The legs snapped. The console shattered. Call plugs dropped to the floor. Marsh swung tight. He caught Jomo’s back, he caught Jomo’s legs, he grazed Jomo’s head and carved half an ear off. Jomo stumbled and hit the console. Marsh uppercut him. He aimed crotch-high and jammed a chair leg into his balls.

Jomo screamed. Marsh ran outside and screamed in the rain. It sounded like one word repeated. Wayne jammed up a window to hear.

It was BTA! BTA! BTA! Marsh jabbed the chair in the air and kept shouting it. People poured out of storefronts. Some people cheered.

He went trolling. It was trolling with intent. It pertained to that recurring click.

He’d argued with Mary Beth. She told him about the “Freedom School.” He went there and saw the faculty photo. The woman with the gray-streaked hair. The click he couldn’t place. The semi-click back to that pub crawl.

Three months ago. The first Tiger Kab bash. The back view of a woman with that same hair.

His mindscape in Haiti. The herbs and her shape-shifting picture.

Wayne cruised the southside. His phone fight with Mary Beth echoed. She pressed him on his trip. He lied-the D.R. and Haiti aren’t that bad. My investors will boost the economy. Balaguer isn’t Trujillo. Please believe that things will improve. Mary Beth scoffed. I know better, babe.

Wayne turned down Central Avenue. The clubs were zooming. He saw that woman at Sultan Sam’s Sandbox. She might be there now. It was a slim-chance long shot.

He’d spent three days in Haiti. He dope-tripped non-stop. He kaliedoscoped his whole life. Faces grew out of trees and stream water. The herbs burned through his system. It was a zombie state. He had to sit still and listen. He didn’t have the will to create thought or run. He fell asleep after a million hours tripping. The real world returned to him, changed.

Wayne cut east on Slauson. He saw dope buys outside a gumbo stand. Tiger Krew wanted to push heroin. He quashed it. They wouldn’t betray him. They feared his clout with the Boys. The Krew would probably make Cuban runs. Cuba: the nut Right’s idйe fixe.

Some BTA poseurs walked by. They wore cossack hats and slim-cut black suits. Marsh delivered. He was Mister BTA now.

A crowd stood outside Sultan Sam’s. Wayne double-parked and walked to the head of the line. The bouncers called him “boss.” The Boys owned the place now. The black people behind the rope cold-eyed him.

He opened the door and looked inside. Everybody was black. No white woman with gray-streaked hair.

He drove to Rae’s Rugburn Room and played big white bwana. He got more cold eyes and heard some pig noise. She wasn’t there. He hit the Snooty Fox, Nat’s Nest and the Klover Klub. The pig noise escalated throughout.

Cherchez la femme. La femme n ‘est pas lа.

Wayne drove to Mr. Mitch’s. He didn’t own the place. He greased two bouncers for a VIP entry. A black man flamboyantly oinked him.

The interior was cave-dark. The hostess seated patrons with a flashlight. She walked Wayne to a table. He saw Sonny ensconced with Junior Jefferson. Two booths up: Ezzard Donnell Jones and the woman.

Wayne joined Sonny and Junior. They were bombed on Mr. Mitch’s jet fuel. The bottle radiated.

Sonny said, “Jomo’s gonna be carrying his balls around in a wheelbarrow.”

Junior snarfed lychee nuts. “Marsh be best advised to keep himself scarce the next few days.”

Sonny sipped brew. “You too fat and Wayne too skinny. Every time you reach for a moon pie, hand one to him.”

The woman smoked. The woman tossed her hair. The woman swayed to a canned-music beat.

Wayne pointed over. “Who is she?”

Sonny said, “She hangs out with the BTA and she dances up a storm. I don’t like them glasses, though.”

Junior said, “I think her name is Joan.”

Wayne watched Joan. Sonny and Junior ignored him. He built himself a head space. The club went quiet. Wayne synced the music to her movements. He thought he tasted voodoo herbs and klerin booze. Sensory wisps-a flashback for sure.

Joan cleaned her glasses on her shirttail. Her eyes went soft without them. A shiv extended out from one boot.

She slouched a little. Her movements were fluid. She blew artful smoke rings.

The music tone shifted. Joan stopped swaying. She put money on the table, got up and split.

Wayne got up. Darkness covered him. He followed Joan out to the rear parking lot. She got into a ‘59 Chevy. The plates were mud-streaked. She was a tail-savvy pro.

She pulled out and hit Manchester westbound. Wayne shagged his rental car and idled forty yards back. Joan drove middle-lane slow. She deployed her signal lights and played good citizen. She turned onto the Harbor Freeway northbound. Wayne zoomed up and dawdled back.

It was late. Traffic was scarce. Wayne leapfrogged to look innocuous. They passed through downtown and Chinatown. The Pasadena Freeway ran them north. Joan cut onto the Golden State westbound. Wayne caught up and fell back. Joan bombed through Atwater and skirted the Glendale off-ramps. She veered right and hit an Eagle Rock exit. Wayne laid back and watched her taillights. She stopped outside a bungalow court on a hill.

Wayne stayed put. Joan parked the Chevy at the curb and unlocked the Dodge next to it. The lights went on. She U-turned and headed straight at him. He saw her face in the windshield. The front plate was mud-smeared.

Her turn signal flashed. She cut east on Colorado Boulevard. Wayne lagged slow, caught up and fell back. They drove through Pasadena. Joan turned north on Lake Avenue. Pasadena bled into Altadena. They ran up toward the San Gabriel Hills. Wayne let two cars buffer-zone them. He stuck his head out the window and fixed on Joan’s taillights.

She turned left on a side street. Wayne floored it, turned and braked back. Joan parked and walked up to a small shingle house. Someone opened the door and let her in. The Eagle Rock location vibed safe house. Ditto this pad.

Wayne parked and ran over. The house lights were on. He squatted and ducked around to the driveway. He caught shadows inside. The window shades were half up. He stood and looked in.

A small living room. Stacks of rifles and handguns piled on furniture. Blankets draped over them.

Carbines, M14’s, scope-mounted Rugers. Automatics and revolvers in a box.

Jomo Clarkson walked in. His head was sutured and gauzed. Joan followed him. They talked soundless. He looked agitated. She looked calm. The closed window killed audio.

Joan took off her coat. Wayne saw the knife scar on her right arm.

CLICK:

That file Dwight sent him. No picture attached. He burned through redacted type. He found one KA name and told Dwight. He shredded the file. He couldn’t recall the KA name. The CLICK felt solid and INCOMPLETE.

Joan and Jomo talked. Wayne pressed up to the window. He caught audio hum, no words formed, he couldn’t read lips.

He saw a gas station down the block. He ran for the phone booth-

Dwight sipped coffee. “The late-night call-out. I’m starting to get used to it.”

Canter’s Deli on Fairfax. The 3:00 a.m. clientele: cops and ultra-soiled hippies.

Wayne said, “Who’s Joan?”

Dwight raised his hands-beats me-disingenuous, unconvincing.

“Is she Joan Rosen Klein? I treated the redactions on her file last year, but I never saw her picture.”

Dwight reprised beats me. Wayne slapped the table. Their coffee sloshed and spilled.

“Tell me about her.”

Dwight shook his head. Wayne slapped the table. The bread basket flew.

“She’s got a knife scar on her right arm.”

Dwight fucking smiled. Wayne balled his fists. Dwight touched his hands-son, don’t do this.

“I saw her with Jomo Clarkson. 1864 Avondale in Altadena. It’s a safe house. There’s a fuckload of guns.”