“Tell me what Mr. Hoover did to you.”

Joan said, “No. I’m not going to.”

DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/3/71. Telex communiquй. Marked: “Access Code 1-A/Recipient’s Eyes Only. Destroy Upon Reading.” To: SA Dwight C. Holly. Prom: Travel-Scheduling Office, Central Communications Center, Washington, D.C.

Sir,

Per your last telephone request, please be informed that SUBJECT’S travel schedule has been reduced, due to recent recurrences of poor health. As of this date, SUBJECT will be traveling to Miami on 4/14/72, Cleveland on 5/5/72 and Los Angeles on 6/10/72. Any changes or updates will follow, per your request. As always, please destroy upon reading.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/4/71. Official 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.

JEH: Good morning, Dwight.

DH: Good morning, Sir.

JEH: (Coughing fit: twelve seconds.)

DH: Good morning, Sir.

JEH: Don’t repeat yourself.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: I don’t know why I continue to talk to you.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: Stop repeating yourself. I’m not senile. I’m in perfect health.

DH: Yes, Sir.

JEH: You did it again. Stop it. I’m telling you not to respond.

(Silence; fifty-three seconds.)

JEH: Slippery Dick asked me to black-bag the Watergate Hotel. I declined. I’ll keep my job as long as I string him along. I’m a cock-tease. I’m stringing that cocksucker along. He called me a sissy. He called my hemorrhoid surgery a “hysterectomy.”

(Coughing fit: nine seconds.)

JEH: I’ve got a file on Slippery Dick. He called me a sissy. My basement is reinforced with Kryptonite. No file thief on earth could break in.

(Coughing fit: sixteen seconds/phone transcript terminates here.)

109

(Los Angeles, 12/5/71)

“Sal, you’re a cute side of beef. Why can’t you land this chump in the sack?”

Fruit squeeze summit #2. Sergeant Robert S. Bennett, presiding. Also there: Sal, Fred O., Peeper Crutchfield.

“Listen, there’s guys who just won’t bite. Sometimes they’re Little-Miss-Hard-To-Get, sometimes they just don’t crave stick.”

The Silver Star on Western. Scotty dined gratis there. The owner was stickup-prone. He called Scotty direct.

A waiter served gin fizzes and pretzels. Their booth faced the door. Scotty insisted. He knew faces quicksville. He had cop total recall.

Fred O. picked a hangnail. Peeper scratched his balls. Silky Sal was depressed. He was a coal burner. He craved Marsh’s deep mine shaft.

The waiter split. Sal said, “I met you before, Sergeant. It was on this movie shoot.”

“I know. Southside Crackdown. I took my kids to see it. My daughter had the hots for you. I told her, That guy’s a fruit fly, you’re shit out of luck.’ ”

Sal yukked. Fred yukked. Peeper did not. Peeper was always off in his head. Yonder windows loomed.

Scotty snarfed pretzels. “Lay it on me. Why won’t this stupe come around?”

Sal shrugged. “Marshey’s a tough nut. He’s got his tight little world all figured out, and he doesn’t appreciate interruptions. He’s got his cop thing and his speech thing and his art thing. And now all he talks about are these trips he took to Haiti.”

Hel-lo.

Softball. Easy lob, easy catch. Marsh was holding back. Haiti adjoined the D.R. The emeralds shipped from there. Haiti meant Reggie and the stones.

Sissy Sal blathered. Scotty tuned him out. Peeper fidgeted. Note the sweaty hands and neck.

Scotty chugalugged his drink. “You keep pressing, Sal. I’ll get you some Quaaludes. A little Soul Train on the stereo and va-va-va-voom.”

Sal tee-heed. “It’s not like I don’t want it. Marshey is a stone fox. I call him ‘the African Queen.’ ”

Fred O. clutched his belly. Peeper howled out loud. Pretzel gack flew.

Scotty said, “This is all between us white men. You cannot go to Dwight Holly. This is our fruit shake. His fruit shake is old news.”

Hel-lo.

Sal flushed at “Dwight Holly.” Peeper residual twitched.

Sal twirled his spit curl. “I only saw Mr. Holly way back when. My Fed guy was always Jack Leahy. He was bugging me with questions on Southside Crackdown. Remember, Sergeant? You were, too. Armored-car heist this, armored-car heist that, as if this girl would know anything about that kind of action.”

Hel-lo.

Peeper blinked at “Leahy.” Peeper blinked at “heist.” There’s Peeper’s darty eyes and light sweat.

Scotty glared at Sal. Sal wet his lips and smirked. Fred O. picked his hangnail. The charged air whizzed by him. Peeper gulped and regulped. His Adam’s apple did the Frug and the Peppermint Twist.

Scotty walked to the can. The cold tiles beckoned. He leaned his head on the wall. Okay, okay, okay-let’s logic this out.

Leahy. Heist questions then. Peoples’ Bank ruckus now. Jack went in with the bank team. He was in on the heist. He’s got the big money now.

“Haiti” meant Marsh goes.

(Los Angeles, 12/5/71)

Dashboard frieze: all-new photos.

His ink-scorch spree got him one hot lead and four fake IDs. He tracked the names to mug-shot numbers. He got four new Joans.

Williamson, Goldenson, Broward and Faust. Joan in 1949. Joan three, five and seven years later.

She’s younger, she’s darker-haired, she’s still short of fierce. She’s always defiant. She’s blinky-eyed sans glasses. Her shoulders are smoother. Her jaw hasn’t set in as harsh.

Crutch stared at the pictures. The summit just concluded. He tracked Scotty’s brain waves. Scotty picked up on Haiti and Marsh.

He kicked the key and cruised south. Clyde had work. He had Tiger Kab gigs. His case was breaking out and breaking back in on him.

Dwight Holly called and warned him. Do nothing, Dipshit. Celia was looking for Tattoo’s killer, just like him. Scotty was going after Marsh, post-fucking-haste.

He drove through Hancock Park. He daylight-peeped windows. There was no kick extant.

Christmas was coming. His mother would send a postcard and a five-spot. He’d buy Dana Lund a gift.

He drove by the wheelman lot. Phil Irwin and Buzz Duber waved. Chick Weiss pawed a mulatto whore.

The babe limped to the service bay. Mud-shark Chick scowled at her. Crutch pulled up and idled. Chick leaned in the car.

“You look blue, boychik. You should join Voyeurs Anonymous.”

“Fuck your mother.”

“I tried to once. She rejected me and packed me off to law school.”

A warm wind kicked on. Crutch aimed the AC vent at his balls.

“Get me a rope job.”

Chick said, “Nix. Phil’s my guy. I’ve got that donkey-dick Filipino on retainer, so I can’t stretch my overhead to accommodate your ennui.”

Crutch laughed. Chick said, “Get out of here. Do something dumb and brave, so the world will think you get laid.”

He drove by Tiger Kab. LAPD had some jail trustys there. They wore tiger-striped jumpsuits. They did coerced wash-and-wax jobs. Redd Foxx served them soul-food plates.

He was avoiding it. He couldn’t just let it go.

Milt C. saw him and waved. Junkie Monkey waved one paw. Crutch waved back and cut west to Stocker.

The pad was nice. Baldwin Hills was top-end colored. Ray Charles and Lou Rawls lived down the street. He Tiger-kabbed them both.