He fed them and petted them. He mail-ordered stuffed animals and sent them to Karen’s kids. He pretended that the kids were his kids and that he had a life where nobody got fucked over and hurt. Those thoughts killed him. He’d lose it and weep and get afraid that he could never go out in the world again.

His lost ones came at him. He’d sit still with them. He spent weeks listening to them and weeks talking to them. He got to where they could coexist.

They came and went. He started to see what they wanted and what he owed them. They gave him his mind back on a consignment basis.

Karen sent him notes full of Quaker prayers for peace. The girls sent thank-you cards for the stuffed animals. Karen sent a photo of all three of them. Their address and phone number were scrawled on the back. Dina wrote above it: “If this man is lost, please return him.”

He carried the photo. He spent hours with his goats. He thought all of it through and began to see it.

A detailed operation. A multicontext design. An explicative scenario. Tell it like it was then and how it is now.

Mr. Hoover’s racial lunacy. The FBI’s war on the civil rights movement. Its calamitous faux pas with black-militant groups.

A huge feat of exposition. A densely packed indictment. A treatise on the collusive mind-set. JFK, RFK and MLK are dead. Let me tell you how.

A big social document, with key players brightly lit. Marsh Bowen: a duplicitous homosexual and merciless provocateur. Mob figures with vile ghetto ties. Mr. Hoover’s orbit of hired guns. Special Agent Dwight C. Holly-called forth to confess.

An event of gravely stern measure. A grand idea culled from Mr. Hoover’s file mania. An epic of malign paperwork rendered banal by the staggering weight of its emptiness. A text so deep that it would defy all easy reading and inspire contentious study for all motherfucking time.

He saw it all. He wrote nothing down. He rested and nuzzled his goats.

Karen sent him a peach pie for Thanksgiving. He shared it with his goats. He got fretful about them. He braced an administrator.

The man said, “They’ll never be hurt, Mr. Holly. They’ll be here for life. They’re here for people like you.”

He rested. He slept. He had some peaceful dreams about Wayne. He revised and embellished his idea. He could tell her soon. He knew he couldn’t find her. He sensed that she’d find him in L.A.

He was wrong. It happened abruptly. She found him there with his goats.

He heard footsteps. He turned around and saw her. She looked more fierce and breathtaking than he had ever seen her. She had carried every bit of her weight.

He said, “Hello, comrade.” He pulled out the little red flag.

She said, “What are we going to do?”

He said, “Let me tell you.”

____________________

Part IV

COON CARTEL

December 5, 1970-November 18, 1971

____________________

DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/5/70. Verbatim FBI telephone call transcript. Marked: “Recorded at the Director’s Request/Classified Confidential 1-A: Director’s Eyes Only.” Speaking: Director Hoover, President Richard M. Nixon.

RMN: Good morning, Edgar,

JEH: Good morning, Mr. President.

RMN: How are you feeling? You looked a little under the weather at the American Legion brunch.

JEH: I assure you that I am fit as a fiddle, Mr. President. And, as you know, I am always “ready to sing.”

RMN: “Sing for your supper.” You understand that old saw when you run the goddamn country.

JEH: Yes, Sir. And, while we’re on the topic, let me state that I would devoutly hope that I would be able to sing well into your second term.

RMN: Edgar, you’re a rare old turd. Anyone who underestimates you should have their head examined.

JEH: Thank you, Mr. President. I would also add that we have been friends since 1914.

RMN: I was born in 1913, Edgar. We must have met at a party in my bassinet.

JEH: (Six seconds’ silence.) Well… er… yes, Sir.

RMN: You’ve probably got a file on it. You open a file every time some left-winger cuts a fart.

JEH: If I consider the person subversive, then, yes.

RMN: What’s shaking in the black-militant universe? My guys at Justice are saying that that foolishness is on the wane.

JEH: Perhaps so, Sir. The Panthers and US are heavily infiltrated and caught up in litigation, and the admittedly minor BTA and MMLF are kaput. Sixteen felony indictments, Sir. A small FBI operation, but a gem.

RMN: That “Blastout” was a home run.

JEH: Yes, Sir. And I would have called it a grand slam.

RMN: Hmmm.

JEH: (Coughing spell/eight seconds.)

RMN: Are you all right, Edgar?

JEH: I’m getting over a cold, Sir.

RMN: I wasn’t exactly thrilled with the congressional last month. You lose a seat here, a seat there, and before you know it, they add up. I might ask you for a little help before the ‘72 general rolls around. The Democrats will field a good team. I’d like to get some derogatory poop on them in a timely fashion.

JEH: Uh… what type of-

RMN: “Black-bag job,” Edgar. Don’t go coy on me. Don’t pretend you didn’t pull that shit with Lyndon Johnson.

JEH: Uh… yes, Sir.

RMN: Dwight Holly would be a good man for that.

JEH: Dwight proffered a bluff in our names, Sir. He advanced a no-foreign-casinos edict to our Italian friends. The notion is sound, but the very act itself was quite cheeky.

RMN: Dwight’s my main man. We jaw on the phone sometimes. You’re right, the plan is A-OK. I keep the Boys at arm’s length and pardon their guys out of jail at the proper intervals. It’ll all look kosher that way.

JEH: Yes, Sir. I agree.

RMN: Big Dwight’s a pisser. You said he’s taking some kind of rest cure, right?

JEH: That’s correct, Mr. President. He’ll be returning to the Los Angeles Office next month.

RMN: Dwight’s salty. I like that about him.

JEH: (Coughing spell/fourteen seconds.)

RMN: Are you all right?

JEH: Yes, Sir. I’m fine.

JEH: (Coughing spell/twelve seconds.)

RMN: Jesus, Edgar.

JEH: I assure you, Mr. President. I’m in the pink.

RMN: If you say so.

JEH: I should be run-

RMN: Bebe Rebozo told me a pisser of a story the other day. He was hobknobbing with some pols in Paraguay. They told it to him.

JEH: Uh, yes, Sir.

RMN: It’s some kind of myth. This secret stash of emeralds has been financing right-wing coups since God was a pup. Have you ever heard-

JEH: (Coughing spell and muffled comment/transcript ends here.)

Scotty Bennett

(Los Angeles, 12/7/70)

Among the many things I learned during my time undercover is that inherent criminality is inherent criminality, regardless of the racial or political grievance that serves as its justification, regardless of the soundness or unsoundness of the ideology expressed.”

The spiel got applause. Mayor Yorty and Chief Davis clapped. Scotty clapped along. Marsh looked good. Sergeant’s stripes on new blues. A close-cut Afro.

Full house: the Academy gym, cops and politicians. No Feds-big surprise there.

“The LAPD has superbly interdicted the criminal aspects of black nationalism as it has honored the legal right of black-nationalist civil address, while concurrently opening its arms to a new generation of minority police officers.”

Scotty yukked internal. He hit up Marsh back in March. He let time simmer. Today was the day: the big heist summit.

The fucker could speak. He chose his words and rocked with the rhythm. He eschewed a homo aesthetic.