Crutch read Gretchen/Celia’s pages. He kept jumping ahead of the decoded text. He was voodoo-vexed and amphetamized. His head banged blood to his rib cage.
The base narrative stopped. An “Expression of Solidarity” with slaughtered Haitians followed. The Goat and the Midget were accused of genocide.
Lists: the Trujillo Haitian dead, the Balaguer Haitian dead, 6/14 sympathizers abducted and killed by La Banda. List: “Excommunicated” 6/14 traitors killed by the members themselves. Lists: names, dates and death locations.
There’s a single name at the bottom: María Rodríguez Fontonette.
Her monicker/nickname/political alias is “Tattoo.”
Her date of disappearance is June ’68. She vanished in Los Angeles.
The tattoo, the skin color, the location/date.
It’s that night.
It’s Horror House.
It’s the night he saw Joan and Gretchen/Celia kiss.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 3/29/69. Extract from the privately held journal of Karen Sifakis.
March 29, 1969
Eleanora rules my days. She is a mighty empress and imperious ruler of my heart, as well as an exhausting bundle of ceaseless energy and need. She focuses me and deflects my actions and thoughts not directly related to her. My husband is back in Philadelphia now; his months-long presence here amounted to indentured servitude, as well as assisted me in the prosaic tasks of new motherhood and kept me away from Dwight. Now, I am alone with Eleanora—and, in fact, besieged by her—and Dwight is back with a besieging force.
Our fight at Echo Park was horrible; I have no right to question his actions with Joan, for our very union is duplicitous and a grave misdeed in and of itself. One difference between Dwight and me: adultery is hardly as onerous as spawning political chaos. Another difference: I wish to skate by with my misdeeds, while Dwight harbors the buried urge to be punished for his. That is a succinct primer on my love for him.
I see political misdeeds escalating and find myself reflexively attributing them to the FBI, Mr. Hoover and, by extension, Dwight. Two Panthers were shot and killed at UCLA in January. The killings allegedly derived from a long-standing Panther-US grievance and came to a head over the creation of an Afro-American Studies Center on campus. I know that the Bureau has double agents in both organizations and is committed to spawning inter-group discord. A Panther spokesman called the killings “political assassinations carried out by US on orders by the pig power structure.” I have come to hate the word pig as much as I hate the word nigger and find myself damning Dwight for his perception of ingrained criminality in the black-nationalist movement. Indictments are pending against numerous Panthers in New York City for an alleged plot to dynamite-bomb the Penn Central tracks at rush hour. Are they insane? Don’t they know black people would have been killed? I bomb monuments and have never physically damaged a human being. Am I insane to be doing this under Dwight Holly’s sanction? What horrible price will I pay for my role in assuaging this man’s guilt, and where does that guilt specifically come from?
Mr. Hoover seems determined to go out in a psychotically hateful blaze of glory, and he has found an unrelenting minion in Dwight, who now has Joan Klein to aid and abet and perhaps comfort him. I am afraid that Dwight will passively permit or actively suborn the BTA and MMLF in the sale of narcotics and that he has found a willing accomplice in Joan. Joan understands the concept of narcotics as a tool of revolution and has deployed it before. I fear that Joan and Dwight seek the same physical end for antithetical political motives. They want to bring the BTA and MMLF to a point of public censure and blithely underestimate the human cost.
I’ve told Joan intimate things about Dwight. She knows that Dwight has burgled my home on occasion and that I leave a much less candid and controversial journal out for him to peruse. I’m afraid that expressions of my troubled love for Dwight have pushed Joan toward him in the effort to further her own political goals.
Joan has been to dauntingly dangerous places of revolution and has committed deeds—and, yes, misdeeds—that I am both thankful and regretful I am incapable of. I do not doubt her sincerity or utter commitment and have seen her in moments of frank goodness—our shared teaching duties at the Freedom School in ’62 was one instance—but I utterly fear her fury and will. She and Dwight possess a blindsiding like-mindedness and emotional hunger. I pray that it will not supersede their utilitarian instincts and cause dire harm.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/2/69. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.
