I’ve been noticing binocular glint at all hours, coming from a high summit on Baxter Street. I back-tailed it to a small bungalow and snuck in. I recognized the clothing in the closet. It was Dwight’s and Joan’s, of course.
I noticed document-forging tools on a table and boxes full of chemicals and paper. I pray that my dreams of peace may intersect with their dreams and keep them from creating more harm.
DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/18/70. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.
Los Angeles,
December 18, 1970
I rousted a black street fool for vagrancy last week. He had misdemeanor warrants in the system and possessed no visible means of support. I was about to arrest him, when he screwed his face up in recognition. He smiled and stated quite flatly: “You The Man.”
He was right: I am The Man. I am a highly decorated ranking officer on LAPD; I am, according to Ebony magazine, “an icon of the new black masculinity,” and “odds-on for chief of police one day.” Political office should not be ruled out, nor should a career in television journalism. I am a magazine cover boy; Ebony and Jet, with Sepia soon to follow. I am permitted to be magnanimous, given the new bounty of my life. So I told that street fool, “You’re right, brother. I am The Man,” and cut him loose.
I’m working the Hollywood Division Detective Bureau. I drive a nightwatch K-car and coordinate felony-level investigations at their inception. I get awed looks and resentful looks from criminals of all stripes and awed and resentful looks from my brother officers. I’m twenty-six years old, with three years on LAPD. I’m a sergeant working a prestigious detective-division assignment. I’m the heroic black man who went undercover and broke the backs of two vicious, dope-dealing black-militant groups who were really anti-black at their core. I am no longer a downscale brother slumming for cosmetic effect. I’ve moved from a dingy crib in Watts to a nice house in Baldwin Hills. Allow me to say it again: I am most assuredly THE MAN.
I cashed in on the black-militant zeitgeist, the biggest and the best. The black-nationalist movement is in disarray. It’s a nationwide cavalcade of indictments, trials, convictions and sundry legal hassles, the result of years of police infiltration and inter-group squabbles. Eldridge Cleaver is hiding in Algeria. The Panthers and US have exploded behind petty turf wars, general ineptitude and native fractiousness. The BTA and MMLF are kaput. My testimony put my dope-smoking, booze-guzzling, whore-chasing comrades in prison. Wayne Tedrow sought death by grandiose gesture and found it in Haiti. Mr. Holly had a nervous breakdown. I’m feared in the ghetto now. I’m a known snitch, a celebrated turncoat and a hard-charging cop.
“You The Man.” Yes, I certainly am.
I’ve been hanging out at Tiger Kab. The new owner is a man named Fred Otash. “Freddy O.” is ex-LAPD, an ex–private eye, a mobbed-up soldier of fortune and a magnet for unsubstantiated rumors. Freddy pulls shakedowns, Freddy dopes racehorses, Freddy was in on the MLK and RFK hits. I believe none of it and all of it. I’m The Man. I’ve got the recent verifiable history and much more current cachet.
Sonny Liston remains a Tiger Kab regular. We spend time together. He loves authority and loves it that I was a fink the entire time that he’s known me. Sonny has quite a bad heroin habit and misses his friend Wayne very much. He speaks wistfully of Wayne; I often commiserate with him, for I cared for Wayne, as well. Sonny knows that I knew Wayne at Tiger Kab; Sonny does not know that we were collusive partners. I miss my conversations with Wayne more than anything. Our dream states meshed for a few sweet moments, and we tried to decipher what it all meant.
I don’t miss Mr. Holly. We haven’t spoken since that last time before the “Blastout.” He knows the sanitized version of events that day, and that I’ve profited from them. He doesn’t want to see me, nor do I want to see him. Mr. Holly reminds me of the football coach I had a crush on at Dorsey High. I feared him and craved his respect and affection. I entered an arc of self-recognition and outgrew him over time. Mr. Holly, adieu. You taught me things. Thank you for the ride.
I exercise the Bent discreetly and only well out of town. Ventura and Santa Barbara are cool for that. I roust fags on Selma Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard, and carry weighted sap gloves for the task. I have a rule: any fag who lisps or swishes too persistently in my presence receives a beating.
I’m a cop. I attract a range of enmity in my white cop brothers. It doesn’t matter. I’m tight with the only white cop who counts.
