(Los Angeles, 1/26/69)
Picture spray:
Wayne Tedrow kissing a black woman. An ad-libbed FBI shot. A Vegas agent snapped it outside Wayne’s hotel suite.
Photo #2: one-month-old Eleanora Sifakis. A future bomb maker in swaddle cloth. She looks like Karen—not her cashew-dick hubby.
Mr. Hoover loved the Wayne photo. Insane Wayne: the woman and cutout ascendance. An inter-group knife fight his first day.
Dwight kicked his chair back. The drop-front was musty. L.A. was rainy and warm. The air was thick. He was smoking more. His desk was cluttered. The Thomas Frank Narduno file was all over it.
The file was innocuous. Suspicion rousts, lefty leanings, no “Known Associates” list. Narduno—dead at the Grapevine. Narduno—the one visible name on Joan’s KA list.
Thomas Frank Narduno: robbery suspect in New York and Ohio. No convictions, no Ohio or New York paperwork extant. Joan Klein: robbery suspect in New York and Ohio. No convictions, no Ohio or New York paperwork extant. No dates listed in Narduno’s file. Ohio dates listed in Joan’s file: both 1954. Also listed: two L.A. robbery rousts, ’51 and ’53. No DR numbers or other paperwork extant.
Dwight placed Joan’s file by Narduno’s file and read both files again. Nothing went Boo! He’d telexed every big-city and mid-city PD in New York and Ohio. He got zero on Joan Rosen Klein and Thomas Frank Narduno. Joan told him a cop beat on her in Dayton, Ohio. He’d queried Dayton PD on their unsolved heists, circa ’54. There were two payroll jobs, netting sixty grand total. Masked men, no women, case closed. He’d had the file telexed. There was no mention of Narduno, Joan or left-wing suspects. Joan’s “random roundups” statement? Maybe true.
Dwight lit a cigarette and cracked the window. Wind and rain messed with his pages. He propped Eleanora up on his desk lamp.
Fuck—Joan Rosen Klein and Dwight Chalfont Holly.
A month now. The Statler, the Ambassador, the Hollywood Roosevelt. Neutral spots. The drop-front was Karen’s.
They talk and make love. They discuss the operation and avoid What Do You Want? It’s informant protocol and implicit lovers’ pact.
Joan was getting tight with the BTA. Marsh was BTA- and MMLF-friendly. They were both torqued on those cartoons flooding the Congo. Joan made the FBI for it, BAAAAAD BROTHER–adjunct. She was wrong. Most of the cartoons defamed the Panthers and US. Some defamed BTA and MMLF. He made it as amateur street art. It didn’t play as planned provocation.
Hate.
The Dr. Fred snuff—still unsolved and stonewalled by Jack Leahy. Hate and dope—the jungle was “H”-dry. Marsh Bowen dryly credited black-power consciousness.
Wind toppled Eleanora. Dwight shut the window and put her picture back up. He missed Karen. Eleanora devoured her time. What’s-His-Name was back in L.A. to assist. Karen didn’t know the whole Joan story. She might sense it. He didn’t feel guilty. He felt stretched. It was one more seeping compartment.
He grabbed the wastebasket and pulled out the Wayne photo. He did some DMV research and ID’d the woman last week. Mary Beth Hazzard. Wayne’s West Vegas snafu. The widow of the dead preacher.
He got her DMV file. He compared her driver’s license photo to the kiss shot. It was a drop-dead all-time moment. It brought him back to Joan in a rush.
“What are you thinking about?”
“A friend of mine and the woman he’s with.”
“Tell me about him.”
“He’s in The Life reluctantly. He’s brilliantly skilled and competent and prone to catastrophe.”
“Where is he now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you comfortable with telling me more?”
“No.”
“You’re usually the one asking me all the questions.”
A trade show full-booked the Statler. Doors slammed down the corridor. Loud revelry persisted.
It was raining hard. They kept the windows open for the breeze. The room heat kicked in at odd intervals. They pulled the sheets on and off.
“Leander Jackson and Jomo Clarkson had an altercation.”
“I know. I picked Leander up at the hospital.”
“He called you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re strictly BTA now.”
“Not entirely.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I’m not going to.”
“Yet?”
“Yes, yet. I need a moment to work something out. I’ll let you know when it’s settled.”
Dwight yawned. His pill/drink quota hit him early. Joan said, “You should try to sleep.”
He turned off the lights. He kicked his feet out of the sheets for some coolness. Joan tossed her hair and draped a leg over him. Her head fit snug on his shoulder. He reached around and cupped her knife scar.
Four hours, dreamless. A record these days.
Joan was gone. She never left good-bye notes—just lipstick prints. This one: on their spare pillow.
He picked up the nightstand phone. He needed room-service coffee and a line to D.C.
He heard receiver clicks. He pushed the disconnect button and got three more, faint.
Dwight smiled. Bug-and-tap skills. Her curriculum vitae expanded.
He walked to the window and looked down. The porte cochere was busy. He saw a shadow dissolve. He saw smoke rings drift above the awning.