Los Angeles,
4/2/69
I’m in trouble. The incident last night may get back to Scotty Bennett. The consequences may fuck up the balance of my personal life and the operation and thus my search for the armored-car money and emeralds. Mr. Holly has been pressing me for snitch-outs and Wayne has been pressing me to fall in with either the BTA or MMLF exclusively. When pressed, I vacillate and consider my options. Rarely do I vacillate to the point of stunned inaction. Last night I did.
Wayne has become a southside regular. He’s been buying cocktail lounges and after-hours clubs and has been making the scene at Tiger Kab. Of all people, Wayne has brought ex–heavyweight champ and self-described “chump” Sonny Liston into the Tiger Kab fold. Sonny is a boozing, pill-popping, whore-chasing fool. The brothers are afraid of him and afraid to admit that they dig him. Sonny is very right-wing. He hates Muslims and militants and grooves Richard Nixon and the Vietnam War. His two losses to Muhammad Ali, combined with his chemical intake, have stretched his brain cells thin. He is, however, funny, unlike Tiger Kab ko-kaptain Milt Chargin, who will go to any and all degraded lengths to make black people laugh and to appear cool. Tiger Kab is now très au kourant. The Krew is picaresque working on combustible. We are riding the black-nationalist zeitgeist. The Panthers get the headlines while the BTA and MMLF make the scene with the fervor of Stork Club nobodies seeking out Walter Winchell. Please notice us: we’re black, we’re violent, we’re trying to score dope and we’re cool.
I vacillate and visit both the BTA and MMLF headquarters; I endure constant LAPD surveillance and three or four street rousts a week. My ex-LAPD status enrages southside bluesuits. They’ve taken to calling me “boy” and detaining me for twenty-minute spells while they run radio warrant checks. I always turn up clean; they always release me with jabs in the chest and parting epithets. I am quietly enraged and say nothing.
I can’t exercise the Bent. I’m afraid to, I’m speciously famous now, any assignation might result in a roust or a phone call to LAPD. I have to put my intimate urges on hold while I assess, while Mr. Holly and Wayne press me, while the BTA and MMLF brothers tap their black-booted feet impatiently and urge me to choose sides.
I have subtly pumped every southside acquaintance, fool and boon companion I know and spontaneously meet for information on the heist and have learned nothing. I see Scotty Bennett around the southside constantly. He always doffs his black-style-conscious porkpie hat and winks at me.
Scotty knows a great deal about the heist. I know that. He’s the brilliant lead detective with five years of knowledge stored. I strongly sense that he’s hoarding knowledge from the LAPD at large.
It’s as if Scotty is taunting me and pressing me as Mr. Holly and Wayne taunt me and press me with their powerfully masculine and obdurately circumscribed wills. I keep thinking of Mr. Holly with women and what it would look like, until the images begin to vex me and hurt. Wayne is guilt-tripping with a black woman and providing me with a similarly erotic picture show. He’s looking for the woman’s missing son, who bears a minor resemblance to the surviving robber from the heist. I don’t consider it a true lead; the robber’s face was badly burned and Reginald Hazzard was a mere nineteen then. It’s more like an affirmation of the dream-state aspect of my life now, with all the new figures weaving through and beckoning.
Benny Boles has been cruising me quite boldly; he’s as out as I am euphemized and will probably pounce if I go with the BTA. He’s a m
urderer and recognizably psychopathic, which may account for his confidence in his masculinity. I see Joan Klein at the clubs regularly. She quite consciously beckons. She’s a voraciously sensuous dancer, concurrently in and out of sync with her male and female partners. She glimpses me in the shadows, bestows eye contact and acknowledges me without ever losing the music’s beat. It’s as if she’s telling me things about myself that she’s gleaned from her dream state. I’ve found myself bringing fantasies of Joan and Mr. Holly to bed with me. They don’t know each other in the real world, but I know them both there and they’ve converged within my psyche.
And Jomo.