Scotty asked me if the dead children got to me. I said, “Not much.” We’ll never truly trust each other, but we like each other just fine. We’ve pooled our heist information and have agreed: we must find Reginald Hazzard. I called Mary Beth Hazzard in Las Vegas yesterday. I laid on my noble black man charm, cited my friendship with Wayne Tedrow and explained that I knew about Wayne’s search for her missing son. I cited my LAPD connections and volunteered my help. Did Wayne keep a file on the matter? Did he discuss the case with her?
Mrs. Hazzard was polite. No, they did not discuss Reginald’s disappearance. She threw out the file after Wayne’s death. She didn’t read it. She didn’t want to know.
I called Scotty. We wrote the file avenue off. I checked Vegas hospital records and learned Reginald Hazzard’s blood type. Yes, it was AB-. Yes, it matched the escaped robber’s blood.
Scotty ran a nationwide records check on Reginald and learned nothing. We agreed: he might be dead or he might have left the country. Scotty is running a passport check now.
We’ve scheduled a second strategy meet. Scotty told me the prophetic last words of a cocktail-lounge heister he shotgunned in 1963. The man stuck up the Silver Star Bar on Oakwood and Western. Scotty shot him in the back going in. The man had a very few moments to live. He said, “Scotty, you The Man.”
That makes two of us.
91
(Los Angeles, 12/19/70)
Customs kicked loose. Rejected passport app. #1189, 3/14/64.
It’s two and a half weeks post-heist. Reggie’s in New Orleans. He applies for a passport, under his own name. He’s got bogus ID and gets nixed. The New Orleans office: known to be lax. The ID: forged, for sure.
Scotty put the phone down. The squadroom was quiet. His cubicle was clutter-free. He took two drags off a cigarette and stubbed it out. He started brain-jamming.
Reggie’s the linchpin. Reggie tries to split the country. He gets rebuffed in New Orleans. Did he try again? Did he get the passport and split successfully?
Jomo Clarkson, baaaad Negro. Jomo’s fed dope on Dr. Fred Hiltz. You heist that racist mofo. You scare him per 2/64.
Jomo said a “cutout” fed him the dope. “Cutout”: pure intelligencese. Jomo died abruptly, but try all this:
A woman prompted the fake Marsh Bowen. She told him to snitch Jomo. A woman phone-ratted Marsh as a queer. Dwight Holly observed his first Jomo grilling. The word woman quasi-torqued him.
Scotty lit another cigarette and took two more hits. His brain jam accelerated.
Junkie Monkey said, “I smells pig. I sees me a giant pork roast on two feet. Why dat porcine motherfucker wearing dat funny little tie?”
The loafing brothers chortled. Scotty doffed his hat and bowed. Sonny Liston froze, snorting. The dispatch table was all powdered up.
Fred O. plugged switchboard calls. Scotty pointed him out back. They worked Central nightwatch in ’52. Freddy could carve a buck. Freddy had secret skills.
The lot needed a sweep-up. The discarded rubbers and malt-liquor cans offended him. Fred O. said, “Get my interest. It’s costing me money to talk to you.”
Scotty popped a Tums. “Fruit squeeze. There’s a homo I do not trust.”
Fred O. poked his ears with a Q-tip. “It’s an expensive proposition. You’ll need the bait, a bug man and a watchdog.”
“I can get you five grand.”
Fred O. pointed upward. Scotty said, “Ten.”
“Fifteen. Final call. Since we’re old-soldier buddies, I’ll get going on it and give yo
u time to rouse the bread.”
Scotty said, “Okay.”
Fred O. said, “I worked a fruit squeeze with Pete Bondurant back in ’67. We put the boots to a civil-rights cat. It was Fed-adjunct. A guy named Dwight Holly financed it.”
Scotty rolled his eyes. “I know Holly. I don’t want him privy to this.”
“Fine by me.”
“Give me the personnel.”
“Pete and I had a homicide wedge on Sal Mineo. He got miffed at his pansy boyfriend and sliced him. Fags dig his action. We could use him again.”
Scotty chewed his Tums. “I’ve met Sal. If it’s male, he’ll fuck it. He was a movie star for six seconds. My mark might go for that.”
Freddy lit a cigarette. “Fred Turentine for bug man and Phil Irwin for watchdog. Fred T.’s the best in the West. Phil’s a damn good wheelman, and he’s driving part-time for me.”
Scotty shook his head. “Phil’s an alky and a mud shark. Every gin joint and black girl he sees distracts his attention.”
