(Los Angeles, 8/6/68)
The drop-front came furnished: three rooms in Naugahyde and scuffed chenille. The air conditioners worked. The couch folded out to a bed. It was ample space. Dwight figured he could live there full-time.
Silver Lake. A Bureau-vouchered office suite at Sunset and Mohawk. A barber college, fruit bar and porno bookstore downstairs.
Karen lived a mile northwest. It was a good spot for spontaneous nooners. He listed the office as “Cove Enterprises.” It was fittingly bland. It winked at Karen’s crib at Baxter and Cove.
Dwight moved in. He placed his clothes in the closet and set up a hot plate and coffee gizmo. He wired two standard phone lines and a secure scrambler line. He unloaded his surveillance equipment. He locked a box of throwdown guns in the safe.
He was fucking dog-tired. He’d caught the redeye in from D.C. His seat was midget-size. His legs were jammed to his chest. His one drink and one pill got him one hour’s sleep full of nightmares.
Mr. Hoover okayed a wire transfer: sixty cold to a bank downtown. It was his six-month budget. Upkeep, informant fees and miscellaneous expenses. OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER, on-go.
Dwight cranked the window units and produced that igloo effect. Aaaah, L.A. in August—hot, with no letup. He had three window views, all north-facing. Taco joints, cholos, smog in CinemaScope.
Mr. Hoover was riding him roughshod. The old poof was in a nitpicking frenzy. Rumors in stereo: the Grapevine and Wayne Junior. He told Mr. Hoover they were chilled. It was a flat lie and a time-buyer. ATF was circling the Grapevine. He sent Fred Otash to St. Louis to check it out. The Wayne Junior deal could blow in an instant. Wayne refused to kick loose Wayne Senior’s hate lists. Ditto Dr. Fred Hiltz.
Wayne said he was out of the hate biz. Dr. Fred wanted too much cash. Dwight stiffed a check-in call to the L.A. SAC last night. Jack Leahy ran mordant per Mr. Hoover, almost recklessly so. Jack called the old poof “Amphetamine Annie.” Dwight yukked and recalled their last phone chat. Mr. Hoover raged, pouted and pranced. Mr. Hoover ran two beats short of normal now. Mr. Hoover listed the Memphis personnel just to say I KNOW.
Dwight got the heebie-jeebies. The igloo got too cold.
Let’s check out Niggertown.
Malt-liquor signs marked the border. Menthol cigarettes followed. Schlitz, Colt .45, Nigports and Kools. Coon consumerism. Afro pride. Slick spades with white features and negroid hair.
Dwight drove south. His Fed sled drew scared looks and sneers. It was hot. Smog hovered low. Lots of baaaad brothers be out. Jive sessions and parking-lot crap games. Lots of hair nets. Lots of stingy-brim porkpies atop gassed hair. Lots of LAPD street rousts.
He drove by the Panther HQ. The outdoor mural soared. Two black cats disemboweled a bleeding pink pig. The pig wore a badge marked FASCIST OPPRESSOR. The backdrop was the Last Supper. Huey Newton played Jesus. Eldridge Cleaver and Bobby Seale played key disciples. The other disciples wore “Free Huey” T-shirts.
The US HQ was close. The door guards wore lacquered shades and black berets. They flanked a hi-fi plopped down on the sidewalk. Gibberish sputtered. Bongos banged the beat. Dwight heard “Instill the White Insect with Insecticide.”
Enough. Dwight cut west. The Black Tribe Alliance had a storefront at 43rd and Vernon. Their door crest featured black fists, guns and white-pig cops with small peckers. The Mau-Mau Liberation Front—four blocks south. Cannibal wall art—white cops screaming in stew pots as black dudes seasoned and stirred.
Enough. It was Chairman Mao meets Minstrel Mike, spliced with Ramar of the Jungle. Dwight cut west. He passed the Peoples’ Bank of South Los Angeles. He recalled his file notes. It was allegedly a money-wash joint.
Karen was guest-lecturing at USC. He cruised by on a timing hunch and caught her class filing out. The kids were longhaired and unkempt. They saw his gray suit and belt gun and went eek. The lecture hall was big. Karen lingered by the dais. Dwight jumped onstage and created sound waves. Karen looked up and smiled.