He’s certainly scum, but I have been charged to fraternize with and entrap scum, and I like him anyway. We’ve been spending time together at Tiger Kab, MMLF and the clubs; Jomo has gotten more at ease with me since his knife fight with Leander Jackson. He’s been talking up a significant roll that he’s accrued, and I’ve been very cautiously grinding him for details to give to Mr. Holly. I was at that task up to moments before the incident last night.
We had been on a grocery-store extortion run. It was connivance and implied threat: we wanted boxes of Cocoa Puffs for the children attending the MMLF’s Feed the Kiddies soirees. From there we went to an MMLF-sponsored bar-b-q and pamphlet giveaway at Foshay Junior High. Jomo was decorous with the kids. It was both ghastly and heartwarming, given the man’s nature. I’m sure his dope balance had something to do with it: he had been snorting coke/Seconal speedballs all day.
We left Foshay, drove toward Jomo’s pad and stopped at a liquor store on Florence Boulevard to buy cigarettes. Jomo staggered and bumped a potato-chip rack. The proprietor was black and took offense. He said, “Nigger, what’s wrong with you?”
Jomo vaulted the counter and pistol-whipped the man, as I froze and did nothing. Jomo then stole two bottles of J&B scotch and three cartons of Kool cigarettes.
I did nothing. Jomo kicked the man and shouted anti-BTA epithets. I’m sure the proprietor recognized me. I’m an ex-policeman, a celebrity brother and a notable southside cat-about-town.
67
(Los Angeles, 4/3/69)
Milt C. had a puppet named Junkie Monkey. He did dreary shtick with him. It regaled the brothers. Sonny and Jomo howled on cue.
The switchboard was flooded. Jomo juggled calls. Jordan High was battling Washington. All-city cager—folks needed kabs.
Junkie Monkey wore a pimp hat and a checkerboard suit. A dope spike dangled from one arm. Milt moved his ape lips.
“Dese LAPD pigs hassle me. I be smack-back on ma fron’ porch, an’ it be a muthafuckin’ humbug roust. Dey say, ‘What you doin’ wid dat hypodermic needle?’ An’ I say, ‘You white muthafuckas got de needle dicks, an’ I gots dat tar paper throbbin’ a hard fuckin’ yard.’ ”
Junior yukked. Jomo plugged calls and yukked. Sonny said, “Junkie Monkey’s a jallhouse sissy and a draft dodger. Muhammad Ali fucked his simian ass.”
Wayne checked his watch. Marsh was due now. He just got a phone-drop message. Another brain click clicked him. More memory loss and tug.
A month ago. The fight with Mary Beth. Reginald, the “Freedom School,” why that soft click?
He was swamped. Drac and the Boys overbooked him. His cutout job added to it. He couldn’t work on the click just yet.
Junkie Monkey said, “The Beatles bop down to da muthafuckin’ ghetto to score some black trim. Dey meets dese two unhealthy-lookin’ sistahs name of Carcinoma an’ Melanoma an’—”
Wayne looked out the window. Marsh walked by outside. Wayne got up and followed him back to the fleet lot. Sixteen Tiger kabs glowed.
Marsh was cool-day sweaty. Wayne gave him his handkerchief.
“Tell me.”
“I was with Jomo two nights ago. He beat up the counterman at a liquor store and 211’d him. I’m fairly sure the man recognized me.”
“Why’d you wait this long to tell me?”
“It’s my tendency. I tend to wait things out.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“Scotty. Every liquor-store proprietor on God’s green earth knows him and owes him.”
Motown blared. Some fool goosed the dispatch-hut hi-fi. Wayne steered Marsh over to the alley fence.
“He hasn’t called Scotty. You’d have heard by now.”
“Yes. That’s what I’m thinking.”
Wayne said, “Give me something.”
Marsh wiped his forehead. “What do you mean?”
“Give me a lead for Dwight. Tell me something to convince him you’re working.”
Marsh sighed. “Liquor-store heists. There’s been a bunch of them.”
Wayne mimicked the sigh. “We’re back to liquor stores?”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m saying I may have something.”
