berdoo and passed out at Barstow. Crutch Dexedrine-all-nightered. I-15 was dead. Crutch drove 105. The desert was dead cold. Six zillion stars burned.
The radio hummed low. Mountain ranges broke up reception. Crutch caught an oldie string. Circa ‘60 prom songs. The Peeper Magical Mystery Tour.
The music re-sputtered. Crutch flicked off the dial. Sonny yipped like a dog in a dream.
Crutch checked the rearview. Sonny was prone, with his feet out the window. Sand blew into the car. Sonny said, “Shit.”
“Are you okay, champ?”
“Don’t call me ‘champ.’ ‘Champ’s’ what you call all them stumblebum sparring partners you see on skid row.”
“Okay, boss.”
Sonny lit a cigarette. He torched the filter, dropped the match and tried again. Six more swipes got him combustion.
Crutch said, “I saw you fight Wayne Bethea. You kicked his fucking ass.”
Sonny dog-yawned. “I knew a cat named Wayne. He kept killing black guys he didn’t want to. That boy just didn’t have no hate for anybody, but shit kept finding him. He kept trying to find niggers to kill and niggers to save, and this woman of his thought it was all the same goddamn thing.”
They hit a rise. The Vegas Strip emanated. Colored lights compressed by darkness.
Sonny said, “Drop me at the Sands. I’m meeting some people.”
Crutch goosed the gas. He felt re-hexed and de-hexed. Sonny dropped three RDs in his tux pocket. His tiger koat was all pilled-fur balls up the wazoo.
“Don’t deadhead back. Park somewhere and rest up.”
It was 4:00 a.m. The Strip was a-go-go. Lots of cabs and golf-cart travel. The carts were wet bar-fitted. The passengers quaffed cocktails, the drivers swerved.
Crutch pulled up to the Sands. Sonny laid a C-note on him and ruffled his hair. The coffee shop was glass-fronted. People saw the crazy limo and howled.
Sonny got out. People waved. He weaved into the coffee shop. Mary Beth Hazzard walked over and hugged him.
The dexies fought off the RDs. He parked the limo under the Stardust and thrashed until noon. His tiger tux shed. Fur threads tickled his snout. He felt full-force-fucked in the soul.
He gave up on sleep and opted for pancakes. A short stack and coffee re-vivified him. Do it, fucker. You’ll get re-zombified if you don’t.
He drove to the Hotel Workers’ Union. The limo took up two parking slots. He got some pissy looks. They turned to yuks quick. His tiger tux was a roar.
A janitor gave him directions. He was all pins and needles. Her office door was open. She looked up from her desk.
He said, “I’m sorry about Wayne.”
She put down her pen.
He said, “He tried to warn me about some things.”
She straightened her desk blotter.
He said, “I see things that other people don’t see. I know how to find people.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a key ring.
90
(Los Angeles, 12/11/70)
The girls chased a neighbor’s dog. He watched from two houses down.
Dina had speed. Ella had a toddler’s gait. The dog ran in elusive circles. Ella charged, fell and got back up. The front yard contained them. His stuffed animals were there on the porch.
Dwight pushed his seat back. The car was packed: tinctures, solvents and brushes. Notepaper of varied stock.
He left Silver Hill early. He started his Bureau work next month. Joan understood his plan. She signed on with blood-deep support-belief works that way.
Nixon called him yesterday. How was your rest? Welcome back-and, by the way…
The prez was building an ops squad-four black-bag men. Dwight declined. The prez acted hurt. Dwight recommended Howard Hunt at CIA.
Ella caught the dog. He pushed her down with his paws and licked her. Ella grinned and laughed.
Karen got in the car. They knocked up their arms embracing sideways. They kept banging their legs.
They found a fit and stayed with it. The girls looked over and waved.
Karen held his face. “You look the same.”
“You look better.”
“I thought you’d be fat from all that pie I sent you.”
“My goats ate most of it.”
Karen tucked her knees up. “My husband’s in the backyard. I’ll have to go in a minute.”
“Later this week?”
“Yes.”
“The Beverly Wilshire?”
“I’ll never say no to that.”
They laced hands on the steering wheel. Karen said, “Mr. Hoover’s new dirt-hoarder. I’ll be begging you to delete files inside of ten minutes.”
“What’s wrong with five? You know I’ll do it.”
Karen laughed. “You want something. This impromptu visit after so many months just isn’t you.”
Dwight rubbed her knees. “I think you should put together a team. There’s a Bureau Records Center in Media, Pennsylvania. I think you should tap it in early March. There’s at least ten thousand surveillance files there. You could steal them and expose the Bureau’s harassment policies in one go.”
Karen lit a cigarette. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“You should.”
“And this is your idea? It didn’t come from-”
“Not now, please.”
“No weapons, in and out.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ll tell me more. ‘Need-to-know’ basis?”
Dwight nodded. “Yes, and soon.”
Ella fell and scuffed her knees. She started crying. Karen said, “I have to go.”
Dwight said, “Do you love me?”
Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”
Files:
The file room was back lot-size. High shelves, deep shelves, rolling-ladder access. Political files, criminal files, civil files. Informant files. Surveillance files, gossip files and general-sleaze files. 600,000 files total.
All indexed. Chained index binders at every shelf front.
Dwight walked the shelf banks. The ladders ran on greased casters. Twelve-foot-high, floor-bolted structures. Twelve shelves per bank. Twenty-four banks total.
“You’re early. Almost a month, in fact.”
Dwight turned around. Jack Leahy leaned on a ladder.
“You’ll hate the job. These files do not represent Mr. Hoover at his best.”
“The Bureau’s most impolitic SAC. How have you lasted this long?”
“Lawyer’s luck. And civil law compared to this? Come on.”
They shook hands. Jack sat on a ladder rung.