Blood's a rover

23

(Chicago, 8/26/68)

The Frogman slipped Crutch a hash brownie. Their driver was an on-duty cop. The riot-zone Chicago tour boded all-time blast.

It was Mesplede’s idea. He ran into Crutch in the lobby. Crutch was up for it. Bowen was in jail. Buzz was working the listening post. Observe History, sure.

Mesplede told him to steer clear of Wayne Tedrow-”You should be dead, mon ami.” Crutch agreed. Mesplede reasserted: “I may ask you for bug-tap dirt on Wayne someday.” Crutch re-agreed. History kept finding him: Miami, now this.

The red-flag boys. The no-bra girls. The cops with stubbed cigars. The nymph chicks tossing bouquets at National Guardsmen.

The cop driver swigged Old Crow. His cruiser was air-conditioned. They got the picture show devoid of night heat.

The street brawls. The hurled rock/nightstick action. The longhaired kids all bloodied. The kid minus one eye. The kid holding his teeth.

Mesplede said, “I will concede the war is unpopular. I will concede its protracted nature, but I will never concede its utter necessity.”

Crutch looked out the window. A hippie boy flipped him off. A hippie girl flashed her tits.

Mesplede said, “Donald, do you believe in a free Cuba?”

“Yeah, Boss. I do.”

“Do you believe that the perfidy of the Bay of Pigs demands a continued response?”

“Yeah, Boss. I do.”

“Do you believe that Fidel Castro must be overthrown, and that the fifth columnists who have supported his regime must suffer the severest of penalties?”

“You know I do, Boss.”

The cop driver brought a portable radio. Mesplede reached over the seat and hit the Play button. The cop-driver skimmed the dial and found a country station. A redneck tenor sang, “I love flags and corn liquor. Peaceniks and pot ain’t for me.”

Mesplede made an ugh face and flicked the dial. Discordant jazz- aaah, oui. Crutch made an ugh face. It sounded like a stripped-gear symphony. The hash brownie smacked his head. The outside colors shifted. Tendrils and double images appeared.

The cop driver turned onto a side street. The big-street action disappeared. Little one-story houses, all dark and sleepy.

Mesplede turned off the radio. The cop driver pulled over and stopped. Crutch was seeing single things as twos and threes. Mesplede got out and motioned Crutch to follow. Crutch got out and tested the sidewalk. The twos and threes returned to ones. The sidewalk firmed up his slack limbs.

He followed Mesplede. They walked up to the door of a dank little crib. Mesplede picked the lock. Crutch dug his prowess-two jiggles off a #4 pick.

They walked into the house. It was all dark. Air-cooler noise covered their footsteps. Crutch went straight to WOMEN in his head.

He followed Mesplede. The air-cooler hum increased. They hit a hall and walked down it. They stopped at a doorway. Mesplede hit a switch. Light hit two spic guys asleep in twin beds.

They stirred a little. One guy grumbled. Mesplede said, “Communists and Cuban traitors. Please kill them for me.”

The gear music flared. Colors flared and receded. Crutch felt something cold in his hand. Crutch saw the spies all tendriled up as twos and threes.

The other spic grumbled. Both spies opened their eyes and looked at the doorway. Both spies fumbled at their nightstands.

Crutch raised the gun and aimed. Single images cohered. He fired with his eyes shut. The clip kicked off full automatic. He sprayed the bed. He heard silencer thunks. He smelled the blood with his eyes closed. He opened his eyes and saw two men with no faces trying to scream.

(Chicago, 8/27/68)

The lockup was SRO. Radicals and freaks crammed up the tank space. The jail usually ran all jig. The riot had the race quotas flip-flopped.

A jailer led Dwight down the catwalk. He inspired lots of clenched fists and “Off the Pigs!” chat. The interview room was two doors down a perpendicular hallway. Marshall Bowen was waiting for him.

Not bad. Fit, thoughtful-looking. A good pseudo-firebrand.

The jailer left them alone. Dwight tossed a pack of cigarettes on the table. Bowen shook his head and slid his chair back.

Dwight turned the spare chair around and straddled it. The pose backfired. Bowen pulled his chair closer in.

“You’re not a lawyer. You’re a policeman.”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “I’m both.”

“FBI?”

“That’s correct. My name is Dwight Holly, by the way.”

Bowen bowed mock-humble. “You’re with the Chicago office?”

“No. I’m a national field agent.”

“And you’re concerned that a Los Angeles policeman got severely beaten for no justifiable reason?”

Dwight smiled. “I see no visible injuries. ‘Severe’ is an exaggeration, and you know it. You also know that you can’t file suit against the Chicago PD and win, and if you do sue, you’ll severely damage your reputation within LAPD.”

Bowen smiled. “The booking officer saw my badge. If all this craziness hadn’t messed things up, I’d be out by now.”

Dwight tossed a bag of weed on the table. “Did he see this?”

Bowen balled his fists. Bowen smirked to say I get it. The reaction went levels deep.

“There’s a threat. That means there’s an offer coming.”

Dwight put out his cigarette. “Clyde Duber says hello.”

“So it’s an infiltration job?”

Dwight shook his head. “Answer some questions.”

“All right.”

“Tell me your reaction to all this craziness.”

“It inconvenienced me. I’m personally more than politically affronted.”

“And the raw deal the Negro people in this country have received? Can you describe your take on that?”

“I don’t think much about the Negro people. Do you?”

“I think about them more than I should.”

Bowen laughed. “And why is that?”

Dwight shook his head. “Black militancy. You must have some opinions.”

Bowen shrugged. “It’s understandable, it’s historically if not legally justified, it’s ambiguously commendable, it provides opportunities for dubious ideologues and criminal entrepreneurs.”

Dwight bowed. “Why did you become a policeman?”

“For the excitement.”

“Are you enjoying your duties at Wilshire Patrol?”

“I’m a little bored.”

“Who do you hate more? Hard-charging white cops like me or the worthless niggers who make up the bulk of your people and who you have always felt so fucking superior to?”

“It’s a toss-up.”

Dwight grabbed two chair slats and snapped them off clean. Bowen did not blink.

“I want to sheep-dip you. I want to create a scenario for your LAPD expulsion and put you into the Black Tribe Alliance and/or the Mau-Mau Liberation Front, in order to create political and criminal dissension. You will be required to work the assignment, under my direction, for any length of time that I choose. At the conclusion of the assignment, you will have the option of joining the FBI at a G-4 pay rate or of returning to the LAPD with a sergeantcy, in-grade pay status and a triple-A appraisal of promotability to lieutenant. A very wise Quaker woman once told me, Take note of what you are seeking, for it is seeking you.’ If you are looking for excitement, this job will provide all you can stand.”

Bowen said, “I’ll do it.”

Then he blinked, fluttered and flinched.