Arthur Atkinson was a black Nazi. Willis Barrett subscribed to Honky Hunter magazine. Ricky Tom Belforth subscribed to Beg for It Black: White Wenches Wail for Real Men! Bistrip, Blair, Blake, Bledsoe-stop, what’s this?

Marshall E. Bowen/5652 South Denker, Los Angeles. Anti-Jew hate-tract subscriber, ‘65-’66.

The name hit familiar. Dwight hit the DMV lists and flipped to the fi’s. There: Marshall Edward Bowen/male Negro/5'11", 175, DOB 5/18/44. CDL# 08466. Former address: 8418 South Budlong. DMV file note: background check for admittance to the LAPD Academy, 3/11/67. Current address, bingo: 5652 South Denker again.

Anomaly. Incongruity. Anti-white hate-tract subscriber, potential L.A. cop.

Yes, and the name re-hit familiar.

Dwight hit the subversive-group list. Bingo #2: There’s Marshall E. Bowen again.

At Black Muslim meetings. At Black Snake Bund powwows. Oooooh, Baaaaad Brother!

Dwight called LAPD. He knew a guy in the Personnel Office. The guy kicked loose confidential stats on the QT. Dwight got him on the line and laid out Marshall Bowen. He applied to the Department in 3/67. Did he get on?

The guy said he’d check. Dwight held the line for six minutes. The guy came back on, all excited. Bingo #3: Marshall E. Bowen made it on LAPD.

Academy graduate, 6/67. Assigned to Wilshire Patrol. Still at Wilshire. Class-A fitness reports.

Marshall, you baaad.

Because:

You subscribed to hate lit. Fou went to Commie meetings. Brother, this be baaad behavior. They could kick yo black ass off LAPD.

Because:

Your background checkers fucked up and missed your hate history. Left-wing honky-haters are summarily excluded from LAPD.

You baaaaaaad. You exploitable, coercible and lose-yo-jobable. Yo black ass belongs to me.

Dwight called Freddy Otash in Vegas. Freddy was ex-LAPD. Freddy knew his LAPD shit.

The phone rang nine times. Otash picked up, brusque. “Who’s this?”

“It’s Dwight, Freddy.”

Otash said, “Oh, shit. Don’t tell me. The Grapevine.”

Dwight laughed. “ATF’s pulling out on the first. I think we’ll have to go in then.”

“And we’re meeting with Wayne on the thirtieth?”

“Right, and I think you and I should get together before then.”

Otash sighed. “Is Wayne ready for this?”

Dwight said, “I think so.”

“Jesus, Wayne Junior. You can’t count him in, you should never count him out.”

Dwight lit a cigarette. “I had a question about LAPD.”

“I’m listening.”

“The background-check process. I’m looking at a colored kid named Marshall Bowen. He went to Commie meetings and got on LAPD last year. Tell me how that Commie shit could fall between the cracks.”

Otash yawned. “I know the Bowen kid. He was a plant for Clyde Duber. Clyde sheep-dipped him and put him in with some Red groups.”

Dwight said, “Freddy, you’re a white man.”

Otash said, “No, I’m not. I’m a fucking Lebanese.”

Marshall Bowen, you baaaaaad.

Clyde pointed to his wall frieze. Dwight tracked the pictures. They showcased that L.A. armored-car job. Burned bodies, inked bills, emeralds. A big cop mauling two Negroes.

Dwight sneezed. Clyde’s office was sub-polar. The easy chair induced pangs for sleep.

Clyde said, “That case. It’s a hobby of mine, and it’s how I met Marsh.”

“I know a little about it. Jack Leahy ran the Bureau’s end for ten seconds.”

“Right. It’s still unsolved, and ink-stained bills have been turning up in the ghetto ever since. Sometimes LAPD leans on the people passing the bills, just to keep their hand in. That’s what happened with Marsh. He innocently passes a double saw, and, oops, there’s Scotty Bennett.”

Dwight yawned. His ass was dragging. The goddamn chair was a sleep cloud.

“Don’t stop there.”

Clyde blew smoke rings. “So Scotty shagged Marsh and leaned on him, and Scotty B. leaning on you is a very unpretty sight. Marsh called a friend of his, who called me. I pulled Marsh out of the shit with Scotty, and I turned him out as an infiltrator. I put him into a half-dozen cockamamie pinko groups and colored groups, and Marsh was a damn good mole. He loves action, so he applies to LAPD, and he gets on over Scotty’s protests.”

Dwight yawned. “Tell me about his politics. He can’t be a lefty or a hate-honky type, or LAPD wouldn’t have taken him.”

Clyde chained cigarettes. “What politics? He’s a player. He lives for the game, and it’s all a game, and the only fuckers who don’t know It’s a game are these rich right-wing nuts who pay me to dip the moles. It’s a gold mine. I’m pulling in seventy-five G’s a year off Fred Hiltz and Charlie Toron.”

Dwight rubbed his eyes. “I just did some biz with Dr. Fred.”

“My guy Don Crutchfield’s tracking some Mormon hump for him in Chicago now.”

“Left-wing Mormon?”

“Right-wing Mormon snatch hound who was dipping it to some snatch Fred was dipping it to. Jesus, don’t ask. It’s been going on all summer, and I’m thirty-two grand up on it alone.”

Dwight picked up the desk phone. Clyde nodded go ahead. Dwight called his LAPD Personnel guy. The guy still had Marsh Bowen’s file out. Dwight asked for his current duty schedule. The guy said Bowen was in Chicago, visiting his sick dad.

Clyde blew touch-the-sky smoke rings. Dwight put the phone down.

“He’s in Chicago, and I can’t get away. Can you have your guy Crutchfield put a spot tail on him? I want to get a handle on him before I make an approach.”

“Sure, but I wouldn’t mind knowing what all this is about.”

“Mr. Hoover wants to stir up some shit with the niggers.”

They ate dinner by the TV set. Pre-convention coverage covered the dial. It was a ghoul show. Mayor Daley looked cosmically pissed. Hubert Humphrey looked preemptively doomed. The camera cut to longhaired kids outside the hall. They looked malevolent. They catcalled flanks of riot cops. The cops looked like gargoyles perched.

Karen watched, all intent. Dwight picked at his food. Dina drew in a coloring book. She always drew choppers and police cars. It drove Karen batshit.

The footage droned. The ghoul chants sounded like Mixmasters on the fritz. The camera panned over boocoo Negroes. One woman wolfed french fries.

Wayne was in Tahoe, en route to Chicago. He was Mr. Trickster. Dracula and Farlan Brown were mischief-minded elves. Mr. Trickster was a trouper. The show must go on. He’d surmount his latest coon snafu and perform.

The footage droned. Dina colored in a smiling dog and drew fangs on him. Karen squeezed his knee and tried not to smoke.

A fat Negro eulogized Dr. King. The confab erupted. The lights went down for a slide show. King’s picture hit the screen. Dwight shut his eyes. His pulse raced. He took some deep breaths and tried to rewire. Karen leaned into him.

“You’ve been anxious lately.”

“My sleep’s in the shitter.”

“When you’re anxious, I’m anxious.”

Dwight opened his eyes. “Don’t be, all right?”

Karen smiled. “Tell me how I accomplish that.”

Dwight hit the remote-control button. The TV bipped off. Dina didn’t notice it. Karen ran her hand up his leg.

“I should be in Chicago.”

“Jesus, babe.”

“I feel like blowing up some fascist statues.”

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“I may have an informant for you. There’s this woman named Joan.”