Blood's a rover

44

(Los Angeles, 10/22/68)

NEGROFICATION:

The sartorial arm of OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER. Marsh Bowen needed fashion tips. His colors clashed. He looked like a sepia lollipop. Evil niggers dressed all Black. It covered them by nightfall and offset their bright teeth.

Dwight slipped Marsh three C-notes. “New threads. I want to see you with that Eldridge Cleaver look. You be steppin’ out o shadows like fuckin’ Dracula to announce yo wicked intent.”

Marsh palmed the money. They idled outside the observatory. A telescope bank looked south. L.A. was smoggy and harshly lit. Griffith Park broiled.

“You’re a fine mimic, Mr. Holly.”

“Your people make it easy.”

“I’ll take that as a personal complim-”

“Here’s the compliment you’ve been so persistently anxious to receive. You have acquitted yourself brilliantly to this point, chiefly because your altercation with Scotty Bennett had mo muthafuckin’ soul than I ever could have hoped for, and as such you are the heroic black man of the L.A. ghetto moment, which allots us a very short interval for you to be recruited by the BTA and/or the MMLF. You cannot join up, Officer. Your actions must draw them to you or you will arouse an undue level of suspicion. You’re an actor, Officer. You have the actor’s instinctive need to ingratiate, so you require stern direction to shape your performance. I doubt that you possess a moral core, so let me bypass the idea of that sort of compass to guide you. You must appear bold and exercise great caution. You must judiciously rat out your new friends and benefactors and make sure that there are other snitch suspects for the information you have proffered. Use your discretion pertaining to any lowdown you might have on major crime pending. No homicide, no armed robbery, no sex shit on women or children. And do not give your former brethren in the LAPD a context in which to kick yo black ass, because they most assuredly will.”

Marsh swiveled a telescope and looked southbound. He always made his face blank and rode out confrontations. He always did offhand shit to hide his fear.

Dwight jerked the telescope. The eyepiece banged Marsh. He regrouped and went instant blank-faced.

“Here’s your target list. Get next to Ezzard Donnell Jones, Benny Boles, Leander Jackson, J. T. McCarver, Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson and Claude Torrance. Call me every fourth day at the phone drop until I find you a cutout. Start hanging out at Black Cat Cab and Sultan Sam’s Sandbox, start attending the Friday night crap game at the barbershop on 58th and Florence.”

Marsh smiled. It verged on a simper. I’m above all this.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there is.”

“And that is?”

“It’s this. You’re undoubtedly the luckiest nigger on God’s green earth:”

“Because you’re my director?”

“Because you’re too publicly notable for Scotty Bennett to kill.”

Joan handed him the shells. Six spents with baffling treads attached. She drove a ‘61 Karmann Ghia. The plates looked counterfeit. The headliner was trashed from poor upkeep or backseat fucking.

The Elysian Park cutoff. Near the LAPD Academy. A sweet view and an implied threat.

Dwight said, “How do I know they’re the right shells?”

“Because you trust me?”

It was chilly now. Joan wore long sleeves. Her knife scar was covered. Dwight missed the stimuli.

“You were on it faster than I thought you’d be.”

Joan lit a cigarette. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“I do.”

“I’m sleeping with Ezzard Jones’ girlfriend. She’s skeptical of the BTA. You’ll hear all about it.”

A spring-loaded sap was jammed between the front seats. The back-seat was packed with leftist screeds. He smelled Joan’s shampoo and stale marijuana.

Joan said, “I consigned the cocaine to Leander Jackson. He’s a lovely Haitian man with an unseemly fixation on voodoo. He sold a few grams already. I gave my share to the MMLF’s breakfast program. Claude Torrance was grateful. He’s invited me to a series of fund-raising parties.”

Dwight smiled. “There’ll be brawls.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be groped, in a demeaning fashion.”

“I count on it.”

“Why?”

“I’ll stab the man who gropes me, with female witnesses present. They’ll groove on me and tell me stories about the men. It’s an MMLF party. Leander’s beholden to me now. He’ll be pissed when he hears I’ve been associating with the MMLF, but he won’t cut me loose, because he’ll dig the stabbing story and I’ll be the only female hanger-on who can score dope.”

Dwight grabbed his cigarettes. The pack was empty. Joan lit one of hers and passed it to him. Dwight smelled her hand cream.

She wore black boots. Her dress buttoned down to the hemline. The car was hot. Sweat pooled at the neckline.

Dwight said, “Who else have you informed for?”

Joan said, “I’m not telling you.”

“Why is your file so heavily redacted?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Were those simply pro forma roundups, or were you at one time an armed-robbery suspect?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Give me the names of some known associates. I won’t move on them. I’m just trying to get a handle on your history.”

“Under no circumstances.”

Dwight popped two aspirin. Joan pushed her seat back and rested her legs on the window ledge. An ankle bracelet rode up her calf, over the boot top. A little red flag on a gold chain.

Dwight smiled. Joan smiled. They blew lousy smoke rings and fumed up the car. Two LAPD sleds zoomed by. Black dudes were cuffed in the backseats.

Joan said, “There’s a gym teacher at Manual Arts High School. His name is Berkowitz. He’s a pedophile. I think you should reprimand him.”

“Is this related to our operation?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like more of an explanation.”

“People tell me things that require me to respond. In part, that’s why I’m working for you. I’m hoping you’ll be amenable.”

Dwight said, “I’ll take care of it.”

Joan said, “I’d like to see proof.”

Dwight nodded. Joan drew her legs up and banged the horn by mistake. The noise was startling. They both laughed.

They met at a coffee cave on Hillhurst. It was near Karen’s pad and the drop-front. It featured a kid’s play alcove. Dwight dug it. It made him feel quasi-married.

Dina lounged in the alcove. Kids brought their stuffed animals. Karen kvetched her fate as the world’s oldest mother. Dwight chewed gum. He quit smoking around Karen. It tempted her. He didn’t want to mess up Eleanora.

Karen held her belly. She looked incongruous-this lean woman with this big bulge.

Dwight crumbled two aspirin and dropped them in his coffee. A new approach to stress headaches. Jack Leahy explained it. Vascular constriction, blah blah.

Karen said, “Nixon’s going to win. He won’t institute instant repression or do much of anything, which will infuriate my comrades fucking up the Humphrey campaign.”

“It’s all a little too convoluted for me.”

Karen nibbled a sweet roll. “It’s entirely understandable to you, which means that something’s on your mind, or you wouldn’t be making such blandly disingenuous comments.”

Dwight laughed. “My infiltrator is running cocky. I’m going to have to knock him down a notch or two.”

Karen crossed herself. Hybrid faith. The Greek Orthodox girl gone Quaker. A waiter brought fresh coffee. Dwight crumbled fresh aspirin.

“Why’s Joan’s file so heavily redacted?”

“I don’t know. Have you asked her?”

“She won’t tell me.”

“Then let it go.”

“Her entire KA section has been blacked out.”

“Then some handler in her past did her a favor.”

“She said she’d never informed Federally before. There’s things she won’t tell me, something about-”

Karen knocked over his coffee cup. His hands got doused. His aspirin tin went flying.

“You’re tweaked on that woman. I know you. I’ve been reading you for months. Every instinct I have tells me that you’ve done some very bad shit lately, even by your fucked-up fascist stand-”

Dwight heard Dina crying. She’d heard Karen yell. Dina kicked at a mound of toys and ran from the other children. Karen chased after her.