20

(Chicago, 8/25/68)

The Loop was hot. A choppy lake breeze goosed the thermometer. The cops wore helmets and short-sleeved shirts. They packed nightsticks and saps. The hippies wore deface-the-flag garb. They packed Coke bottles and rocks.

Potential fracas. Both groups spoiled for it. The night heat said GO- you know you want this.

Crutch watched. He clutched his grocery bag and stood out of range. His crew cut and square threads camouflaged him. The longhairs would ignore him. The fuzz would find him simpatico.

Shit fuck. Miami to this.

Face-off. The cops moved up two inches. The hippies moved up three. The gap shrank and got claustrophobic.

Crutch watched. Dexedrine and coffee had him psychedelicized. He’d been up thirty-six hours. He’d been running the listening post at the Ambassador East. Farlan Brown was hosting a party suite next door. Booze, girls and political rah-rah. Brown fucked the girls and greased the delegates. Brown promised them Hughes Air charters. Brown pressed them for details on Humphrey’s campaign travel, so Wayne Tedrow and company could fuck Hubert up.

The cops moved two inches. The hippies moved three. The gap shrank. The hate intensified.

Crutch watched. The face-off got him antsy. Clyde overbooked him. He had the listening-post gig and an adjunct job: tail this L.A. cop in town. Buzz was on that gig now.

The cops moved up. The hippies moved up. A fat freak yelled, “Pig!” The cops charged. The hippies faltered. A frizzy-haired guy chucked a rock. It bounced off a skinny cop’s helmet. The cops hit the line, nightsticks first. The hippies had no turnaround or hurling range. Mow-down: the cops trampled and kicked and nightstick-knocked heads on the pavement.

A car pulled up to the fracas. Something flared red. Two spades lobbed a flaming-dogshit bomb at the cops. It fell short. The bag broke and dung-scorched some trample-assed kids. The spades did that clenched-fist thing and peeled out.

Crutch ran back to the hotel and bopped to the listening post. He had a southbound view of car fires and flame glow off the lake. The bug-tap console faced the north wall. He heard fuck-suck sounds through the speakers. He put on headphones. He heard the fuck-suck sounds louder. This part of the Dr. Fred job was pure bullshit.

It ran up Clyde Duber’s time card. It yielded ziltch on Gretchen/Celia and Joan Rosen Klein. Clyde was juking that time card. Clyde told him not to brace Farlan Brown in person. All this jive was tangential to the women.

It was 1:00 a.m. Crutch noshed two cupcakes to downgrade his speed jolt. He placed Joan’s mug-shot strip on the console. He kept looking at Joan and seeing new things.

Ms case was dead-stalled. Sam Giancana or someone close called Gretchen/Celia. That was a big lead and a dead-staller. You don’t brace a heavy like Sam G.

He B amp;E’d Arnie Moffett’s realty office on his way to the airport. He found no further notes on Gretchen/Celia. He checked LAPD and Sheriff’s missing person files for notes on tattooed Latin chicks. He got zero there. He ran Joan Rosen Klein’s name and stats by cop contacts nationwide. Fourteen PDs, fourteen cops. Robbery-unit cops, subversive-squad cops, intelligence-squad cops. Nobody knew shit per Red Joan.

She might have a Fed file. That approach was dicey. He’d have to tap Clyde to tap his Fed contacts. Joan was all his for now. He held the lead as his exclusive.

The fuck-suck noise died out. Pay me, pay me noise replaced it. Crutch skimmed a library book. It was all about Cuba. Rebel raids, burning cane fields, the Bay of Pigs rout. He kept reading books. He kept calling the Frogman long-distance. Mesplede was still looking for exile turncoats Fuentes and Arredondo. They betrayed le sacrй la Causa. They were heist men. They might be clouting department stores in Des Moines or Duluth. The Frogman was his no-shit mentor. The Frogman worked with Wayne Tedrow, but stayed hinky on him. Froggy and Wayne were time-clocking for Count Dracula now. Their mandate: tricksterize at the convention and sodomize Hubert Humphrey’s fall campaign.

