Crutch skimmed Blak-O-Rama. Key clients offered quotes. Wilt Chamberlain said, “Finest rides in L.A., baby.” Archie Bell said, “Tiger Kab sticks it to The Man.” Allen Ginsberg said, “Tiger Kab is multiracial avant-garde.”
Phil Irwin brodied into the lot. He kabbed Chick Weiss and a Cuban whore. Chick was wild-eyed off ludes. Buzz Duber brodied out of the lot. He kabbed Lenny Bernstein and a he-she mulatto.
It’s the hip new hub. Moonlighting wheelmen and dexie-drenched coffee. Tiger Kab rocks round the clock.
Crutch de-limo’d and walked the lot. Lenny the B. checked out his basket. Chick and Phil popped ludes and went aaaah.
Chick said, “ ‘No-fault.’ You heard it here first. It spells the death knell for you loafing cocksukers.”
Phil said, “It’s coming in. It’s part and parcel to all this permissive hippie shit that’s sweeping the country. You don’t have to show cause for divorce no more.”
Chick said, “That means shysters like me don’t pay perverts like you to kick in doors and peep windows.”
Phil said, “Perverts? That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” Chick shushed him. Lenny the B. popped a lude and went aaaah.
Crutch flipped them off and hopped into the hut. The Coon Cartel was up and at it. Milt C., Fred O., stray Panthers and cops. Sonny Liston, on a toot.
He held up the Vegas Sun. He quoted it loud.
“Ex-champ on skids. Former heavyweight kingpin residing in Brokesville. Numerous confidential sources have told this reporter that local resident Sonny Liston, onetime world heavyweight boss and fierce fistic fountainhead, may be filing for food stamps or looking for a Joe Louis-like casino-greeter job soon. His coin is rumored to be going, going, gone, the result of hellacious habits, and talk of a third fight with Muhammad Ali, should he survive his March 8 title tiff with Smokin’ Joe Frazier, is considered by fight pros to be no more than a passing pipe dream.”
Redd Foxx said, “Sounds true to me.” Junkie Monkey said, “I turn your sweet ass out. You never be broke if you peddlin’ that big black booty for me.”
Sonny said, “This is fucking bullshit. I got fourteen G’s in Kellogg’s Rice Krispies stock and six G’s in my pocket.”
Freddy signaled Crutch. They walked into the can. Freddy bolted the door.
“How’d you like to work a fruit shake? I’ll pay you two grand.”
Crutch swooned. “Shit, yeah. I’ll do it.”
“We want Sal Mineo for the bait. You know him, so you recruit him. He gets three and a half and no right of refusal. Mention my name, which should quell any protests.”
Crutch gulped. “Who’s it for?”
“Scotty Bennett.”
Crutch re-gulped. “Who’s the mark?”
Freddy laughed. “That cop Marshall Bowen. Badass spade’s a rump ranger.”
Sonny geezed in the backseat. They were halfway to Vegas. Christmas was five days hence. The Tiger Krew wore Santa Claus caps.
Crutch took his off. It clashed with his tiger tux. Midnight evaporated-another deadhead.
Fruit shake. Trouble in paradise. It’s got to be heist-derived.
Sonny untied his arm. “I gots the word on you, Peeper. You tattled Wayne’s shit to Mary Beth. Santa’s elves told me alllllll about it. That means I be watching you.”
Crutch palpitated. A coyote ran across the road. He lost the wheel and almost plowed it.
The radio re-kicked. Mountains killed the signal forty miles back. Brenda Lee with “Jingle Bell Rock.”
Crutch checked the rearview. His pulse topped two hundred. Sonny was smack-back. His dentures had slipped halfway out.
Yule songs consoled him to Stateline. Diversion therapy meets memory lane.
Christmas, ‘54. Granny Woodard’s in from Ortonville, Minnesota. She strokes out in March. His mother splits in June.
Christmas, ‘62. Paul McEachern kicks his ass. Christmas, ‘66. He steals Dana Lund’s boyfriend’s car and cherry-bombs the gas tank.
