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.

101

(Los Angeles, 3/14/71)

Blend in. You’re a worker. You’ll make it fly.

He studied the crew yesterday. They wore jumpsuits and lunch-boxed it on the Fed Building lawn. Agents head-counted them in the a.m. The afternoon-nix. You’re just another tool-belted geek.

Clyde said the Feds got B amp;E’d outside Philly. It mandated a file-room blitzkrieg. Clyde said five-digit numbers were snitch codes. Shit/fuck- let’s try.

Crutch ate a salami hero. The crew guys ignored him. It is all one. Mr. Clean dies. Marsh with bloody hands. Scotty gets the case, junkie suicides, case closed.

A whistle blew. The crew stood up and stretched. Six guys plus him. Please, no head count.

Crutch blended in. Nobody said boo. He had a two-day growth and a painter’s cap pulled low. He paint-smeared his face.

They entered the lobby. A Fed keyed the elevator. Crutch crouched between two fat Polacks. Nobody said shit.

The elevator stopped at floor 11. The Fed led them down a hallway. Dwight Holly walked by, with a clipboard. He didn’t see shit.

The file section was off the main squadroom. It was airplane hangar-size.

The Fed waved bye-bye. The crew dispersed. They went around unscrewing shelf runners. Crutch moved six aisles down and mimicked them.

He worked slow. The other guys schlepped around panels. Now I get it. Cover the file shelves. Gain access by lock and key.

File shelves, file banks, file rows. Chained binder directories. “CBI.” Abbreviated Fed-speak: “Confidential bureau informants.”

The real workers worked. Panels and lock placements went up faaaaast. Crutch quick-walked. Look officious now. Tighten some screws.

He walked away from the other guys. He flipped open binders. He hit sixteen file rows. Abbreviations blurred. Number 17: “CBI/00001.”

He gulped. He looked up. He counted numbers and shelves to the ceiling. Motherfucker-the high-4 series was up at the top.

No shelf ladders here. You’ve got to shimmy up.

He climbed. The shelves wobbled. He fucking monkey-grabbed, hoisted and pulled. He reached the summit. The ceiling loomed.

He crawled. He ate dust, rubber bands and age-old dead bugs. He peeked over the side and saw file tabs. He got the 4-5’s, the 4-6’s, the 4-7’s. He stifled sneezes. The shelf shimmy-shimmied. He hit the 4-8’s. He saw the red tab for the one.

He plucked it.

He read the first page.

The Black Pride Laundryman-craven Fed snitch.

He snitched heist guys exclusively. He reported to the office boss, Jack Leahy. The relationship started back in ‘63. The robbers’ names were inked over. It’s all too close, it’s all as one. Nothing’s tangential-it’s all right here in my fist.

The shelf wobbled. Crutch almost blew lunch. Robbery rat-outs. Dissemination and disinformation. It had to be.

Crutch sneezed. The shelf dipped. He almost dropped the file. A page fell out. He saw a black-inked paragraph. God spoke to him: Jack Leahy redacted Joan Rosen Klein.

(Los Angeles, Rural Mississippi, 3/15/71-11/18/71)

The Operation.

They never named it. They didn’t need to or want to. They never exchanged memoranda. There was no need to paper-reference their tasks. Acronyms were self-indulgent and satirical. They reeked of puerile Feds fucking the disenfranchised for kicks.

He worked his file-room job in a perfunctory manner and worked the Operation full-tilt. A Nixon aide sent him Mr. Hoover’s travel list. The old girl was frail. She was traveling less. There were no planned L.A. trips this year.

His sleep was good. His nerves were sound. He chucked his booze and sleeping-pill stash. He imagined spot tails. He took evasive action. The tail cars disappeared. It was just residual fear.