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Corny music-Ray Co
He bought her a cashmere sweater at Bullock’s. It was black and cable-knit. Elk horns fit through little toggles.
It was Christmas-wrapped. He walked up and placed it on the welcome mat. He rang the bell and vamoosed.
Radical chic:
Four Tiger kabs peeled out of the lot. Crutch saw FranЗois Truffaut, some black dudes and Hanoi Jane herself. A Tiger stretch rumbled up. Phil Irwin drove it. His tiger tux shed faux fur all over the seat. His passengers: Chick Weiss, Cйsar Chavez and Leonard Bernstein.
The stretch bombed southbound. Crutch walked into the hut. Fred O. worked the switchboard. Redd Foxx sniffed coke. Milt C. had Junkie Monkey up on his lap. So
Junkie Monkey said, “March 8, Jew York City. Muhammad Ali versus Smokin’ Joe Frazier. See it on closed-circuit TV at Tiger Kab, the home of the Coon Cartel.”
So
“Ali is a sissified draft dodger. Islam is a gutter religion. Ali takes it up the shit chute from Gamal Abdel Nasser and the Dishonorable Elijah Muhammad.”
Redd Foxx howled. White powder and snot flew. Fred O. yukked. Crutch haw-hawed.
So
“Come on, kid. You’re driving me to Vegas.”
The champ nodded out at San Berdoo and passed out at Barstow. Crutch Dexedrine-all-nightered. I-15 was dead. Crutch drove 105. The desert was dead cold. Six zillion stars burned.
The radio hummed low. Mountain ranges broke up reception. Crutch caught an oldie string. Circa ‘60 prom songs. The Peeper Magical Mystery Tour.
The music re-sputtered. Crutch flicked off the dial. So
Crutch checked the rearview. So
“Are you okay, champ?”
“Don’t call me ‘champ.’ ‘Champ’s’ what you call all them stumblebum sparring partners you see on skid row.”
“Okay, boss.”
So
Crutch said, “I saw you fight Wayne Bethea. You kicked his fucking ass.”
So
They hit a rise. The Vegas Strip emanated. Colored lights compressed by darkness.
So
Crutch goosed the gas. He felt re-hexed and de-hexed. So
“Don’t deadhead back. Park somewhere and rest up.”
It was 4:00 a.m. The Strip was a-go-go. Lots of cabs and golf-cart travel. The carts were wet bar-fitted. The passengers quaffed cocktails, the drivers swerved.
Crutch pulled up to the Sands. So
So
The dexies fought off the RDs. He parked the limo under the Stardust and thrashed until noon. His tiger tux shed. Fur threads tickled his snout. He felt full-force-fucked in the soul.
He gave up on sleep and opted for pancakes. A short stack and coffee re-vivified him. Do it, fucker. You’ll get re-zombified if you don’t.
He drove to the Hotel Workers’ Union. The limo took up two parking slots. He got some pissy looks. They turned to yuks quick. His tiger tux was a roar.
A janitor gave him directions. He was all pins and needles. Her office door was open. She looked up from her desk.
He said, “I’m sorry about Wayne.”
She put down her pen.
He said, “He tried to warn me about some things.”
She straightened her desk blotter.
He said, “I see things that other people don’t see. I know how to find people.”
She opened her purse and pulled out a key ring.
90
(Los Angeles, 12/11/70)
The girls chased a neighbor’s dog. He watched from two houses down.
Dina had speed. Ella had a toddler’s gait. The dog ran in elusive circles. Ella charged, fell and got back up. The front yard contained them. His stuffed animals were there on the porch.
Dwight pushed his seat back. The car was packed: tinctures, solvents and brushes. Notepaper of varied stock.
He left Silver Hill early. He started his Bureau work next month. Joan understood his plan. She signed on with blood-deep support-belief works that way.
Nixon called him yesterday. How was your rest? Welcome back-and, by the way…
The prez was building an ops squad-four black-bag men. Dwight declined. The prez acted hurt. Dwight recommended Howard Hunt at CIA.
Ella caught the dog. He pushed her down with his paws and licked her. Ella gri
Karen got in the car. They knocked up their arms embracing sideways. They kept banging their legs.
They found a fit and stayed with it. The girls looked over and waved.
Karen held his face. “You look the same.”
“You look better.”
“I thought you’d be fat from all that pie I sent you.”
“My goats ate most of it.”
Karen tucked her knees up. “My husband’s in the backyard. I’ll have to go in a minute.”
“Later this week?”
“Yes.”
“The Beverly Wilshire?”
“I’ll never say no to that.”
They laced hands on the steering wheel. Karen said, “Mr. Hoover’s new dirt-hoarder. I’ll be begging you to delete files inside of ten minutes.”
“What’s wrong with five? You know I’ll do it.”
Karen laughed. “You want something. This impromptu visit after so many months just isn’t you.”
Dwight rubbed her knees. “I think you should put together a team. There’s a Bureau Records Center in Media, Pe
Karen lit a cigarette. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”
“You should.”
“And this is your idea? It didn’t come from-”
“Not now, please.”
“No weapons, in and out.”
“That’s right.”
“And you’ll tell me more. ‘Need-to-know’ basis?”
Dwight nodded. “Yes, and soon.”
Ella fell and scuffed her knees. She started crying. Karen said, “I have to go.”
Dwight said, “Do you love me?”
Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”
Files:
The file room was back lot-size. High shelves, deep shelves, rolling-ladder access. Political files, criminal files, civil files. Informant files. Surveillance files, gossip files and general-sleaze files. 600,000 files total.
All indexed. Chained index binders at every shelf front.
Dwight walked the shelf banks. The ladders ran on greased casters. Twelve-foot-high, floor-bolted structures. Twelve shelves per bank. Twenty-four banks total.
“You’re early. Almost a month, in fact.”
Dwight turned around. Jack Leahy leaned on a ladder.
“You’ll hate the job. These files do not represent Mr. Hoover at his best.”
“The Bureau’s most impolitic SAC. How have you lasted this long?”
“Lawyer’s luck. And civil law compared to this? Come on.”
They shook hands. Jack sat on a ladder rung.