So I will pray for peace and feel Eleanora grow within me and make love with Dwight, who knows many of the things I do but cannot confront them because the moment of moral explication would drive him insane.
As always, I will marvel in the aftermath of my prayers and ponder how much or how little quantifiable good our odd comradeship of conflicting ideology gives to the world. Mutual benefit. It sounds viciously capitalistic, but it is wholly egalitarian within that compromised context.
Dwight needs an informant to work the BTA and MMLF. He’s got me half-convinced that both groups are viciously self-serving, ideologically unsound and destructive. Should I introduce him to Joan?
DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/25/68. Los Angeles Times headline and subhead:
DEMOCRATIC CONVENTION SET TO CONVENE
PROTEST TROUBLE LOOMS IN WINDY CITY
DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/25/68. San Francisco Examiner headline and subhead:
TROOPS ARRIVE IN CHITOWN
TENSION SIMMERS AS PROTEST YOUTH MOBILIZES
DOCUMENT INSERT: 8/25/68. Telex communiqué. From: Supervisory Unit, St. Louis Office, Federal Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. To: Field Unit #112, all personnel. Topic: Grapevine Tavern surveillance.
Gentlemen,
Grapevine investigation to terminate 9/1/68. Discontinue all surveillance on that date. The U.S. attorney has deemed insufficient grounds to prosecute.
Thomas T. Wiltsie, Agent-in-Charge
19
(Los Angeles, 8/25/68)
Lists:
Hate-mail subscribers, hate-meeting attendees, hate-cartoon devotees.
Cross-referenced to:
Rap-sheet lists, DMV lists, subversive-group lists.
Cross-referenced to:
The hate lit itself. Sample copies. All hate-the-white-man shit. Negro mailees cross-referenced back to all the fucking lists.
Dwight worked in the drop-front. He built paper piles from Dr. Fred’s stash and carbons from LAPD and the California DMV. Hate, hate, hate. Big paper piles—the Himalayas of Hate.
He’d been at it since his Vegas jaunt. He started with municipal PD intelligence files. He looked for male Negro cops with infiltration experience. He got no names. He went back to the subscriber lists then. He secured paper and culled paper and built shelves to rein paper in. It was a Negro name hunt. Find a male Negro hate bunny. Recruit him, coerce him, or entrap him—and teach him how to re-hate.
The glut of names was engulfing. The hate lit and hate pix supplied yuks. White men had small dicks, black men had big dicks, the dick-size diaspora defined black history. Jew doctors spread sickle-cell anemia. Audrey Hepburn had Jim Brown’s black baby. Lawrence Welk was really black. Count Basie was really white. John Glenn was the world’s first nigger astronaut.
Dwight name-hunted. A to Z and back again. Pebble-in-an-avalanche dreck. U, V, W, X, Y, Z and back to A.
Arthur Atkinson was a black Nazi. Willis Barrett subscribed to Honky Hunter magazine. Ricky Tom Belforth subscribed to Beg for It Black: White Wenches Wail for Real Men! Bistrip, Blair, Blake, Bledsoe—stop, what’s this?
Marshall E. Bowen/5652 South Denker, Los Angeles. Anti-Jew hate-tract subscriber, ’65–’66.
The name hit familiar. Dwight hit the DMV lists and flipped to the B’s. There: Marshall Edward Bowen/male Negro/5′11″, 175, DOB 5/18/44. CDL# 08466. Former address: 8418 South Budlong. DMV file note: background check for admittance to the LAPD Academy, 3/11/67. Current address, bingo: 5652 South Denker again.
Anomaly. Incongruity. Anti-white hate-tract subscriber, potential L.A. cop.
Yes, and the name re-hit familiar.
Dwight hit the subversive-group list. Bingo #2: There’s Marshall E. Bowen again.
At Black Muslim meetings. At Black Snake Bund powwows. Oooooh, Baaaaad Brother!
Dwight called LAPD. He knew a guy in the Personnel Office. The guy kicked loose confidential stats on the QT. Dwight got him on the line and laid out Marshall Bowen. He applied to the Department in 3/67. Did he get on?
The guy said he’d check. Dwight held the line for six minutes. The guy came back on, all excited. Bingo #3: Marshall E. Bowen made it on LAPD.
Academy graduate, 6/67. Assigned to Wilshire Patrol. Still at Wilshire. Class-A fitness reports.
Marshall, you baaad.
