112

(Los Angeles, 1/22/72-3/18/72)

He got the word late. It knocked him down. It sent him sideways.

He’d spent weeks running one way. It sent him running back and running out and sitting still to think. He missed him more than anything. He had a friend in this. The friend fucked him and ran. He missed him anyway.

Marsh got snuffed in Haiti. He knew that he’d fled there. He stiffed an LAPD query and got a late response. He couldn’t go there. His white-pig status would deep-six him. Extradition was out. Marsh was AWOL, but Marsh was clean. IA cops searched his house. They found fruit-bar listings in his address book. They interviewed Scotty. You and Marsh clashed in ‘68-tell us about it.

He tattled Marsh’s Fed-plant deal. The IA guys jumped on it and braced Dwight Holly. Dwight told them Marsh did an outstanding job. The IA guys laid out dumb-ass theories. Marsh ratted black militants. It might be belated revenge.

Scotty pooh-poohed it. Haiti-who cares. Let it go. Call it a fag junket. Don’t reveal his fruitness. Don’t soil LAPD. Don’t shit on his elderly dad.

Marsh might have left a diary. That prospect gored him. He tossed his crib and found a stash hole in a ceiling beam. It reeked of leather and paper. Obvious-Marsh took the diary with him. IA decided to drop the case. It was best all around. The “Black-Militant Blastout” cop’s a swish. He won the Medal of Valor-go figure that.

The news curveballed him. He’d been hamstrung and schizzed all the preceding weeks. He brooded in his den. He worked stakeouts. He took Ann and the kids to Disneyland. He took four of his girlfriends to Vegas on consecutive weekends. He spread tip cash around darktown and waited for callbacks. Who’s the Commie woman?

Marsh was always secretive. They pulled outrageous shit together. Marsh rabbited and held his mud. He respected him for it. He walked on their shit. Marsh died behind it. Fucking Haiti-flying centipedes and voodoo. Marsh was a closet mystic. He talked that jive sometimes. Reggie and the emeralds-a dead-issue bust. The money was another thing.

Somebody tipped Marsh. The fruit summit had just ended. Suspects: Sal M., Fred O., Peeper C. Sal and Fred had no motive. That left Peeper. He spent weeks thinking it through.

Peeper was ubiquitous. He drove around and peeped and kept his yap zipped. Fred O. implied that he knew things. He’s seen shit and done shit- don’t short-shrift that kid.

Peeper lived in his head. So did he, lately. The heist lived all in his head now. Marsh was there that day. So was he. They knew what it meant and why they had to have it. No one else did.

He postponed the Peeper issue. He cruised by the wheelman lot and induced fear. Pieces fell together at the summit. It came down to this:

Jack Leahy worked the heist. The details didn’t matter. He went in with the bank team. He got the money out first.

It’s a soft confrontation. He’ll see the light and okay the split.

He saturated the southside. Mr. Scotty spreeeeads that long green. He got big consensus leads last week.

The probable call: Joan Rosen Klein. She’s got a hard-Left pedigree. There’s missing cop files. There’s 211 rumors. She’s a Federal informant. She might be Big Dwight’s squeeze.

He tallied all his tip sheets. He chewed breath mints and worried it. It felt kosher. She’s Red, she’s wrong. She’s been margin-hopping black-militant shit since ‘68.

She mandates a rogue-cop summit. One order of business: the extended cash split.

It supersedes all agendas. It’s essentially left-wing. Let’s share the wealth. I don’t want to cause pain.

He taps Dwight. Dwight taps Jack and Joan. The dollar count depletes. It’s big coin just the same.

He missed Marsh. It stuck with him. He did this grand-gesture thing.

The fruit gig went kaput. Fred O. returned half of his money. He cut a check and sent it to Marsh’s dad in Chi-town.

Hey, pops. Our deal went south, but I was fond of your kid.

113

(Los Angeles, 1/22/72-3/18/72)

Safe House.

It’s a radical term. It’s Joan Zone nomenclature. He’s got his own variation on it.

He needed a safe house. He was a half-assed Red. He had spooky knowledge and a chemistry set. He had some new ideas. He had a right-wing white man out for payback.

Scotty came by the wheelman lot and winked at him. Scotty got his bruiser sons part-time Tiger Kab jobs. Bruiser One and Bruiser Two were Scotty-sized. They winked and smirked.

Dipshit, Peeper, pariguayo. Add “snitch” to that. Scotty knew he’d tipped Marsh Bowen. The winks meant you’re dead-but not yet.

Safe House.

He rented a shack in the Hollywood Hills. He stored his files, books, herbs and chemical gear there. It’s safe there. He’s not safe there. He flops at the Vivian and his downtown pad sporadic. He sleeps in his car. He rents motel rooms ad hoc. He does rope gigs for Clyde and Chick. He feels safe when he’s following people. He feels un-safe when he stops.

Marsh went somewhere. He cruised Baldwin Hills all winter and saw surveillance traffic galore. Scotty staked out Marsh’s house. Dwight staked out Marsh’s house. Some IA cops scoured the crib in late January. Dwight warned him: Do nothing, Dipshit. Dwight knew most of what he knew. Dwight might or might not kill him. Scotty sure as shit would.

Safe House.

Deferred execution.

He couldn’t run. L.A. was L.A. He only felt safe here. His case was here. He kabbed people and followed people here. He blew up right-wing street signs here. He knew how to live here. He couldn’t run anywhere else. L.A. always gave him urgent shit to do.

Gretchen/Celia tried to track Tattoo’s killer. The late Leander James Jackson helped her. He found four of Jackson’s known associates. They said Leander was hipped on the case. They said he kept no records. A chick named “Celia” shared his fixation. They phone drop-communicated. The Tattoo deal commenced with bad Haitian gre-gre.

Safe House.

His gear is safe there. He’s not. It’s funny and fucked-up. He just turned twenty-seven. He looks way older. He’s got gray-streaked hair and a Commie brand on his back. He can’t talk to the people he cares for. He follows them instead.

He follows Dwight Holly. Joan seems to have left him. Dwight sits in the pad near Karen’s house, for days at a stretch. The boxes and gear are gone. Dwight waits by the phone. He picks up the receiver every half hour. He watches Karen’s house with binoculars. He lights up on her little girls.

Dwight stays immobile. He’s got to stay moving. He follows Karen sometimes. She’s led him to lunch dates with Joan.

Following was easy. Mobility was his strong suit. Cars were camouflage. His zhlubby kid look supplied cover. Bug-tap jobs were easy. He knew how to drill, bore and thread. Eavesdropping was tough. People could see you and sense your intent.

He got close to Joan and Karen. They sipped coffee and chain-smoked at a joint on Hillhurst. Joan said she had “the money.” That encouraged her. She was worried. Celia was lost in Haiti or the D.R. Joan had severed ties with Dwight. It pertained to “the Operation.” The phrase made Karen wince. Joan said “safe house” twice. Joan said Dwight would never be able to find her.

They were such good friends. He heard New York in their voices. Karen was red-haired and didn’t look Greek. It was cold lately. Joan wore sweaters. He couldn’t see her knife scar.

He snapped a sneak photo. Joan was forty-five years, four months and seventeen days of age.