(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.
He taped it to his dashboard. He’s always moving. All of his pictures are safe.
(Los Angeles, 1/22/72-3/18/72)
Gone.
Joan took their forged documents and marking tools. Jack retired from the Bureau. He posted his resignation letter in the squadroom. It was respectful. It thanked Mr. Hoover and praised his leadership. Please send my pension checks to my P.O. box in rural Oregon.
Marsh ran to Haiti and was murdered there. LAPD IA questioned him. He did not mention Sergeant Robert S. Bennett. He praised Sergeant Bowen’s performance on OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER. The cops said Marsh was a homosexual. Dwight acted surprised.
They’re gone. She’s gone. She cleaned out the fallback and left the phone line intact. It’s a bootleg listing. She’s the only one with the number. If the phone rings, it’s her.
Tell me things.
Tell me what that man did to you.
No, I’m not going to.
Her hatred superseded the heat of his conversion. Jack held whatever hate he had close. Their rage eclipsed his shame and guilt. Their hurt cut deeper. He couldn’t kill the man. They went off to do it their way. They couldn’t use Marsh. They’d find a new fall guy or do it sans subtext. He won’t intercede. They know it. If Joan calls, he’ll say it.
He black-bagged chez Marsh one final time. He checked the hidey-hole. The diary was gone.
He called Bob Relyea and told him they’d aborted. Keep the money and buy yourself a new sheet. Bob was relieved. Dwight, it had snafu written all over it. Bubba, it’s still percolating. Stick close to your TV.
He kept replaying D.C. It helped that Karen was there. He saw Mr. Hoover. He forgave Marsh for what the man made him. Nobody dies was no leap.
He goes to the office. The fallback phone and the drop-front phone never ring. Mr. Hoover hasn’t called. Nixon hasn’t called. Peeper Crutchfield tails him and loiters outside. The kid knows everything except It’s All Over. Son, I don’t have the will to kill you.
He took Karen away for her birthday weekend. They stayed at a cottage and made love a great deal. She’d seen Joan. He knew it. She never mentioned her name.
She plays the string quartets every night. He stands on the terrace and listens. He holds Joan’s red flag. Karen leaves a light on for him.