Because:
You subscribed to hate lit. You went to Commie meetings. Brother, this be baaad behavior. They could kick yo black ass off LAPD.
Because:
Your background checkers fucked up and missed your hate history. Left-wing honky-haters are summarily excluded from LAPD.
You baaaaaaad. You exploitable, coercible and lose-yo-jobable. Yo black ass belongs to me.
Dwight called Freddy Otash in Vegas. Freddy was ex-LAPD. Freddy knew his LAPD shit.
The phone rang nine times. Otash picked up, brusque. “Who’s this?”
“It’s Dwight, Freddy.”
Otash said, “Oh, shit. Don’t tell me. The Grapevine.”
Dwight laughed. “ATF’s pulling out on the first. I think we’ll have to go in then.”
“And we’re meeting with Wayne on the thirtieth?”
“Right, and I think you and I should get together before then.”
Otash sighed. “Is Wayne ready for this?”
Dwight said, “I think so.”
“Jesus, Wayne Junior. You can’t count him in, you should never count him out.”
Dwight lit a cigarette. “I had a question about LAPD.”
“I’m listening.”
“The background-check process. I’m looking at a colored kid named Marshall Bowen. He went to Commie meetings and got on LAPD last year. Tell me how that Commie shit could fall between the cracks.”
Otash yawned. “I know the Bowen kid. He was a plant for Clyde Duber. Clyde sheep-dipped him and put him in with some Red groups.”
Dwight said, “Freddy, you’re a white man.”
Otash said, “No, I’m not. I’m a fucking Lebanese.”
Marshall Bowen, you baaaaaad.
Clyde pointed to his wall frieze. Dwight tracked the pictures. They showcased that L.A. armored-car job. Burned bodies, inked bills, emeralds. A big cop mauling two Negroes.
Dwight sneezed. Clyde’s office was sub-polar. The easy chair induced pangs for sleep.
Clyde said, “That case. It’s a hobby of mine, and it’s how I met Marsh.”
“I know a little about it. Jack Leahy ran the Bureau’s end for ten seconds.”
“Right. It’s still unsolved, and ink-stained bills have been turning up in the ghetto ever since. Sometimes LAPD leans on the people passing the bills, just to keep their hand in. That’s what happened with Marsh. He innocently passes a double saw, and, oops, there’s Scotty Bennett.”
Dwight yawned. His ass was dragging. The goddamn chair was a sleep cloud.
“Don’t stop there.”
Clyde blew smoke rings. “So Scotty shagged Marsh and leaned on him, and Scotty B. leaning on you is a very unpretty sight. Marsh called a friend of his, who called me. I pulled Marsh out of the shit with Scotty, and I turned him out as an infiltrator. I put him into a half-dozen cockamamie pinko groups and colored groups, and Marsh was a damn good mole. He loves action, so he applies to LAPD, and he gets on over Scotty’s protests.”
Dwight yawned. “Tell me about his politics. He can’t be a lefty or a hate-honky type, or LAPD wouldn’t have taken him.”
Clyde chained cigarettes. “What politics? He’s a player. He lives for the game, and it’s all a game, and the only fuckers who don’t know it’s a game are these rich right-wing nuts who pay me to dip the moles. It’s a gold mine. I’m pulling in seventy-five G’s a year off Fred Hiltz and Charlie Toron.”
Dwight rubbed his eyes. “I just did some biz with Dr. Fred.”
“My guy Don Crutchfield’s tracking some Mormon hump for him in Chicago now.”
“Left-wing Mormon?”
“Right-wing Mormon snatch hound who was dipping it
to some snatch Fred was dipping it to. Jesus, don’t ask. It’s been going on all summer, and I’m thirty-two grand up on it alone.”
Dwight picked up the desk phone. Clyde nodded go ahead. Dwight called his LAPD Personnel guy. The guy still had Marsh Bowen’s file out. Dwight asked for his current duty schedule. The guy said Bowen was in Chicago, visiting his sick dad.
Clyde blew touch-the-sky smoke rings. Dwight put the phone down.
“He’s in Chicago, and I can’t get away. Can you have your guy Crutchfield put a spot tail on him? I want to get a handle on him before I make an approach.”
“Sure, but I wouldn’t mind knowing what all this is about.”
“Mr. Hoover wants to stir up some shit with the niggers.”
