My comrades are committedly non-violent. I cannot say that wholeheartedly about Dwight. He suffered a nervous collapse in the wake of the black-militant madness and feels complicit. I see it in his ever-more-tender regard for my children. Should I reveal a certain secret there? Two children died in the course of that drug deal. That particular shock seems to drive him. I see him doing what I do. I compartmentalize my children and work assiduously to assure their safety as I comport myself with considerable recklessness in the world. I exemplify hubris in a manner that Dwight does not; his recklessness is traumatically defined, while mine is cloaked in spiritual trappings and may even be considered a puerile lifestyle choice.

Ella is almost two now. She carries the stuffed animals that Dwight bought her everywhere she goes. Like Dina, she now knows that she has two part-time fathers and has hit the jackpot in the delighted dad department. When they’re older, they’ll ask me to explain it. I’ll say, “It was a wild time,” and feel like a fool.

This is my first journal entry since last March. In it, I described my lunch with Joan and her gift of the beautiful emerald. I’ve been more and more frequently recalling our conversation of that day. Joan spoke of dreams as an interconnected state of consciousness, a virus that passes between like-minded people who cannot concede their like-mindedness for fear of the forfeiture of self. It made sense to me, although the mystical aspects seemed very un-Joan. Many strange and strangely surreal things make sense these days, because “It’s a wild time.” In that regard, both Joan and I are Dwight’s dream guides. I attempt to bring him the dream of peace and I am jealous that Joan may have brought him the dream of a fiery conversion of thought.

And thought to Dwight always results in action.

My husband left town four days ago. Dwight has been coming over on alternating nights. I’m sure he’s sleeping with Joan on the nights we’re not together. And he’s calling up to talk politics at least once a day. He tries to sound utilitarian, but idealistic perceptions keep creeping in.

I’ve been noticing binocular glint at all hours, coming from a high summit on Baxter Street. I back-tailed it to a small bungalow and snuck in. I recognized the clothing in the closet. It was Dwight’s and Joan’s, of course.

I noticed document-forging tools on a table and boxes full of chemicals and paper. I pray that my dreams of peace may intersect with their dreams and keep them from creating more harm.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 12/18/70. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.

Los Angeles,

December 18, 1970

I rousted a black street fool for vagrancy last week. He had misdemeanor warrants in the system and possessed no visible means of support. I was about to arrest him, when he screwed his face up in recognition. He smiled and stated quite flatly: “You The Man.”

He was right: I am The Man. I am a highly decorated ranking officer on LAPD; I am, according to Ebony magazine, “an icon of the new black masculinity,” and “odds-on for chief of police one day. “ Political office should not be ruled out, nor should a career in television journalism. I am a magazine cover boy; Ebony and Jet, with Sepia soon to follow. I am permitted to “be magnanimous, given the new bounty of my life. So I told that street fool, “You’re right, brother. I am The Man,” and cut him loose.

I’m working the Hollywood Division Detective Bureau. I drive a nightwatch K-car and coordinate felony-level investigations at their inception. I get awed looks and resentful looks from criminals of all stripes and awed and resentful looks from my brother officers. I’m twenty-six years old, with three years on LAPD. I’m a sergeant working a prestigious detective-division assignment. I’m the heroic black man who went undercover and broke the backs of two vicious, dope-dealing black-militant groups who were really anti-black at their core. I am no longer a downscale brother slumming for cosmetic effect. I’ve moved from a dingy crib in Watts to a nice house in Baldwin Hills. Allow me to say it again: I am most assuredly THE MAN.

I cashed in on the black-militant Zeitgeist, the biggest and the best. The black-nationalist movement is in disarray. It’s a nation-wide cavalcade of indictments, trials, convictions and sundry legal hassles, the result of years of police infiltration and inter-group squabbles. Eldridge Cleaver is hiding in Algeria. The Panthers and US have exploded behind petty turf wars, general ineptitude and native fractiousness. The BTA and MMLF are kaput. My testimony put my dope-smoking, booze-guzzling, whore-chasing comrades in prison. Wayne Tedrow sought death by grandiose gesture and found it in Haiti. Mr. Holly had a nervous breakdown. I’m feared in the ghetto now. I’m a known snitch, a celebrated turncoat and a hard-charging cop.

“You The Man.” Yes, I certainly am.

I’ve been hanging out at Tiger Kab. The new owner is a man named Fred Otash. “Freddy O.” is ex-LAPD, an ex-private eye, a mobbed-up soldier of fortune and a magnet for unsubstantiated rumors. Freddy pulls shakedowns, Freddy dopes racehorses, Freddy was in on the MLK and RFK hits. I believe none of it and all of it. I’m The Man. I’ve got the recent verifiable history and much more current cachet.

Sonny Liston remains a Tiger Kab regular. We spend time together. He loves authority and loves it that I was a fink the entire time that he’s known me. Sonny has quite a bad heroin habit and misses his friend Wayne very much. He speaks wistfully of Wayne; I often commiserate with him, for I cared for Wayne, as well. Sonny knows that I knew Wayne at Tiger Kab; Sonny does not know that we were collusive partners. I miss my conversations with Wayne more than anything. Our dream states meshed for a few sweet moments, and we tried to decipher what it all meant.

I don’t miss Mr. Holly. We haven’t spoken since that last time before the “Blastout.” He knows the sanitized version of events that day, and that I’ve profited from them. He doesn’t want to see me, nor do I want to see him. Mr. Holly reminds me of the football coach I had a crush on at Dorsey High. I feared him and craved his respect and affection. I entered an arc of self-recognition and outgrew him over time. Mr. Holly, adieu. You taught me things. Thank you for the ride.

I exercise the Bent discreetly and only well out of town. Ventura and Santa Barbara are cool for that. I roust fags on Selma Avenue and Hollywood Boulevard, and carry weighted sap gloves for the task. I have a rule: any fag who lisps or swishes too persistently in my presence receives a beating.

I’m a cop. I attract a range of enmity in my white cop brothers. It doesn’t matter. I’m tight with the only white cop who counts.

Scotty asked me if the dead children got to me. I said, “Not much.” We’ll never truly trust each other, but we like each other just fine. We’ve pooled our heist information and have agreed: we must find Reginald Hazzard. I called Mary Beth Hazzard in Las Vegas yesterday. I laid on my noble black man charm, cited my friendship with Wayne Tedrow and explained that I knew about Wayne’s search for her missing son. I cited my LAPD connections and volunteered my help. Did Wayne keep a file on the matter? Did he discuss the case with her?

Mrs. Hazzard was polite. No, they did not discuss Reginald’s disappearance. She threw out the file after Wayne’s death. She didn’t read it. She didn’t want to know.

I called Scotty. We wrote the file avenue off. I checked Vegas hospital records and learned Reginald Hazzard’s blood type. Yes, it was AB-. Yes, it matched the escaped robber’s blood.

Scotty ran a nationwide records check on Reginald and learned nothing. We agreed: he might be dead or he might have left the country. Scotty is running a passport check now.