Los Angeles Office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, supervised by Special-Agent-in-Charge John C. Leahy.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/12/71. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request/Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, Special Agent Dwight C. Holly.

DH: Good morning, Sir.

JEH: It is decidedly not.

DH: Sir?

JEH: The Resident Agency in Media, Pennsylvania, was burglarized Monday night. A great many files were stolen.

DH: Is it secured, Sir? And forgive my ignorance, but I don’t know where Media is.

JEH: It’s a two-man office space near Philadelphia. The file bank holds overflow from the New York, Boston and Philadelphia offices. The break-in occurred while local police officers were at Shakey’s Pizza Parlor, watching replays of the Cassius Clay-Smokin’ Joe Frazier Battle of the Apes.

DH: Sir, is it secure?

JEH: It is. The break-in was discovered by the agents themselves. They bypassed the Media PD and called the Philadelphia SAC. Media has not yet made the media.

DH: The files, Sir?

JEH: Bland, by your Los Angeles Office standards. Damning by the standards of addlepated civil libertarians. We lost adjunct surveillance files, tap files and COINTELPRO addendum sheets.

DH: It’s a shocking breach, Sir.

JEH: You are muddle-headed and swoony with emotion today, Dwight. Extended stays in sanitariums undermine strong people. They confuse their emotional states with the world.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: That’s better. The old “Enforcer.” Hard-edged and submissive.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Better yet.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I’m sure we’re thinking along similar lines. Which lunatic fringe group will claim credit? Will they release the files? Which treasonous leftist rag will they release them to?

DH: How many agents are on it, Sir?

JEH: Forty-six, full-time. Of course, there are no witnesses and the thieves left no physical evidence.

DH: I’ll query my informants, Sir.

JEH: Do that. Offer cash incentives and employ your generally intrusive methods with my full sanction.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I have sent out a general memo to all our field offices. The file sections are being security enhanced at this very moment.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Do not underestimate my resolve to forestall future break-ins. Do not underestimate the robust state of my health. My physician, Dr. Archie Bell, considers me to be an outstanding specimen.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: President Nixon is mentally ill. He refuses to inform me that he will reappoint me as director after his fait accompli reelection next year. I’m telling it like it is, Brother Dwight. Tricky Dick has asked me to black-bag the major Democratic candidates, which I have declined to do. I’m dragging my heels. Nixey boy is starting to sweat.

DH: I can dig it, Sir.

JEH: I’m sure you can. And your mental health? Have you regained your brusque grasp of life?

DH: In spades, Sir.

JEH: We lost some files, but we will prevail in the end. The files in my superbly secure basement would bring down the world.

DH: Right on, Sir.

JEH: Good day, Dwight.

DH: Good day, Sir.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 5/12/71. VERBATIM STAGE-1/CLOSED CONTACT/TOP-ACCESS ROUTING telephone call transcript. Closed file #48297. Speaking: President Richard M. Nixon and Special Agent Dwight C. Holly, FBI.

RMN: Good evening, Dwight.

DH: Good evening, Mr. President.

RMN: It’s been too long, my friend.

DH: I agree, Sir.

RMN: Are you keeping busy?

DH: I certainly am, Sir.

RMN: That’s the ticket. Keep going until your hat floats.

DH: That is very sage advice, Sir.

RMN: It is. On that note, I would have to say that you-know-who must be very busy fretting over that break-in.

DH: He is, Sir. We were discussing it this morning. May I ask if he was the one who informed you?

RMN: The attorney general called me. He said, “The old girl may have her dick in the wringer.”

DH: May I be blunt, Sir?

RMN: By all means, Dwight. Why mince words? I only call you when I’ve been belting a few and I’ve got a yen for bluntness.

DH: The burglars will or will not claim credit and may or may not leak the files. Parenthetically, I would add that Media, PA, is the Siberia of file holes and that all the data in the files pre-dates your administration.

RMN: I like that.

DH: I thought you might, Sir.

RMN: Here’s my fear. I’m thinking what’s-her-name may be infirm to the point where she’ll deploy her files on me to keep her job.

DH: You’ll be reelected next November, Sir. Inauguration Day 1973 sounds like a good time to cut your losses.

RMN: I like that.

DH: I thought you might, Sir. And please let me add that should the break-in be claimed and the files go out resultantly, it will make you-know-who quite circumspect about releasing files in any sort of derogatory manner.

RMN: Dwight, you my main man.

DH: Thank you, Sir.

RMN: Per next year’s election, then. The old girl has been dragging her heels on a certain front. “Black-bag job.” It’s got soul as a concept, don’t you think?

DH: Frankly, Sir, it’s ghetto. I appreciate it that way myself.

RMN: Dwight, you’re a sketch. Let’s talk about that again next time.

DH: Yes, Sir.

RMN: Anything I can help you with?

DH: One thing, Sir.

RMN: I’m listening.

DH: The L.A. Office is security-fitting the file section. The agents are afraid you-know-who will show up unannounced before it’s finished. Will you get me his travel schedule from someone at Justice?

RMN: Sure, Dwight. On the QT, baby. Just like all our chats.

DH: Thank you, Mr. President.

RMN: Straight ahead, kid.

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.