They ate dinner by the TV set. Pre-convention coverage covered the dial. It was a ghoul show. Mayor Daley looked cosmically pissed. Hubert Humphrey looked preemptively doomed. The camera cut to longhaired kids outside the hall. They looked malevolent. They catcalled flanks of riot cops. The cops looked like gargoyles perched.
Karen watched, all intent. Dwight picked at his food. Dina drew in a coloring book. She always drew choppers and police cars. It drove Karen batshit.
The footage droned. The ghoul chants sounded like Mixmasters on the fritz. The camera panned over boocoo Negroes. One woman wolfed french fries.
Wayne was in Tahoe, en route to Chicago. He was Mr. Trickster. Dracula and Farlan Brown were mischief-minded elves. Mr. Trickster was a trouper. The show must go on. He’d surmount his latest coon snafu and perform.
The footage droned. Dina colored in a smiling dog and drew fangs on him. Karen squeezed his knee and tried not to smoke.
A fat Negro eulogized Dr. King. The confab erupted. The lights went down for a slide show. King’s picture hit the screen. Dwight shut his eyes. His pulse raced. He took some deep breaths and tried to rewire. Karen leaned into him.
“You’ve been anxious lately.”
“My sleep’s in the shitter.”
“When you’re anxious, I’m anxious.”
Dwight opened his eyes. “Don’t be, all right?”
Karen smiled. “Tell me how I accomplish that.”
Dwight hit the remote-control button. The TV bipped off. Dina didn’t notice it. Karen ran her hand up his leg.
“I should be in Chicago.”
“Jesus, babe.”
“I feel like blowing up some fascist statues.”
“Don’t let me stop you.”
“I may have an informant for you. There’s this woman named Joan.”
20
(Chicago, 8/25/68)
The Loop was hot. A choppy lake breeze goosed the thermometer. The cops wore helmets and short-sleeved shirts. They packed nightsticks and saps. The hippies wore deface-the-flag garb. They packed Coke bottles and rocks.
Potential fracas. Both groups spoiled for it. The night heat said GO—you know you want this.
Crutch watched. He clutched his grocery bag and stood out of range. His crew cut and square threads camouflaged him. The longhairs would ignore him. The fuzz would find him simpatico.
Shit fuck. Miami to this.
Face-off. The cops moved up two inches. The hippies moved up three. The gap shrank and got claustrophobic.
Crutch watched. Dexedrine and coffee had him psychedelicized. He’d been up thirty-six hours. He’d been running the listening post at the Ambassador East. Farlan Brown was hosting a party suite next door. Booze, girls and political rah-rah. Brown fucked the girls and greased the delegates. Brown promised them Hughes Air charters. Brown pressed them for details on Humphrey’s campaign travel, so Wayne Tedrow and company could fuck Hubert up.
The cops moved two inches. The hippies moved three. The gap shrank. The hate intensified.
Crutch watched. The face-off got him antsy. Clyde overbooked him. He had the listening-post gig and an adjunct job: tail this L.A. cop in town. Buzz was on that gig now.
The cops moved up. The hippies moved up. A fat freak yelled, “Pig!” The cops charged. The hippies faltered. A frizzy-haired guy chucked a rock. It bounced off a skinny cop’s helmet. The cops hit the line, nightsticks first. The hippies had no turnaround or hurling range. Mow-down: the cops trampled and kicked and nightstick-knocked heads on the pavement.
A car pulled up to the fracas. Something flared red. Two spades lobbed a flaming-dogshit bomb at the cops. It fell short. The bag broke and dung-scorched some trample-assed kids. The spades did that clenched-fist thing and peeled out.
Crutch ran back to the hotel and bopped to the listening post. He had a southbound view of car fires and flame glow off the lake. The bug-tap console faced the north wall. He heard fuck-suck sounds through the speakers. He put on headphones. He heard the fuck-suck sounds louder. This part of the Dr. Fred job was pure bullshit.
It ran up Clyde Duber’s time card. It yielded ziltch on Gretchen/Celia and Joan Rosen Klein. Clyde was juking that time card. Clyde told him not to brace Farlan Brown in person. All this jive was tangential to the women.
It was 1:00 a.m. Crutch noshed two cupcakes to downgrade his speed jolt. He placed Joan’s mug-shot strip on the console. He kept looking at Joan and seeing new things.
His case was dead-stalled. Sam Giancana or someone close called Gretchen/Celia. That was a big lead and a dead-staller. You don’t brace a heavy like Sam G.