They kissed over the dais. A few students caught it and went Huh? Karen held a photo slide up to the light. Dwight looked at it. It was Mr. Hoover, circa ’52.
“Don’t tell me. You’re teaching the blacklist again.”
“Don’t tell me you think it was justified.”
“Don’t tell me I haven’t helped some of your Commie chums get their jobs back.”
“Don’t tell me I haven’t reciprocated with favors.”
Dwight smiled. “Is What’s-His-Name in town?”
“Yes.”
“When does he leave?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow night, then?”
“Yes, that sounds lovely.”
They sat on the stage and let their legs dangle. They were tall. Their feet scraped the floor. Karen pulled his cigarettes out and lit up.
“One a day, right?”
“Yes, and only when we’re together.”
“I’m not sure I believe you.”
“All right. Occasionally, after breakfast.”
Dwight touched her belly. “You’re showing more.”
Karen touched herself. “That’s Eleanora.”
“Suppose it’s a boy?”
“Then it’s What’s-His-Name or Dwight.”
“And you’re sure it’s not mine?”
“Sweetie, it’s not an immaculate conception, and you were nowhere near the receptacle.”
Dwight pulled his legs up and stretched out on the stage. He yawned. He got half-second dizzy.
Karen said, “How’s your sleep?”
“Shitty.”
“Bad dreams?”
“Yes.”
“Any horrible Bureau-sanctioned deeds that you’d like to confess?”
“Not right now.”
Karen tossed her cigarette and stretched out beside him. He touched her hair. He counted the dark flecks in her eyes.
“Any new ones?”
“A person’s eyes change as they age. It’s perfectly normal, so you shouldn’t fret over it.”
“I fret over everything.”
Karen touched his hair. “I wasn’t accusing you. I was just commenting.”
Dwight moved closer. Their heads touched. He smelled almond shampoo.
“Find me that informant. A woman. I’ll operate her and my infiltrator, and I’ll keep them separate.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You could do some good here. Both of these groups are uninfiltrated, which means they’ve got all kinds of latitude to pull bad shit.”
Karen burrowed in a little. “Quid pro quo?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a rally here next week.”
“Against the war?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t tell me. You’d like me to pull the photo-surveillance team.”
“Would you?”
“Sure. I’ll call Jack Leahy.”
Karen rolled on her back and stretched. Dwight touched her belly. He thought he felt Eleanora kick.
He said, “Do you love me?”
Karen said, “I’ll think about it.”
They sat in the den. Dwight insisted. It was hate art–free. The rest of Hate House jangled him.
Dr. Fred said, “A hundred G’s. That and a little favor gets you a thorough perusal of all of my lists.”
Dwight yawned. “What’s the favor?”
“Help me find this woman. She dinged me for fourteen G’s and split-skied.”
Dwight shrugged. “Call Clyde Duber. He’ll set you up.”
“He did. I got this numbnuts kid working for me. He’s in Miami now, but I don’t know if he’s worth a shit. Come on, Dwight. The cash and one little favor.”
Dwight shook his head. “Ten cold and a pound of cocaine I’ve been holding. It’s superlative shit. You’ll have the time of your life, until it kills you.”
The phone rang. Dr. Fred picked up, mumbled and listened. Dwight heard scree-scree noise. It sounded like a Bureau patch call.
Dr. Fred nodded. Dwight grabbed the phone. The scree-screes faded to an Okie twang. The caller said, “Dwight, it’s Buddy Fritsch. I got me a cluster fuck here, and you better come.”
A puddle jumper got him into McCarran. He cabbed downtown to LVPD. Buddy was holed up in his office. He was half-tanked. He was pacing. Three cigarettes burned in one ashtray.
Dwight shut the door and locked it. Buddy quit pacing and noticed him.
“I got this AG’s man squeezing me. He’s got a print on Janice, and he’s rolling the dice. Okay, he offered me money, but I still can’t see no way out, except to hand up Wayne and—”
Dwight grabbed him. Dwight threw him over the desk and dumped a file cabinet on him. Dwight pulled the air conditioner off the wall and dropped it on his back. Dwight kicked him in the balls three times.
“You get me a freak to hand up for Wayne Senior, and you do it now.”