Freddy shrugged. “Okay, the Crutchfield kid. He knows Sal, via Clyde Duber. He’s got balls in his own pervert way.”
Scotty bummed a cigarette, took two hits and tossed it.
“All right, I’m in. There’s three caveats at the start, though. One, this is an ace-in-the-hole gig for me. Two, I want to hold all the film and the snapshots. Three, I control the threat of exposure.”
“Sure. I’m cool with that. It’s your money, it’s your call.”
A Tiger kab peeled out. Wilt Chamberlain rode shotgun. The headliner smooshed his Afro.
“The mark’s a cop. We’ve got to be very careful. He’s not some silly faggot you can ride roughshod.”
• • •
“So Reggie files out of New Orleans and gets rejected. Let’s assume he files out of other offices with better ID or fake-name ID and gets rejected or accepted then. Another run of phone calls won’t cut it. We need to see the fucking reject files, because they’ve always got pictures. I’ve done some research. The most lax customs offices are Milwaukee, St. Pete and Lynn, Mass. Fucks with bum IDs or forged IDs hit those places first. You’ve got leave time accrued. You go there, you get badge-heavy, you check out the files.”
Pipers on Western. The 4:00 p.m. clientele: ambulance fools slurping coffee.
Marsh said, I’ll do it.”
Scotty said, “Right on, brother.”
“What about the Peoples’ Bank? I’m thinking we could brace Lionel Thornton.”
Scotty shook his head. “It’s too dicey. One, he’s up the ass of every L.A. politician worth half a shit. Two, you had a job there and learned nothing. Three, I put kid-cop plants in the bank in ’66 and ’67, and they learned nothing.”
Marsh picked at his food. He was finicky. He allllllllmost vibed swish.
Scotty ketchup-doused his french fries. “Okay, it’s ’64. Dr. Fred’s looking to glom those emeralds. Now, it’s ’68, and Dr. Fred gets 211’d and offed. Now, it’s ’69. Jomo tells me that a ‘cutout’—his fucking term—told him to warn Dr. Fred about February ’64.”
Marsh nodded. “Keep going.”
“Okay, you snitch Jomo, but it’s not really you. It’s spring ’64. The Fed gig is hopping and you’re Dwight Holly’s plant. Wayne Tedrow’s your cutout, he’s looking for Reggie, too bad Reggie’s mama tossed his file, it’s water under the bridge and I’m betting Wayne was stretched too thin work-wise to make much progress on the search front. It’s the term cutout that keeps coming back to me. It’s stone intelligence-cop slang. I’m thinking there’s some kind of left-wing/right-wing/cop-confluence thing going on here.”
Marsh nodded. Scotty said, “Cherchez la femme.” Marsh shrugged. Brother, what you mean?
“There was a woman whispering to the fake you. Big Dwight hinks when I mention it. Let’s go to last March now. I get a tip that some Commie woman wants to unload three pounds of junk.”
Marsh scrunched his face up. Marsh smoooothed his face out. Instant reversal. Brother, dat vibes wrong.
92
(Los Angeles, 12/20/70)
Blak-O-Rama: “the New Afrodesi-essence.”
Crutch skimmed the debut issue. Phil Irwin and Chick Weiss laid it on him. Phil dug the spade babes with wide-wing hair and crocheted bikinis. The lead piece ballyhooed Tiger Kab. It was “the hip hub of the New Black Masculinity.” It was a “social laboratory that shows that integration can work.”
Biz was slow. Crutch perched in a Tiger limo. His tiger tux had dandruff. The tiger seats had the mange. He had baaaaad eye strain. He’d read Wayne Tedrow’s file six times.
He stashed the file at his downtown pad. The new boxes engulfed the place. The read-throughs taught him this:
Wayne did not connect Reggie Hazzard to the armored-car heist. Wayne did not know that the heist linchpinned the whole thing. Wayne did not heist-connect Joan Rosen Klein. Wayne did not fully connect Laurent-Jean Jacqueau/Leander James Jackson. Wayne did not determine which tank-town jail Joan bailed Reggie out of. Wayne died before the “Black-Militant Blastout.” Wayne did not know that Scotty B. and Marsh B. were now partners. Wayne did not make the heist connection at all.
Crutch skimmed Blak-O-Rama. Key clients offered quotes. Wilt Chamberlain said, “Finest rides in L.A., baby.” Archie Bell said, “Tiger Kab sticks it to The Man.” Allen Ginsberg said, “Tiger Kab is multiracial avant-garde.”