He B&E’d Arnie Moffett’s realty office on his way to the airport. He found no further notes on Gretchen/Celia. He checked LAPD and Sheriff’s missing person files for notes on tattooed Latin chicks. He got zero there. He ran Joan Rosen Klein’s name and stats by cop contacts nationwide. Fourteen PDs, fourteen cops. Robbery-unit cops, subversive-squad cops, intelligence-squad cops. Nobody knew shit per Red Joan.
She might have a Fed file. That approach was dicey. He’d have to tap Clyde to tap his Fed contacts. Joan was all his for now. He held the lead as his exclusive.
The fuck-suck noise died out. Pay me, pay me noise replaced it. Crutch skimmed a library book. It was all about Cuba. Rebel raids, burning cane fields, the Bay of Pigs rout. He kept reading books. He kept calling the Frogman long-distance. Mesplede was still looking for exile turncoats Fuentes and Arredondo. They betrayed le sacré la Causa. They were heist men. They might be clouting department stores in Des Moines or Duluth. The Frogman was his no-shit mentor. The Frogman worked with Wayne Tedrow, but stayed hinky on him. Froggy and Wayne were time-clocking for Count Dracula now. Their mandate: tricksterize at the convention and sodomize Hubert Humphrey’s fall campaign.
Freddy Turentine filed a report on the Golden Cavern bug op. It was a bust—just whores and Mormons. But, Fred T. heard Fred O. mention an 8/30 meet with Wayne Tedrow and “perhaps others.” That could be good. Wayne might say something or provide a lead on Dracula’s lair. One photo/one million bucks—Life magazine’s standing offer. The Frogman said he might request hot scoop on Wayne. Crutch said he’d provide it. Brainstorm: call Fred T. and tell him to keep the bug-tap gear in place.
The phone rang next door. Crutch switched to the tap-feed headphones. Static and voice garbles fuzzed up the line. He jiggled switches and got Farlan Brown.
“… Wayne, hi. Jesus, what time is it? I haven’t opened the curtains since Coolidge was in office.”
Wayne Tedrow: “It’s 1:20.”
Brown: “A.m. or p.m.?”
Tedrow: “Morning. I’m at O’Hare now. I’m waiting for that man I told you about. He’s flying in from Sioux Falls.”
Brown: “A French mercenary and Sioux Falls, South Dakota. That’s a new one on me.”
Tedrow: “He’s trying to locate some long-lost chums.”
Brown: “He won’t find them in Chicago. All we’ve got here is class warfare.”
Tedrow: “The airport’s a mess. It’s nothing but hopped-up kids and reporters. It’s like one big staging ground.”
Brown: “Hubert’s fucked. Dick’s going to make hay out of this one.”
Buzz walked into the suite. Crutch w
aved to him.
Tedrow: “We’ll need to get some sleep. We’ll see you in five or six hours.”
Brown said something. Static ditzed the line. Crutch dumped the headphones.
Buzz said, “Bowen’s from hunger. He doesn’t drink or chase pussy. He may be the world’s most uptight jungle bunny. He goes to fucking museums and cheese shops.”
Crutch snarfed a cupcake. “I’ll take over now.”
“Take over what? It’s 1:30 a.m. Bowen’s home with daddy, and the whole fucking city’s going nuts.”
“I’m restless.”
“You’re always restless.”
Crutch snarfed cupcake #4. “I’ll be back in five or six hours.”
Buzz checked his notebook. “This fucker is uptight. 11:16 p.m. He bypasses two rib joints and a topless bar called the Honey Bunny. Where does he go? To Mr. Sid’s All-Nite World of Books.”
Crutch yukked. Buzz dropped his head on his chest and went ZZZ-ZZZ-ZZZ. Something exploded outside. Crutch looked out the window and saw a cop car ablaze.
Late-night Chi-town hopped. Longhair legions roved. That lake breeze had their red flags swirling. Cops roved in flanking movements. It all looked synchronized. Mounted cops popped out of alleys. Their horses shit on the sidewalk. People threw things out of windows. Fruit and bric-a-brac rained down. It always missed the cops and the hippies. It felt like a general statement. You couldn’t tell who the targets were.
Crutch rent-a-carred through it. The traffic was sub-snail-paced. Fender benders abounded. Marshall Bowen’s daddy lived at 59th and Stony Island. It was middle-class colored—two-story houses up close to the street.
Clock in—2:41 a.m.
Crutch parked outside the house. One upstairs light was on. He put his Joan pix up on the dashboard and squinted at them.
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