Freddy Turentine filed a report on the Golden Cavern bug op. It was a bust-just whores and Mormons. But, Fred T. heard Fred O. mention an 8/30 meet with Wayne Tedrow and “perhaps others.” That could be good. Wayne might say something or provide a lead on Dracula’s lair. One photo/one million bucks-Life magazine’s standing offer. The Frogman said he might request hot scoop on Wayne. Crutch said he’d provide it. Brainstorm: call Fred T. and tell him to keep the bug-tap gear in place.

The phone rang next door. Crutch switched to the tap-feed headphones. Static and voice garbles fuzzed up the line. He jiggled switches and got Farlan Brown.

“… Wayne, hi. Jesus, what time is it? I haven’t opened the curtains since Coolidge was in office.”

Wayne Tedrow: “It’s 1:20.”

Brown: “A.m. or p.m.?”

Tedrow: “Morning. I’m at O’Hare now. I’m waiting for that man I told you about. He’s flying in from Sioux Falls.”

Brown: “A French mercenary and Sioux Falls, South Dakota. That’s a new one on me.”

Tedrow: “He’s trying to locate some long-lost chums.”

Brown: “He won’t find them in Chicago. All we’ve got here is class warfare.”

Tedrow: “The airport’s a mess. It’s nothing but hopped-up kids and reporters. It’s like one big staging ground.”

Brown: “Hubert’s fucked. Dick’s going to make hay out of this one.”

Buzz walked into the suite. Crutch waved to him.

Tedrow: “We’ll need to get some sleep. We’ll see you in five or six hours.”

Brown said something. Static ditzed the line. Crutch dumped the headphones.

Buzz said, “Bowen’s from hunger. He doesn’t drink or chase pussy. He may be the world’s most uptight jungle bunny. He goes to fucking museums and cheese shops.”

Crutch snarfed a cupcake. “I’ll take over now.”

“Take over what? It’s 1:30 a.m. Bowen’s home with daddy, and the whole fucking city’s going nuts.”

“I’m restless.”

“You’re always restless.”

Crutch snarfed cupcake #4. “I’ll be back in five or six hours.”

Buzz checked his notebook. “This fucker is uptight. 11:16 p.m. He bypasses two rib joints and a topless bar called the Honey Bunny. Where does he go? To Mr. Sid’s All-Nite World of Books.”

Crutch yukked. Buzz dropped his head on his chest and went ZZZ-ZZZ-ZZZ. Something exploded outside. Crutch looked out the window and saw a cop car ablaze.

Late-night Chi-town hopped. Longhair legions roved. That lake breeze had their red flags swirling. Cops roved in flanking movements. It all looked synchronized. Mounted cops popped out of alleys. Their horses shit on the sidewalk. People threw things out of windows. Fruit and bric-a-brac rained down. It always missed the cops and the hippies. It felt like a general statement. You couldn’t tell who the targets were.

Crutch rent-a-carred through it. The traffic was sub-snail-paced. Fender benders abounded. Marshall Bowen’s daddy lived at 59th and Stony Island. It was middle-class colored-two-story houses up close to the street.

Clock in-2:41 a.m.

Crutch parked outside the house. One upstairs light was on. He put his Joan pix up on the dashboard and squinted at them.

He waited. He got a little squirrelly. His brain said Go while his body said Sleep. Marshall Bowen stepped out the door at 3:09.

He walked to the corner and hit a main drag. Crutch cut him ten seconds’ slack. He U-turned the car and made the intersection. Bowen was three storefronts down on the left.

Crutch idled the car and watched. Foot traffic was brisk. Bowen poked his head in cocktail-lounge doors and kept walking. Some cops were out, smoking and lounging. Some longhairs turned the far corner and saw them. Crutch got a good view of it.