She found her pocketknife. She blade-redacted the lines on Margaret Woodard Crutchfield. The knife fit her hand precisely. She’d stabbed a picket-line goon with it in 1956.

122

(Los Angeles, 3/29/72)

Redd Foxx said, “Scotty was fucking a porcupine. I gots to tell you motherfuckers that it was a female porcupine, so I don’t see nothing perverted in it.”

Yuck, yuck-the crowd laffed, misty-eyed. Some coons offed Scotty- let’s get zorched and mourn.

The wheelman lot. Early Christmas lights and plaid bunting. Booze and jelly bean-jar Pharmaceuticals. You gots to love it.

Crutch, Clyde, Buzz, Phil Irwin and Chick Weiss. Milt C. onstage with Redd and Junkie Monkey. Ex-governor Pat Brown and numerous pigs. Fourteen Black Panthers. A colored heist guy turned TV evangelist. Frau Scotty and six of his girlfriends.

Junkie Monkey said, “Scotty popped my simian ass for a chump-change 211. I stole six moon pies, four bags of pork cracklings, a case of T-Bird and ten cartons of Kool king-size. Scotty saw that I had soul and let me live. We consumed all that motherfucking shit on the premises and went out lookin’ for bitches.”

Yuck, yuck-we’re grief-struck, but it’s fun. Frau Scotty passed a joint to Girlfriend #4. Girlfriend #5 nibbled a hash brownie.

Redd Foxx said, “Scotty was out searchin’ for this brother name of Cleofis. He was a stickup man and a booty bandit. He was robbing liquor stores with a sawed-off shotgun and banging Scotty’s bitches with a piece of hard black steel ten times that size.”

Girlfriend #3 roared. Girlfriend #2 hugged Frau Scotty. Phil Irwin popped a Quaalude in the air. Chick Weiss caught it with his mouth. Pat Brown blinked-Why am I here?

The bash noise bashed him. He’d spent the day re-memorizing and phone calling. The parlay: D.R. safe houses and Hoover victims.

He re-memorized the CIA-safe-house list. He re-memorized the safe-house list from Joan’s file. He got on the horn at pad #3 and called folks.

They vibed him as fuzz more than comrade. Joan’s name got him some trust. It was name stew out of Joan’s story and monologues. He ran phone checks and got numbers. He called and schmoozed the folks. He got updates and little tales back. J. Edgar fucked you-tell me about that.

They grapevined him. Jail terms, suicide, despondency. Early death and harassment. Lots of rat-out-your-pals barters-some succumbed to, some not.

He kept calling. The fuckers kept talking and feeding him numbers. He ran up his phone bill. The bad news avalanched him. Feds lurking at your window and your kids’ school. You ragged Gay Edgar, loose chitchat, now we’II get you.

It got to him. It re-fueled That Idea. More suicides. More vanished loved ones. The grief had him earthquaked and tidal-waved.

Frau Scotty hopped onstage and got schmaltzy. It cued the Panthers to waltz. Junkie Monkey leered at Girlfriends #1 to #6. It cracked them up.

Crutch veered to the pay phone. It was still early. He could log more call-outs and more fuel. He coin-checked his pockets. Zilch on dimes and nickels. He pulled this sparkly emerald out.

His good-bye embrace. She slipped it to him then.

Babe, you didn ‘t have to. You already sent me Red.

Sills Tip-Top was North Vegas. The drive sapped him. She called it her lucky-charm place. If you have to come, meet me there.

It was a bum-fuck coffee shop near Nellis AFB. The a.m. crowd was enlisted geeks and lounge-act debris. He made it on time-snatch-hair margin.

She waited in a back booth. The joint was integrated. Minimal tension buzzed.

He sat down. Mary Beth said, “You always look like you’re out of breath.”

A waitress poured him coffee. Crutch guzzled it and burned his mouth.

“I’m always running here to tell you something. I called ahead this time, though.”

Mary Beth sipped coffee. “You always look different. Maybe it’s because I only see you at intervals and always in such distress.”

Crutch fumbled at his cup. Coffee spilled. Mary Beth wiped it up.

“You remind me of Wayne.”

“I’m so goddamn sorry for that.”

“Wayne made his bed. I was grateful to share it for a while, but it had to end the way it did.”

An air force chump evil-eyed them. Crutch hard-eyed him back.

Mary Beth said, “Don’t. Look where big gestures took Wayne. Try to be more prudent. You’ll be better served in the end.”

Crutch got a late road cramp. He stretched his legs and bumped Mary Beth. It jittered him. She sat still and let his fluster subside.

“I’m good at finding people.”

“You told me that last time.”

“I’m better now. I’ve learned some things.”

“You look different. I’ll concede that.”

The waitress freshened their coffee. Mary Beth rolled up her blouse sleeves. She wore a silver bracelet with a single emerald inset.

“Your son sent you that stone.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m not telling you.”

Mary Beth looked out the window. Crutch tracked her eyes. She studied a RE-ELECT NIXON Sign.

“I know where your son is.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m not telling you.”

She touched his hand. “I’m not going to ask you for it. You’ll do whatever you’re going to do, regardless of my wishes. The only thing I ask is that you don’t attribute all your foolishness to some perceived debt to Wayne.”

The waitress walked up. Crutch jittered. Mary Beth laced their fingers. The waitress caught it and zoomed.

Mary Beth covered his hands and held them to the table. He saw the green flecks in her eyes.

“Why do you do these crazy things?”

Crutch thought about it.

Crutch said, “So women will love me.”

The herb guys lived close by. They shared lab space at this cat FranЗois’ garage. Crutch showed up with beer and pizza. He caught a boil-and-sluice session in full swing.

The guys broke for a nosh-and-brew. Crutch said he had An Idea. I want to char-blacken paper short of combustion and flame.

Okay, baby boy. We work, you watch, you learn.

He explained Wayne’s redaction work and his own mixed results. He said he could carry liquids or powders, but no ray gizmos. He ran down all the molecule charts he’d just memorized. The guys jabbered in French and told him to watch.

Three boil plates ran overtime. He lost track of the proportions and the reduction process. FranЗois dumped piles of typing paper on the garage floor. The other guys filled Windex bottles with liquid. Crutch counted six bottles and paper piles. FranЗois walked pile to pile and spritzed.

Pile #1 sat there, wet. Pile #2 bubbled and dripped. Pile #3 exploded. Two guys stamped the fire out.

Pile #4 curdled and crackled and cut loose a black haze.