Dwight stood up. He was losing weight. His belt gun drooped to one side.

Wayne said, “No racial slurs around me, Dwight. I’d very much appreciate it.”

“Sure, kid. I’m not out to hurt you.”

Home was the Stardust. He had his living suite/chem lab upstairs. He’d need to rig a missing person file space soon. He ate in the downstairs coffee shop most evenings. It brought back Janice and his night-watch cop days.

Wayne worked on a cheeseburger. The coffee shop was integrated now. He coerced Dracula into compliance. Drac was devolving а la Mr. Hoover. Call it dope and longtime lunacy accruing. Farlan Brown confirmed the prognosis. LBJ thwarted Drac’s Vegas designs. Tricky Dick would comply. Farlan passed along gossip: the Count just suborned some key Humphrey aides. It covered him, poll-wise.

The burger was overcooked. The black folks two booths over got rude service.

Mesplede and Crutchfield were tricksterizing in Miami. Sam G.’s lawyers were buying out the defaulting market chain. He called the boss at Black Cat Cab this morning. A buyout chat was set for next week.

A black family walked in. Two white waitresses vanished. The hostess pretended they weren’t there.

Wayne walked up to his suite. The door was ajar. He pulled his ankle piece and eased the door open.

The living room lights were on. Mary Beth was on the couch. She wore a lovely beige dress.

“Ghetto skills and union connections. I bribed a chambermaid.”

Wayne reholstered. Mary Beth said, “Your laboratory smells more toxic than Reginald’s ever did.”

Wayne shut the door and pulled a chair up. Their knees were close. He slid the chair back. Mary Beth moved closer in.

“Why do you carry a gun?”

“I wish I didn’t have to.”

Mary Beth opened her purse. “I got something very strange in the mail today. It was sent anonymously. The oddest thing. It was wrapped in a newspaper clipping about my husband and Pappy Dawkins.”

The names burned for a second. Wayne held on her eyes. Mary Beth pulled out a wad of newspaper and unwrapped it. A green stone was tucked in the middle. It looked like an emerald.

It sparkled and glittered. Wayne stared at it. He leaned in to look closer. Mary Beth put her face up to his.

“We can’t hold hands outside or do public things. I don’t want to know about the bad things you do.”

They were close. He lost her eyes getting closer. She touched his lids and shut them for him. Their noses bumped as she brought him in for the kiss.

44

(Los Angeles, 10/22/68)

NEGROFICATION:

The sartorial arm of OPERATION BAAAAD BROTHER. Marsh Bowen needed fashion tips. His colors clashed. He looked like a sepia lollipop. Evil niggers dressed all Black. It covered them by nightfall and offset their bright teeth.

Dwight slipped Marsh three C-notes. “New threads. I want to see you with that Eldridge Cleaver look. You be steppin’ out o shadows like fuckin’ Dracula to announce yo wicked intent.”

Marsh palmed the money. They idled outside the observatory. A telescope bank looked south. L.A. was smoggy and harshly lit. Griffith Park broiled.

“You’re a fine mimic, Mr. Holly.”

“Your people make it easy.”

“I’ll take that as a personal complim-”

“Here’s the compliment you’ve been so persistently anxious to receive. You have acquitted yourself brilliantly to this point, chiefly because your altercation with Scotty Bennett had mo muthafuckin’ soul than I ever could have hoped for, and as such you are the heroic black man of the L.A. ghetto moment, which allots us a very short interval for you to be recruited by the BTA and/or the MMLF. You cannot join up, Officer. Your actions must draw them to you or you will arouse an undue level of suspicion. You’re an actor, Officer. You have the actor’s instinctive need to ingratiate, so you require stern direction to shape your performance. I doubt that you possess a moral core, so let me bypass the idea of that sort of compass to guide you. You must appear bold and exercise great caution. You must judiciously rat out your new friends and benefactors and make sure that there are other snitch suspects for the information you have proffered. Use your discretion pertaining to any lowdown you might have on major crime pending. No homicide, no armed robbery, no sex shit on women or children. And do not give your former brethren in the LAPD a context in which to kick yo black ass, because they most assuredly will.”

Marsh swiveled a telescope and looked southbound. He always made his face blank and rode out confrontations. He always did offhand shit to hide his fear.

Dwight jerked the telescope. The eyepiece banged Marsh. He regrouped and went instant blank-faced.

“Here’s your target list. Get next to Ezzard Donnell Jones, Benny Boles, Leander Jackson, J. T. McCarver, Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson and Claude Torrance. Call me every fourth day at the phone drop until I find you a cutout. Start hanging out at Black Cat Cab and Sultan Sam’s Sandbox, start attending the Friday night crap game at the barbershop on 58th and Florence.”

Marsh smiled. It verged on a simper. I’m above all this.

“Is there anything else?”

“Yes, there is.”

“And that is?”

“It’s this. You’re undoubtedly the luckiest nigger on God’s green earth:”

“Because you’re my director?”

“Because you’re too publicly notable for Scotty Bennett to kill.”

Joan handed him the shells. Six spents with baffling treads attached. She drove a ‘61 Karmann Ghia. The plates looked counterfeit. The headliner was trashed from poor upkeep or backseat fucking.

The Elysian Park cutoff. Near the LAPD Academy. A sweet view and an implied threat.

Dwight said, “How do I know they’re the right shells?”

“Because you trust me?”

It was chilly now. Joan wore long sleeves. Her knife scar was covered. Dwight missed the stimuli.

“You were on it faster than I thought you’d be.”

Joan lit a cigarette. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

“I do.”

“I’m sleeping with Ezzard Jones’ girlfriend. She’s skeptical of the BTA. You’ll hear all about it.”

A spring-loaded sap was jammed between the front seats. The back-seat was packed with leftist screeds. He smelled Joan’s shampoo and stale marijuana.

Joan said, “I consigned the cocaine to Leander Jackson. He’s a lovely Haitian man with an unseemly fixation on voodoo. He sold a few grams already. I gave my share to the MMLF’s breakfast program. Claude Torrance was grateful. He’s invited me to a series of fund-raising parties.”

Dwight smiled. “There’ll be brawls.”

“I know.”

“You’ll be groped, in a demeaning fashion.”

“I count on it.”

“Why?”

“I’ll stab the man who gropes me, with female witnesses present. They’ll groove on me and tell me stories about the men. It’s an MMLF party. Leander’s beholden to me now. He’ll be pissed when he hears I’ve been associating with the MMLF, but he won’t cut me loose, because he’ll dig the stabbing story and I’ll be the only female hanger-on who can score dope.”

Dwight grabbed his cigarettes. The pack was empty. Joan lit one of hers and passed it to him. Dwight smelled her hand cream.

She wore black boots. Her dress buttoned down to the hemline. The car was hot. Sweat pooled at the neckline.

Dwight said, “Who else have you informed for?”

Joan said, “I’m not telling you.”

“Why is your file so heavily redacted?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Were those simply pro forma roundups, or were you at one time an armed-robbery suspect?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Give me the names of some known associates. I won’t move on them. I’m just trying to get a handle on your history.”