106

(Los Angeles, 11/22/71)

The bar TV blared. America mourns JFK, eight loss-looped years later. We were innocent then. The world hates us now.

Scotty signaled the barman. The barman switched channels. Bucky Beaver huckstered Ipana toothpaste. Scotty resignaled the barman. The barman pulled the plug.

Marsh said, “You’re fried, brother. Go out and waste a few heist guys. You’ll feel better then.”

The Kibitz Room at Canter’s Deli. The 6:00 p.m. clientele: alky hebes bopping home from shul.

Scotty lit a cigarette, took two hits and snuffed it. Scotty ate a bite of kreplach and pushed his plate back.

“We keep hitting dead ends.”

“Scotty, it’s over. The bank examiners got the vault stash, and they’re not letting on. We can’t find Reggie, we can’t find the emeralds, and there’s nothing more we can do.”

“It’s not over. We’ve got to find the woman. We brace her, she’ll talk, we’ll take it from there.”

Marsh shook his head. Condescending, patronizing, noble-negro shit.

“You check steamship companies. You go through their work passage lists. You work it from spring ‘64 through the end of the year. You work every major port and overseas destination. You fucking do it, and you fucking do it now.”

(Los Angeles, 11/26/71)

A box arrived at the Vivian. It was parcel-posted Las Vegas. The contents rattled. It weighed a fucking ton.

He paid off the postman and lugged it inside. Return address: Mary Beth Hazzard, P.O. Box 19. An envelope taped on.

Fuck-she answered his queries. Fuck-she found more-

He opened it up. Mary Beth Hazzard wrote:

Mr. Crutchfield,

A police officer in Cleveland, Ohio, sent this in response to one of Wayne’s numerous queries. It is an updated FBI file on a woman named Klein that Wayne was suspicious of. As you can see, apart from the heading and various routing numbers, the actual text has been blacked out. Wayne told me that he had had very limited success in chemically stripping ink, but I have included the tools and chemicals he told me he used.

My best to you,

The file was updated: 12/8/68. SUBJECT KLEIN, JOAN ROSEN, routine numbers, adios. Six full redacted-ink pages.

One file. Sent to a dead man. The fucking genius chemist: “Very limited success.”

And a spectroscope.

And a fluoroscope.

And high-pH hydroxic acid.

And Wayne’s notes on contrasting-ray bombardment.

He laid everything out. He skimmed his chem books and got proportion stats on hydroxic acid. He got zilch on spectroscopes and fluoroscopes. He hooked the gizmos up to a wall plug and positioned them on his desk. He grabbed some Q-tips and put on rubber gloves. He laid out the inked pages.

He hit the On switches. Blue and pink lights beamed. “Bombardment”-huh?-you mean mix and match?

He tried it. He craned the gizmos and let the beams crisscross. The first four times, it blackened the black. The second two times, it lightened the black. He dabbed smiiiiidgens of hydroxic acid on the lighter ink. It burned the paper through to his desk.

Re-adjust the beams. Dab the dark ink now.

He did that. He dabbed heavy, he dabbed light. He burned the paper through to his desk.

He stopped. Deep breath now. He tried the blue-beam gizmo and heavy dabs. He burned the paper through to his desk. Let’s start over. He tried the pink-beam gizmo and light dabs. He burned the paper through to his desk.

His hand jerked. The bottle fell. Acid spilled out. Four full pages burned through to his desk.

Start over. Deep breath now. Brother Wayne, I’m trying. We ‘ve got two pages left.

He blotted up the acid spill. He crisscrossed the beams again. He got all lighter-type lines. He dabbed them exxxtra light.

The paper sizzled and bubbled. The lines burned all the way through to his desk.

Last page.

His desk was burn-scarred. He toweled it off. He centered the page. He futzed with the beams. He got some all-new pink-blue hybrid. He got dark-ink lines and light-ink lines and saw something else.

Little typewriter marks. Right there under the ink.

He squinted at them. He got his magnifying glass and held it down close. He couldn’t make out the ink-covered words.

Deep breath now. Don’t dab, daub, burn, scald, scorch just yet.

Yes, try this.

He walked into the kitchen. He emptied out a spritz bottle of Windex window spray. He rinsed the inside with mild detergent. He let it dry. He carried it into the living room and placed it on his desk.

He poured in the hydroxic acid. He screwed on the top. He test-spritzed the acid and got a fine mist.

The air stung his eyes. He let the mist dissipate. He centered the page under the pink-and-blue beams. He very lightly sprayed the ink lines, top to bottom. The ink dissolved in random streaks. He saw words and word fragments underneath.

“SUBJECT JOAN ROS”/”has dep”/”various ident”/”Williamson, Margaret Susan/Broward, Sharon/Goldenson, Rochelle/Faust, Laura”/”B,” “D,” “L,” “Q,” “A,” smudged word stew.

“Suspected of participation”/”payroll,” smudges, “eries,” “since 194,” “donated,” smudges, “wing causes.”

“SUBJECT JOAN ROSEN KLEIN,” parenthesis, smudges, parenthesis. “Celia Reyes, aka Gretchen Farr”/”6/14 Movement,” smudges and blurred text. “As of this (12/8/68) writing SUBJECT REYES-FARR reported by CBIs to be searching for assumed killer of Dominican-Haitian woman known as ‘Tattoo’ (no real surname known) allegedly missing in Los Angeles since summer ‘68. Also reports that SUBJECT REYES-FARR enlisted aid of (assumed black militant) LEANDER JAMES JACKSON in this venture.”

“SUBJECT,” smudges, “EIN,” “susp,” “rev,” smudges, “ment,” “Algeria,” “Palest,” “Carrib.”

Oh, shit. There’s full lines. Addresses in Spanish. Safe houses in the D.R.

“One persistent rum,” smudges, “alleg,” “seeking to interdict a flow of contraband emeralds rumored to have financed,” smudges, smudges, “coups.”

The print started fading.

He lost letters and whole words A sentence blurred to white. He blinked. He rubbed his eyes. He lost a whole paragraph. He lost the word “JOAN.”

He sprayed the page. He sprayed too hard. The mist came out a gush. Words vanished. The air burned. The page went aflame.

108

(Los Angeles, 11/26/71)

The plane rolled in. Dwight had a crimped center seat. Dogdick, Mississippi, and back in seventeen hours.

The trip was ad-lib. Beb Relyea threw a fit. Dwight, a man likes to know who he’s killin’. Bob, I ain’t sayin’. Here’s five grand. Go push some hate tracts and clout some pharmacies.

The gate was by the parking lot. Dwight deplaned, got his car and cut for the freeway. It was 9:16 p.m. Joan was at the fallback. Marsh was in Oxnard. The Black Pride Caucus invited him. That Brother Bowen-he can speechify.

Dwight swung over to La Cienega and climbed the Stocker Pass. He was frayed. His bad nerves and bad sleep had reprised. The Sal Mineo deal head-slapped him. He hadn’t seen Joan since then. They hadn’t talked at all. He was full-court-pressing. The prez was sending a Hoover travel update. He had to go to D.C. Nixon wanted a black-bag summit. The Enforcer and Howard Hunt, old Agency hand. Karen and her kids would be there then. Show the girls some monuments. Teach them explosives later.