Chapter 89

July 1967

In that famed city by the bay where Mark Twain once spent an entire summer in his winter coat, a hundred thousand people adorned in bell-bottoms and midriffs, high on everything including life, gathered in Golden Gate Park committed to resurrecting love.

Rebelling against the Vietnam War, oppression, and a social system replete with rigid ideas, the hippies tossed away bras and neckties, grew their hair, stuck flowers behind their ears, hung leis around their necks, flashed peace signs, and liberated sex from its dark closet—renamed it “free love” and flaunted it in the faces of the bourgeoisie.

Black with white, men with men, women with women, young with old. Free love. Love for everyone, with everyone. All of that fucking and freethinking required lots of LSD and marijuana. The demand transformed small-time dope peddlers into low-level tycoons, which is why Harlan had money to burn.

The dice rolled swiftly across the wooden floor, bounced against the baseboard, and displayed seven black dots, prompting a chorus of curse words from the losers.

Grinning, Solomon Hardison, a beady-eyed amateur boxer, swept up the wrinkled bills and shoved them deep into his pants pocket.

Harlan huffed: “Ain’t you gonna give me a chance to win my money back?”

Solomon’s grin stretched wider. “You’re what I call a glutton for punishment.”

“Never mind all of that,” Harlan said, peeling off ten five-dollar bills. He waved the money in Solomon’s face. “You down or what?”

Solomon shrugged. “Sure, fool. I’ll keep taking till you’re broke.”

They were supposed to be playing music, but a midday downpour had sent them running from the backyard into the clawing heat of the basement. It was July, too warm to play in that poorly ventilated cave. So the musicians waited out the rain with gin, pot, and dice.

“Lemme see.” Harlan plucked the dice from the floor and set them in the palm of his hand, testing the weight. He then brought the dice close to his eyeballs to examine the validity of the black dots.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with them shakers!” Solomon exclaimed.

“Yep, they brand new. I saw Solomon take them out of the box with my very own eyes,” John Smith said.

Harlan shot John a hard look. “I can’t trust your eyes,” he laughed. “I seen your women!”

“Ug-leeee!” someone railed from the other side of the room.

The basement shook with laughter.

“Aww, later for y’all.”

“Roll the fucking dice,” Solomon demanded. “Let me get this money real quick. I got things to do.”

Harlan curled his fingers around the dice, raising his hand above his head, then turned to Solomon. “Double or nothing?”

“We could do triple or nothing if you want.”

The dice skated across the floor.

Snake eyes!

Harlan pounded his fist into his palm. “Shit, shit, shit!”

The door creaked open. “Hey,” Emma called from atop the landing, “the rain’s stopped.”

They played till five, and then one by one the musicians and onlookers headed elsewhere. But John stayed behind, parked himself on the porch steps alongside Harlan, and lit a cigarette.

Beneath a darkening sky, they ogled and grinned at the beautiful things posturing billowy Afros, platform shoes, and miniskirts. Even though Independence Day was eight days gone, the nights continued to erupt with firecrackers, cherry bombs, and the silver sputter of sparklers.

A tall brown beauty, dressed in a psychedelic halter dress, sauntered across the street in her bare feet, waving as she approached. “Hey, y’all.” She nodded at John, bent over, and planted a kiss on Harlan’s cheek. “The music was good tonight.”

“Just tonight?”

“Aww, it’s always good.” She slid her hands over her curvy hips. “So, um, you got something for me?”

“You got something for me?” Harlan shot back.

She nodded, slipped her hand down the front of her dress, and plucked out a rolled bill.

John gave his head a little shake and peered off down the street.

Harlan took the money, went into the house, and returned with a small bag of marijuana.

“Thanks, baby,” she cooed, slipping it from his fingers.

“Thanks is all you got for me?”

“For now,” she offered with a wink. “See ya later?”

“Yeah.”

John and Harlan watched the hypnotic roll and bounce of her ass beneath the thin dress. When she was out of earshot, John muttered, “I don’t think she’s wearing any drawers.”

Harlan chuckled. “Believe me, she ain’t.”

John stood, stretched his arms high above his head, and yawned.

“You out?”

“Yeah, man, I gotta go make some bread.”

“All right then.” Harlan presented his open hand. “Stay tight.”

John slapped his palm with his own. “You know it.”