Phil Irwin brodied into the lot. He kabbed Chick Weiss and a Cuban whore. Chick was wild-eyed off ludes. Buzz Duber brodied out of the lot. He kabbed Lenny Bernstein and a he-she mulatto.
It’s the hip new hub. Moonlighting wheelmen and dexie-drenched coffee. Tiger Kab rocks round the clock.
Crutch de-limo’d and walked the lot. Lenny the B. checked out his basket. Chick and Phil popped ludes and went aaaah.
Chick said, “ ‘No-fault.’ You heard it here first. It spells the death knell for you loafing cocksukers.”
Phil said, “It’s coming in. It’s part and parcel to all this permissive hippie shit that’s sweeping the country. You don’t have to show cause for divorce no more.”
Chick said, “That means shysters like me don’t pay perverts like you to kick in doors and peep windows.”
Phil said, “Perverts? That’s the pot calling the kettle black.” Chick shushed him. Lenny the B. popped a lude and went aaaah.
Crutch flipped them off and hopped into the hut. The Coon Cartel was up and at it. Milt C., Fred O., stray Panthers and cops. Sonny Liston, on a toot.
He held up the Vegas Sun. He quoted it loud.
“Ex-champ on skids. Former heavyweight kingpin residing in Brokesville. Numerous confidential sources have told this reporter that local resident Sonny Liston, onetime world heavyweight boss and fierce fistic fountainhead, may be filing for food stamps or looking for a Joe Louis–like casino-greeter job soon. His coin is rumored to be going, going, gone, the result of hellacious habits, and talk of a third fight with Muhammad Ali, should he survive his March 8 title tiff with Smokin’ Joe Frazier, is considered by fight pros to be no more than a passing pipe dream.”
Redd Foxx said, “Sounds true to me.” Junkie Monkey said, “I turn your sweet ass out. You never be broke if you peddlin’ that big black booty for me.”
Sonny said, “This is fucking bullshit. I got fourteen G’s in Kellogg’s Rice Krispies stock and six G’s in my pocket.”
Freddy signaled Crutch. They walked into the can. Freddy bolted the door.
“How’d you like to work a fruit shake? I’ll pay you two grand.”
Crutch swooned. “Shit, yeah. I’ll do it.”
“We want Sal Mineo for the bait. You know him, so you recruit him. He gets three and a half and no right of refusal. Mention my name, which should quell any protests.”
Crutch gulped. “Who’s it for?”
“Scotty Bennett.”
Crutch re-gulped. “Who’s the mark?”
Freddy laughed. “That cop Marshall Bowen. Badass spade’s a rump ranger.
”
• • •
Sonny geezed in the backseat. They were halfway to Vegas. Christmas was five days hence. The Tiger Krew wore Santa Claus caps.
Crutch took his off. It clashed with his tiger tux. Midnight evaporated—another deadhead.
Fruit shake. Trouble in paradise. It’s got to be heist-derived.
Sonny untied his arm. “I gots the word on you, Peeper. You tattled Wayne’s shit to Mary Beth. Santa’s elves told me alllllll about it. That means I be watching you.”
Crutch palpitated. A coyote ran across the road. He lost the wheel and almost plowed it.
The radio re-kicked. Mountains killed the signal forty miles back. Brenda Lee with “Jingle Bell Rock.”
Crutch checked the rearview. His pulse topped two hundred. Sonny was smack-back. His dentures had slipped halfway out.
Yule songs consoled him to Stateline. Diversion therapy meets memory lane.
Christmas, ’54. Granny Woodard’s in from Ortonville, Minnesota. She strokes out in March. His mother splits in June.
Christmas, ’62. Paul McEachern kicks his ass. Christmas, ’66. He steals Dana Lund’s boyfriend’s car and cherry-bombs the gas tank.
Sonny stirred. What dat needle doin’ dere? Crutch kept it zipped. Vegas loomed thirty miles up.
Sonny said, “I ain’t broke and I ain’t no charity case. Vegas Sun runs some jive piece and some anonymous fucking fool sends me a green-ass emerald in the mail. Wraps the fucking thing up in the fucking newspaper, so’s I get the fucking point.”
Body shot—Crutch went airless and double-visioned. The road dipped. He clipped a fence post. The moon did a hop, skip and jump.
Sonny gripped the door ledge. Crutch steadied the wheel. The moon halfway re-settled.