Sonny stirred. What dat needle doin’ dere? Crutch kept it zipped. Vegas loomed thirty miles up.
Sonny said, “I ain’t broke and I ain’t no charity case. Vegas Sun runs some jive piece and some anonymous fucking fool sends me a green-ass emerald in the mail. Wraps the fucking thing up in the fucking newspaper, so’s I get the fucking point.”
Body shot-Crutch went airless and double-visioned. The road dipped. He clipped a fence post. The moon did a hop, skip and jump.
Sonny gripped the door ledge. Crutch steadied the wheel. The moon halfway re-settled.
“Can I see the envelope and the emerald?”
“No, Peeper. You can’t. You can get me to Vegas in one motherfucking piece and leave me the fuck alone.”
Emeralds, fruit squeeze, the Coon Cartel connection. It is all one.
He dosed himself asleep in the Sands parking lot. He woke up and re-dosed with waffles and Bloody Marys. Redd Foxx sold Sonny four bags in L.A. Sonny geezed one bag in the limo. Sonny should be comatose as we speaks.
Crutch staked his crib out. The Tiger stretch drew riveted looks. The crib was upscale by colored standards. The neighborhood was half ofay.
Now or never.
He had a wiggle shim and his lock picks. Sonny’s road-hog Buick was parked out front. The door knocker was a brass boxing glove.
Raise the dead. You don’t want errors here.
Crutch banged the knocker, rang the bell and kicked the door. He got no response and re-did the sequence. The dead air intensified. He wiggle-shimmed the door and walked straight in.
Snores hit him. Sonny was gaga on a Naugahyde couch. He used a bungee cord as a tourniquet. The spike was loose in his fist.
“Champ on skids?” Yeah. The crib was over-soiled and under-furnished. The ceiling leaked sawdust and freon juice. Dog dishes collected it.
Quick toss-no fuckups here.
He pre-walked the pad. Living room, kitchen, two bedrooms. No bookshelves, no dressers, clothes paper-sacked. Hit the kitchen built-ins first.
He went through the trash. He found scorched TV-dinner tins and pint-vodka empties. He went through the kitchen drawers-eureka, that’s it.
Plain white envelope, standard size, no return address. Sonny’s name and address block-printed. L.A. postmark, the clipping inside, no green-ass emerald.
Crutch grabbed the envelope by the edges. He dropped it in a plastic bag and put a scrawled envelope down in its place.
Sonny dog-yipped in his sleep.
Clyde wired him three grand, c/o the Dunes. He ran it up to five at the wheel. He had his Reggie Hazzard pic. He bought a Nevada-California road map. He called in sick at Tiger Kab. He tucked the Tiger stretch in a day garage so he wouldn’t look like a geek.
He rented a Ford sedan. He dumped his tiger tux and bought a sport coat. He went out to grease shitkicker cops. Wayne should have done it at the get-go.
Tank towns. Border burgs and agri-dumps. Desert dots with six-, eight-and twelve-man PDs.
Rainbow Hill, Crescent Peak, Dyer, Daylight Peak. Woodford, Minden, Pahrump, Salisbury, Mid-Lockie. Fourteen towns with “Cal-Nev” in the mix.
He drove tank town to tank town. He flashed his photo attached to a C-note. He lubed redneck cops, straw-boss cops and wetback smuggling freaks. He stressed December ‘63. He described Joan. He mentioned the bail jump-may I check your records, please?
Some cops blew him off. Most cops took the cash. Some cops said they shitcanned their skip sheets. Most cops cited turnovers and plain stonewalled him.
He worked it for three days. He went through $3,400. He slept in cheap motels and had Joan dreams. He hit nine-tenths of the road-map towns. He worked his way back to L.A.
He hooked off I-15 at McKendrick. The PD was a Quonset hut upside a lettuce field. Jail trustees did stoop labor. The motor pool was four old Fords and sixteen horses. The lettuce pickers wore stenciled denims. The cops drove golf carts and quaffed brews.