Wayne sighed harder. “Liquor-store jobs in South L.A. with black suspects? Can you give me something more original than that?”
Marsh wiped his forehead. “Jomo’s been talking up this big coin he’s got, but he won’t reveal the source.”
Wayne shook his head. “That’s insufficient. I’ll frost your deal two nights ago, but you’re going to start working harder.”
“Jesus, Wayne.”
Wayne pushed him into the fence. “You’re going with BTA. You’re going to suck up to Leander Jackson and pick a public fight with Jomo. I’m going to the Dominican Republic. We’ll stage it when I get back. You’re going to level Jomo over the liquor-store deal. You’re going to call him a ‘punk-ass, evil, no-account nigger,’ and I’ll be there to watch you do it.”
“Jesus. Just give me—”
A kab pulled in and up. Wayne stepped back and cleared a space.
“You’ll do it. I’ll tell the world that you’re a faggot if you don’t.”
The liquor store was close by. The counterman was bandaged from the eyebrows up. Wayne walked in and bought a bag of potato chips. The man sniffed fuzz. “LAPD?”
“Ex-LVPD.
I retired.”
The man rang the sale. “Why’d you retire?”
“I shot some unarmed black guys and it got out of hand.”
“Did they deserve it?”
Wayne gave him a dollar. “Yes.”
The man gave him change. “Did you feel bad about it?”
“Yes, I did.”
The man smiled. Wayne pointed to his bandage and tossed him a cash roll. Two grand in fifties, rubber band–wrapped.
“Did you call Scotty?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“That Scotty’s a pisser.”
“He’s all of that. These same brothers robbed me on six different occasions, so I called up Scotty, independent. I told him the regular LAPD wasn’t doing their job. Scotty said he’d take care of it, which he did.”
“That must have been some sight.”
“It was. They came in with ski masks and went out under sheets. Scotty shoots double-aught with little spiky things attached. Wasn’t much left of them.”
Wayne ate a potato chip. “You’ve got a certain loyalty to Scotty.”
“Yeah, like I suspect you got for that Marshall Bowen guy.”
Wayne tossed cash roll #2. The man fanned it.
“Bowen must be jungled up with some money guys. ‘High-level informant.’ Does that sound right?”
“Your mortgage is way in arrears. I’m prepared to cover it.”
“My electric bill’s behind, too.”
“Anything else?”
“Yeah, one more thing. I want one of those tiger limousines for my daughter’s sweet sixteen.”
USC was close by. His schedule was tight. Drac had requested a phone chat. Yes, sir. Nuclear fallout will kill you. No, sir—no time soon. Yes, we should ban the Bomb. No, the world powers will not accede on your say-so.
Wayne parked and strolled the campus. The student body was half square kids, half longhairs all aggrieved. Left- and right-wing flyers covered signboards. YAF vs SDS, VIVA vs S
NCC. Kids with guitars, kids in letter sweaters, a few black kids in dashikis.
Wayne walked and braced passersby. The “Freedom School”? Beats me. He checked the campus directory. No, no listing.
He kept at it. He pay-phoned Farlan and postponed the Drac chat. He saw some custodians on a smoke break and walked over.
They were black. They sniffed cop. Wayne sniffed ex-con labor. He laid out ten-spots and pitched them, smiling.
“There was something called the ‘Freedom School.’ It was here on campus six or seven years ago.”
Three guys blank-faced it. One guy said, “Defunct, man. Tapped out before the Watts uprising.” One guy said, “There’s some bungalows catty-corner from the rec center. Nobody uses them. Look for this dusty old door with this faded-out poster.”
Wayne said thanks and strolled. The walkways were tree-lined. Clandestine pot fumes swirled here and there. He found the rec center and the bungalows. He saw the postered door.
Fall, ’64. SAVE THE RUMFORD FAIR-HOUSING ACT! “PROPERTY RIGHTS” MEANS “RACISM”!!!!
The door looked flimsy. Wayne shoulder-popped it easy. He stepped in. A back window provided light. The room was wall-to-wall boxes.