Mr. Hoover seems determined to go out in a psychotically hateful blaze of glory, and he has found an unrelenting minion in Dwight, who now has Joan Klein to aid and abet and perhaps comfort him. I am afraid that Dwight will passively permit or actively suborn the BTA and MMLF in the sale of narcotics and that he has found a willing accomplice in Joan. Joan understands the concept of narcotics as a tool of revolution and has deployed it before. I fear that Joan and Dwight seek the same physical end for antithetical political motives. They want to bring the BTA and MMLF to a point of public censure and blithely underestimate the human cost.

I’ve told Joan intimate things about Dwight. She knows that Dwight has burgled my home on occasion and that I leave a much less candid and controversial journal out for him to peruse. I’m afraid that expressions of my troubled love for Dwight have pushed Joan toward him in the effort to further her own political goals.

Joan has been to dauntingly dangerous places of revolution and has committed deeds-and, yes, misdeeds-that I am both thankful and regretful I am incapable of. I do not doubt her sincerity or utter commitment and have seen her in moments of frank goodness-our shared teaching duties at the Freedom School in ‘62 was one instance-but I utterly fear her fury and will. She and Dwight possess a blindsiding like-mindedness and emotional hunger. I pray that it will not supersede their utilitarian instincts and cause dire harm.

DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/2/69. Extract from the journal of Marshall E. Bowen.

Los Angeles,

4/2/69

I’m in trouble. The incident last night may get back to Scotty Bennett. The consequences may fuck up the balance of my personal life and the operation and thus my search for the armored-car money and emeralds. Mr. Holly has been pressing me for snitch-outs and Wayne has been pressing me to fall in with either the BTA or MMLF exclusively. When pressed, I vacillate and consider my options. Rarely do I vacillate to the point of stunned inaction. Last night I did.

Wayne has become a southside regular. He’s been buying cocktail lounges and after-hours clubs and has been making the scene at Tiger Kab. Of all people, Wayne has brought ex-heavyweight champ and self-described “chump” Sonny Liston into the Tiger Kab fold. Sonny is a boozing, pill-popping, whore-chasing fool. The brothers are afraid of him and afraid to admit that they dig him. Sonny is very right-wing. He hates Muslims and militants and grooves Richard Nixon and the Vietnam War. His two losses to Muhammad Ali, combined with his chemical intake, have stretched his brain cells thin. He is, however, funny, unlike Tiger Kab ko-kaptain Milt Chargin, who will go to any and all degraded lengths to make black people laugh and to appear cool. Tiger Kab is now trиs au kourant. The Krew is picaresque working on combustible. We are riding the black-nationalist Zeitgeist. The Panthers get the headlines while the BTA and MMLF make the scene with the fervor of Stork Club nobodies seeking out Walter Winchell. Please notice us: we’re black, we’re violent, we’re trying to score dope and we’re cool.

I vacillate and visit both the BTA and MMLF headquarters; I endure constant LAPD surveillance and three or four street rousts a week. My ex-LAPD status enrages southside bluesuits. They’ve taken to calling me “boy” and detaining me for twenty-minute spells while they run radio warrant checks. I always turn up clean; they always release me with jabs in the chest and parting epithets. I am quietly enraged and say nothing.

I can’t exercise the Bent. I’m afraid to, I’m speciously famous now, any assignation might result in a roust or a phone call to LAPD. I have to put my intimate urges on hold while I assess, while Mr. Holly and Wayne press me, while the BTA and MMLF brothers tap their black-booted feet impatiently and urge me to choose sides.

I have subtly pumped every southside acquaintance, fool and boon companion I know and spontaneously meet for information on the heist and have learned nothing. I see Scotty Bennett around the southside constantly. He always doffs his black-style-conscious porkpie hat and winks at me.

Scotty knows a great deal about the heist. I know that. He’s the brilliant lead detective with five years of knowledge stored. I strongly sense that he’s hoarding knowledge from the LAPD at large.

It’s as if Scotty is taunting me and pressing me as Mr. Holly and Wayne taunt me and press me with their powerfully masculine and obdurately circumscribed wills. I keep thinking of Mr. Holly with women and what it would look like, until the images begin to vex me and hurt. Wayne is guilt-tripping with a black woman and providing me with a similarly erotic picture show. He’s looking for the woman’s missing son, who bears a minor resemblance to the surviving robber from the heist. I don’t consider it a true lead; the robber’s face was badly burned and Reginald Hazzard was a mere nineteen then. It’s more like an affirmation of the dream-state aspect of my life now, with all the new figures weaving through and beckoning.

Benny Boles has been cruising me quite boldly; he’s as out as I am euphemized and will probably pounce if I go with the BTA. He’s a murderer and recognizably psychopathic, which may account for his confidence in his masculinity. I see Joan Klein at the clubs regularly. She quite consciously beckons. She’s a voraciously sensuous dancer, concurrently in and out of sync with her male and female partners. She glimpses me in the shadows, bestows eye contact and acknowledges me without ever losing the music’s beat. It’s as if she’s telling me things about myself that she’s gleaned from her dream state. I’ve found myself bringing fantasies of Joan and Mr. Holly to bed with me. They don’t know each other in the real world, but I know them both there and they’ve converged within my psyche.

And Jomo.

He’s certainly scum, but I have been charged to fraternize with and entrap scum, and I like him anyway. We’ve been spending time together at Tiger Kab, MMLF and the clubs; Jomo has gotten more at ease with me since his knife fight with Leander Jackson. He’s been talking up a significant roll that he’s accrued, and I’ve been very cautiously grinding him for details to give to Mr. Holly. I was at that task up to moments before the incident last night.

We had been on a grocery-store extortion run. It was connivance and implied threat: we wanted boxes of Cocoa Puffs for the children attending the MMLF’s Feed the Kiddies soirees. From there we went to an MMLF-sponsored bar-b-q and pamphlet giveaway at Foshay Junior High. Jomo was decorous with the kids. It was both ghastly and heartwarming, given the man’s nature. I’m sure his dope balance had something to do with it: he had been snorting coke/Seconal speedballs all day.

We left Foshay, drove toward Jomo’s pad and stopped at a liquor store on Florence Boulevard to buy cigarettes. Jomo staggered and bumped a potato-chip rack. The proprietor was black and took offense. He said, “Nigger, what’s wrong with you?”

Jomo vaulted the counter and pistol-whipped the man, as I froze and did nothing. Jomo then stole two bottles of J amp;B scotch and three cartons of Kool cigarettes.

I did nothing. Jomo kicked the man and shouted anti-BTA epithets. I’m sure the proprietor recognized me. I’m an ex-policeman, a celebrity brother and a notable southside cat-about-town.