Joan had gotten a second wind and riffed before he left. She told him about the blacklist and all the people Hoover trashed. He memorized their names. He wanted to touch her scar and show her the scar on his back.

He cut east. He parked in front of the fallback and walked up the steps. The buzzer didn’t work. He knocked a bunch of times, loud. The lock was too lame not to pick.

She’d made a nest on the floor. Dwight’s jackets and sweaters, Dwight’s Fed suits. He smelled her cigarette smoke and Dwight’s aftershave. The suits were blotched up with it. She’d doused them good.

Crutch walked out to the terrace. A cool pair of Bausch amp; Lombs sat on the ledge. He adjusted the sights and looked down at Karen’s house. Karen and Joan were burning paper in the backyard bar-b-q. Joan had bandaged up her wrists.

The little girls played catch. A blood-crusted towel was draped over a chair back. He zoomed in very close. Joan almost smiled and laughed.

He got AN IDEA. He didn’t hex it by stating it, inside or outside of his head. His chemical shit was stashed at pad #3. He Walpurgisnacted and worked till he dropped.

Blowfish toxin and stinging nettle. Tree-frog livers from his icebox. Rigorous formulas, potpourri and improvisation. Three hot plates boiling and mushroom clouds like Hiroshima.

Build, reduce, enhance, revise, re-calculate and re-try. It’s like Brylcreem: “A little dab’l do ya.” Re-formulate and get it down to sub-atomic size.

He got close. Eyedrop portions burned paper and wood. He recalculated and re-tried. He futzed with endless molecular strings and brought down the dose. He thought he got sub-ultra-close and miscalculated. He got closer than that first close and yelled Halt! before he collapsed.

He squeezed a particle on a piece of cheese and left it on his back porch. He popped two red devils and slept it all off.

Sedation. No nightmares. No Zombie Zone flashbacks.

Bird noise de-comatized him. He lurch-walked out to the back porch.

There’s the cheese and a dead rat. A minuscule nip chilled his rodent ass flat out.

(Los Angeles, 3/28/72)

“Who killed Scotty Bennett?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“I remember the first time you said that.”

“It was 1944. You asked me if I was sleeping with the boy from the Young Socialists’ Alliance.”

“Were you?”

“I’m not telling you.”

They sat in Jack’s car. Elysian Park was still rain-wet. She met Dwight there early on. Stone’s throw: the LAPD Academy. Dwight’s intimidation spot.

Jack said, “Did you destroy the file?”

“Karen and I burned it yesterday.”

“Had she read it?”

Joan lit a cigarette. “She didn’t have to. She knew it couldn’t be anything else.”

A black amp; white rolled by. Joan watched it. Jack said, “We could have leaked some pages on Bowen and BAAAAD BROTHER.”

“Not without hurting Dwight.”

“Dead’s dead. Lost comrades serve the Cause from the grave routinely. ‘Don’t mourn. Organize!’ Don’t tell me you haven’t heard that one.”

“Things have shifted.”

“You and the ‘Enforcer.’ ”

“ ‘Some people you wait your whole life for.’ Wayne Tedrow told me that.”

Jack lit a cigarette. The sun hit his eyes. He pulled the visor down.

“IA’s buried Scotty. They found his file, with Bowen all over it. They made Scotty and Bowen for the Thornton job, belatedly. We weren’t in the file. I’d have heard if we were.”

Joan cleaned her glasses on her shirttail. Jack did the same thing. She remembered the first time: Brooklyn, ‘46.

“We have seven million dollars.”

“I know.”

“I miss Celia. I’m too well known to go back to find her.”

Jack said, “She knew the risks. You instilled them in her. She told you not to find her if this happened. You have to respect that. It’s how our world works.”

Joan tossed her cigarette. “You could go back.”

“I’m not going to.”

“On principle?”

“Yes.”

“Solely on principle?”

Jack squeezed her arm. It hurt. It was a jilted comrade/lover’s move, ‘46.

“You called off the Operation, I did not. You had a sentimental lapse. You put a personal relationship before a duty, and I did not.”

Joan looked out her window. A young cop waved to her. She waved back.

Jack said, “I picked up a tip.”

“I’m listening.”

“Dwight put a black-bag team together for Nixon. We could capitalize on it.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Jack laughed. Joan dry-popped two pills.

“We should have had a child together.”

Jack squeezed her arm, soft. “I remember the first time you said that.”

“When was it?”

“Fall ‘54. The Army-McCarthy hearings were on TV.”

“Why do we remember things that way?”

“Pure arrogance. We’re self-absorbed and confuse our lives with History.”

Joan smiled. Jack opened his briefcase.

“I’ve got a file on your new friend. It was in Dwight’s desk. Clyde Duber built it. He thought the kid might get out of line one day.”

DONALD LINSCOTT CRUTCHFIELD. Born Los Angeles, 3/2/45. Brown hair, brown eyes, 5'9"/158.

Joan read at the fallback. The clothes nest smelled like her now. She caught less and less of Dwight.

Clyde Duber cribbed from PD reports and typed in his own notes. A Fed CBI carbon was clipped at the back. The persistent blur takes shape.

The racetrack-bum father. The missing mother. The boy at age ten. She sends him five dollars and a card every Christmas. The boy investigates.

Clyde Duber’s postscript:

He located Margaret Woodard Crutchfield, May ‘65. She drank herself to death in Beaumont, Texas. He couldn’t break the kid’s heart. He tapped old pals nationwide. They continued the Christmas-gift tradition. The search gave the kid a non-perv task.

The kid was deft. “Voyeurs make good wheelmen and sometimes good investigators.” Clyde got the kid out of trouble and gave him work. He noted his intransigence and invisibility. He feared his “weird tendencies.” He noted the Dr. Fred Hiltz/Gretchen Farr case.

So it started then. You found me there.

Celia was Gretchen that summer. She was near mad in that guise. She was bilking men and taking drugs and transporting cocaine in rented airplanes. She was off in a mystic phase. Revolution bored her. King’s death and RFK’s death produced vile hippie pranks. She was worried about Tattoo. She had hexed and de-hexed her. She devoutly believed that Tattoo was in jeopardy. Summer ‘68. The boy sees you.

The Duber typescript ended. Joan hit the CBI report. The boy knew a wheelman named Phil Irwin and a divorce lawyer named Charles Weiss. Irwin was an FBI informant. He snitched cheating spouses from his rope jobs. His FBI handler quoted him:

“Yeah, I’ll admit it. My buddy Chick and I like to peep. We studied under the best, Crutch Crutchfield. There ain’t a window in Hancock Park that that twisted cocksucker ain’t put his snout up to. He never knew it, but Chick and I used to tail him and study his technique. Chick said he ‘scaled the Peeper Parthenon,’ whatever the fuck that means.”

Three muni PD file notes were listed below. Santa Monica PD: Irwin and Weiss questioned for loitering, 9/67. Beverly Hills PD: Irwin and Weiss questioned for loitering, 4/68. LAPD file note, 5/68: Realtor Arnold D. Moffett questioned per “porno parties.”

She remembered the name. He rented “Gretchen” a house.

LAPD dropped the inquiry. Porno parties-so what? A KA list was footnoted: four names, plus Charles Weiss. “Mr. Weiss shares Mr. Moffett’s penchant for bizarre Negro art.”

Joan thought about the boy. Show him the file? Maybe, in part.