The plan was developed. Reginald concocted a bone-deep burning solution. Jack recruited an expendable Klansman named Claverly and an expendable hood named Wilkinson. The plan was now fully formed, but:

Reginald wanted to be there. He told Joan and Jack this. Joan and Jack conferred and tried to dissuade him. Reginald insisted. He thought his chemical expertise marked him invaluable and immune to deceit. He was right and he was wrong. Joan and Jack argued. Jack argued for compliance as Joan argued for termination. Jack won. Reginald would go in and Reginald would survive. The plan was now fully formed, but:

Reginald feared a double cross. Reginald harbored a hurt-child resentment. His comrades trusted him to develop deep-burning compounds, but not to be there. He was there that day. He impulsively popped a bank tab and let loose jets of ink. Jack impulsively shot him.

His flame-retardant precautions saved his life. Soft-point bullets hit him, regardless. His chemical compounds worked erratically. The palliative pellets in his mouth circumvented damage. The anti-flame chemicals enhanced flames paradoxically.

So he lived. So Marsh Bowen and the doctor saved him. He grabbed handfuls of inked cash as he went down. He gave them to the doctor.

He hid in East Los Angeles. Scotty Bennett led the LAPD Task Force. Jack worked FBI-adjunct. The newspaper accounts and crime-scene reports shocked him. There were two dead robbers at the scene.

Jack wanted to find Reginald and kill him. Joan told him, “No.” The debate raged for days. Comrade Joan won. She searched for Reginald and found him. She begged for his forgiveness. He told her he wanted to live in Haiti and study herbal chemistry. She gave him the emeralds and told him to serve the Cause.

Joan and Jack now possessed millions of dollars. A dozen ink bindles had leaked. Stains rendered the cash unpassable for some time. They waited. Jack heard a rumor: pilfered heist cash had been laundered through the Peoples’ Bank. He told Joan. She asked around about Lionel Thornton. She learned that he was mobbed up. She learned that he came out of the Detroit labor struggle, circa ‘40. She arranged a meeting with him.

The meeting went well. It was instinctively collaborative. A level of trust built both ways. Thornton was politically versed and self-interested. Joan got dirt on him as an insurance policy.

She gave him the stained and non-stained cash. Reginald developed a compound to obscure the ink markings. She let Thornton trade the money up, down and sideways. The base sum grew in a hidden bank vault. She let him implement Reginald’s emerald-disbursement plan. The green stones formed a circuit back to Isidore Klein and his struggle. That gave Joan a bare semblance of peace.

Thornton did his job and kept his word. Scotty Bennett and Marsh Bowen killed him. He did not reveal Jack’s name or hers.

Reginald remained in Haiti. He was still there. His exact whereabouts were unknown. He forgave Joan and Jack. He was nineteen, he was eager, he was easily led. He was passively complicit and as guilty as they were. He bought revolution unblinkingly and never saw through to the cost. Joan understood a bit of that now. She was thirty years in the game.

The heist aftershocks subsided. Joan rode the ‘60s Zeitgeist. Jack stayed with the Bureau. He disseminated information. He redacted and misplaced their comrades’ files. Joan kept up with Karen Sifakis. Karen described her love affair with a rogue Fed named Dwight Holly.

Dwight did terrible things for Mr. Hoover. Dwight was dead-wrecked in the spring of ‘68. Tommy Narduno sensed the FBI behind the King hit. Tommy saw Dwight in Memphis a few days before. Joan kept Tommy’s thoughts from Karen. Karen said Dwight was planning a COINTELPRO. He needed an informant. Joan knew it had to be her.

BAAAAAAD BROTHER entered the planning stage.

A non sequitur clash occurred. Jack called Joan and reported rumblings.

It was Dr. Fred. He put together some leads on the heist, gleaned from Clyde Duber’s file. He wasn’t looking for revenge. Balaguer and Papa Doc had refunded his money. He wanted a second shot at the stones.

Hiltz wanted to run his heist leads by Mr. Hoover. He was a trusted CBI and a Hoover phone-chat pal. Joan summarily acted.

She knew about Dr. Fred’s bomb-shelter stash. Leander knew of Jomo Clarkson, via the black-militant grapevine. Joan cutout-worked Jomo and fed him the plan. Steal Dr. Fred’s money. Don’t hurt him. Scare him into silence per 2/64. He’ll fold off that.

She didn’t want more death. She got it anyway. Jomo and his partner killed Dr. Fred. The partner absconded. Jomo found him and killed him.

BAAAAAAD BROTHER went forth. Joan became Dwight’s informant and lover. The wild-card clash of Marsh Bowen and Scotty Bennett occurred. Joan and Dwight did not know the extent then.

Marsh and Scotty wanted the money and the emeralds. They colluded and betrayed each other and died for their cause. Dwight and Joan colluded and conspired. She betrayed him only by her silence. They had crafted an operation that would serve to right all their wrongs. Dwight pulled out, unilaterally. Their paperwork was stashed at a comrade’s house. She’ll honor Dwight’s decision to abort their plan. She lacks the requisite will.

Celia was lost on that island. La Banda and the Tonton had X-marked her. The warrants derived from her work with Wayne Tedrow. Celia was past reason in some regards. Maria Rodriguez Fontonette was almost certainly murdered in L.A several years back. Celia felt complicitous. She had hexed Tattoo. It was preposterous. Voodoo was barbarous capitalism cloaked in magic. Celia thought otherwise. It didn’t matter. Celia was courageous beyond ideology. Belief works that way.

She should have told Dwight the story. One thing hexed her, still. Her last word to him should not have been “No.”

The clouds broke and spilled rain. The boy looked different. The length of her tale matched the breadth of his surveillance. That pop-up face always there.

I know you want to touch me.

So I’ll let you.

He caught the signal and leaned in. She thought he’d be clumsy. He brushed dried blood off her wrists and kissed the part in her hair.

120

(Los Angeles, 3/27/72)

THE ELECTRIC CHAIR, THE HANDS AND FEET, THE EYE.

The fried skin, the stumps, the flamethrower stink. Cinerama and Smell-O-Vision. Wait-there’s a dog in a voodoo hat and a palm tree on fire.

Crutch woke up. The barking dog was a dog outside. The flames were a 6:00 a.m. sun.

He got his bearings. It was pad #3/safe house #1. Scotty was dead. He didn’t have to hide.

You have to go back. There’s where she took you. It cost her everything. She punched your surveillance card. You clocked out at three years and nine months.

Crutch made coffee and wrote out a question list for Celia. She knew things about Tattoo. He wondered if she still cared.

He fucked with his chemistry set. The story kept re-spooling. The tape jammed here and there.

The Operation. Joan and Dwight’s plan. It could only be That.

Crutch drove to Clyde Duber Associates and let himself in. It was 7:10. He could log private time.

He read Clyde’s heist file and Marsh Bowen’s personnel file. He had Joan’s story now. Facts clicked in, redundant. Who gives a shit?

Farewell tour. You can’t peep and prowl paper the rest of your life. You’re fucked-up in the head.

Crutch split and cruised by the wheelman lot. Phil Irwin and Bobby Gallard snoozed in their sleds. Clyde was throwing a wake bash for Scotty. The lot would be tartan bunting-draped and lit up.