Blood's a rover

46

(Los Angeles, 10/25/68)

Black Cat Cab featured black velvet walls and a black-history tribute. The time line spanned the Black Jesus to the Black LBJ. The flocked-on icons were peeling. The air conditioning ran twenty-four hours and messed with the motif. The boss weighed 428 pounds. The hut was stalactite-cold, per his orders.

Cordell “Junior” Jefferson: entrepreneur, Teamster-loan defaulter.

Wayne said, “The Boys are calling in their paper, Mr. Jefferson. There’s some good news within that context.”

Jefferson squirmed in his chair. It was triple-wide. The room ran 50°. He was sweating.

“You’re tellin’ me I’m about two months behind, so I gots to take this?”

Wayne shivered. “You’re three years behind, sir. Three years, but my news is not all bad.”

Jefferson spooned ice cream from a half-gallon drum. Some Panther types walked through the hut and evil-eyed Wayne. A big white man followed them. He radiated Cop. He wore a gray suit and a plaid bow tie.

Jefferson waved his spoon. “What’s all this motherfuckin’ good news you talkin’ about, while you tryin’ to pull the motherfuckin’ rug out from under me?”

Wayne opened his briefcase and tossed ten grand in Jefferson’s lap. Jefferson fondled it, smelled it and rubbed his face on it.

He snapped the rubber band holding it. He squeezed it into the world’s fattest flash roll.

Wayne said, “You hold the deed on the biz. We bring in a white guy named Milt Chargin to help you run things, you help some cop friends of mine out with information and dry-clean some cash, for which you get 7% of the action.”

“Suppose I says no?”

“Sir, you’re smarter than that.”

Jefferson ate ice cream and ruffled the roll. Wayne checked out the wall icons. He recognized the Black FDR and nobody else. A man with a triple-wide Afro walked in. He sneered at Wayne and went to the switchboard. Wayne pulled out a snapshot of Reginald Hazzard and flashed it at Fats. Fats shook his head no.

The Afro man tossed Fats a fresh tub of ice cream. Fats said, “Big Boy Cab is crowding my business. If my business is our business, then I could use some of your help.”

Wayne smiled.

Mary Beth was asleep. The covers were up over her back. One leg was exposed.

Wayne watched her. She always fell asleep before he did. She kissed him and burrowed off by herself and gave him something to see.

He pulled a chair up to the bed and touched her knee. He waited. He liked to see her turn her head on the pillow.

The lab phone rang. Wayne got up and ran for it. He grabbed the call two rings in.

“Yes?”

“It’s Dwight, Wayne.”

“Yes, and at midnight.”

“I’ve got a chemistry question.”

“All right.”

“Can redacted file paper be stripped to expose the typed words underneath?”

Wayne leaned on a shelf. It was crammed with heroin components.

“Maybe. I’ll try, if you get me some C-4 explosive.”

(Los Angeles, 10/26/68)

Darktown-85th and Central. An Afro-pride strip. A night club, a hair salon, a mosque. Street loafers at 2:14 a.m.

Among them: Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson.

Male negro, age thirty-nine. MMLF stalwart. Black Cat Cab dispatcher. “Propaganda Minister.” Hate-lit scribe. Suspected rapist/armed robber.

Jomo’s jiving with three male Negroes. They’re slurping peach liqueur and smoking Kool cigarettes. They just had their hair frizzed at Sister Simba’s shop.

Dwight was three stories up and directly across Central. The building was empty. He climbed the fire stairs and crouched behind a signboard. He held binoculars and a Poloroid pic.

The photo was Joan’s proof. He waylaid the pedophile gym teacher and did some sap work. Joan’s revenge or Joan’s deterrent. He didn’t care-it was the Joan Zone. Stray women were starting to look Joan-like. She was always Joan. She was never Confidential Informant #1189.

Dwight looked southbound. There’s Marsh Bowen on his mandated late-night stroll. Dwight looked northbound. There’s unit 4-Adam-29, slow-cruising.

Two white cops. Scotty Bennett idolaters. A C-note apiece.

On cue:

The cops sniff the Afro-pride strip. Jomo and the Jivehounds hide their jug. The cops cruise on. The jug reappears. Jomo and the Jigmeisters re-jungle-ize.

The cops see the lone male Negro. Shit, it’s Marsh Bowen. That’s a good roust.

The cops U-turn and pull over. The Afro-pride strip perks up. Party! Party! Let’s groove social outrage and hate up The Man!

Sister Simba’s empties out. Likewise the Scorpio Lounge. Jomo and the Junkyardogs electrify. Their Brillo-pad hairdos sizzle.

The cops exit their car. Marsh walks on by. One cop whistles, one cop yells, “Get back here.” The spectators start making pig sounds.

Dwight’s view was good. His soundtrack was bad. It was pig-snorted past comprehension.

Marsh walked back. Dwight saw the cops spread-search him and frisk him. He thought he heard “nigger” and “Scotty Bennett sends regards.” He heard overlapping oinks, snorts and bleats. The cops emptied out Marsh’s pockets. The cops goofed on his Afro comb. The spectators started chanting “Go, brother!” One cop shoved Marsh and jabbed at his chest. One cop yelled in his ear. The spectators cranked up their pig act. The verbal cop sprayed spit and goosed the volume. Dwight heard “nigger,” “traitor,” “nigger motherfucker” and “faggot.”

Marsh lost it. He headlocked the verbal cop and ran him into a streetlight. The spectators clapped and Go, brothered. The pig noise went hi-fi. The verbal cop spun Marsh around and flipped him up on the patrol car. The other cop pulled his baton and started banging his head and his kneecaps. Marsh took a BAAAAAAD BROTHER beating. Jomo and the Junglejivers saw the whole thing.