Dwight fretted his law-school ring. It dropped off and fell in his lap.

“Keep going.”

“Jomo’s been talking up a roll he’s got. He’s a heist man and an anti-white-tract writer. Fred Hiltz, remember? The hate-tract king gets offed, and BHPD tags it ‘unknown black suspects.’ ”

Dwight got up and ran. Wayne grabbed his ring off the floor.

71

(Beverly Hills, 4/14/69)

BHPD let him read the file. Hoover’s pet thug at 4:00 a.m.? The watch commander complied.

Dwight sat in the muster room. The file was abbreviated. Mr. Hoover short-shifted the case. Jack Leahy had shitcanned it, per his dictate.

One folder, nine pages, a four-page lead sheet. Numerous male Negroes listed. Mostly rat-outs by police informants and pissed-off loved ones. A general tally of male Negro heist men. No Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson, no black-militant fucks et al.

Dwight read the crime-scene report and autopsy protocol. Eyewits reported two masked Negroes. Cause of death: massive shotgun wounds. Also listed: four.38-caliber slugs lodged in the head.

Hold it-

The protocol included bullet pix. The lab tech said all four shots blew from one gun. Soft-points, six lands, eight grooves, semi-flat projectiles.

Hold it right-

Joan fired safe-house rounds into baffling. He told her to. Spent shells-right there in his briefcase.

Dwight popped it open. The bullet pile was plastic-wrapped. He found one dented.38. He grabbed the photos and ran down the hall to the crime lab.

The door was open. Nobody was there. Candy-ass PDs were like that. Dwight looked around. By the back wall: a ballistics microscope.

He walked over and put his shell in the holder. He laid the photos on the counter. He tweaked the dial and squinted. He got in close. He got a six-land, eight-groove spread and a near-identical flathead. He checked the photos. The same gun fired both bullets, dead cert.

He heard sirens outside. He heard a radio call one room over: Code 3, all K-cars, Altad-

Mob scene:

The L.A. Sheriff’s, BHPD, twenty black amp; white and plainclothes units. Bluesuits hauling out blanket-wrapped guns.

Dwight pulled up to the barricades. The street was arc-lit pink-white. Squares milled around in their pj’s. Cops poured in and out of the target pad. Safe house, no shit.

The barricade guard walked up. He was a Sheriff’s geek with post-teenage acne. Dwight stepped out of the car and badged him.

“Come on, give.”

“Uh… sir?”

“Tell me what we’ve got here.”

The geek snapped to. “Well, we got a tip on a gun stash and that homicide of that hate guy last year. It’s BHPD’s case, so we called-”

“Jomo Clarkson. Where is he?”

The geek stepped back. “Well, LAPD shagged him out from under us. This Robbery bull showed up with a peremptory warrant. He took the guy to 77th Street Station.”

Dwight got light-headed. “Is there anyone else in custody? A white woman? Did LAPD pop a woman with the black guy?”

“No, sir. This detective just hustled the colored man off real quick. We’ve sure got the guns, but I don’t know anything about a woman.”

Dwight got in his car and burned tread in reverse. He banged the curb off a U-turn and looped side streets to the Pasadena Freeway. He attached his gumball light and hit 120. The run downtown took six minutes. The Harbor Freeway got him to the Congo. The station was a quick jump off the exit.

He parked in the patrol lot and pinned his badge to his coat. He walked past the front desk. The duty sergeant was snoozing. He heard inebriated jigs howling back in the jail.

The squadroom was upstairs. Dwight jumped the steps three at a time. The bullpen was wall-to-wall desks and walk spaces. The morning-watch cops read teletypes and hunt-and-peck typed. They looked bored. One guy waved. Dwight cut down a bisecting hallway. Sweat rooms lined the right wall.

There’s Scotty.

He’s eating an apple. He’s wearing a brown suit and a plaid bow tie. He’s looking in a double-front window.

Dwight walked over. Scotty winked. Dwight looked in the window. There’s Jomo, cuffed to a chair.

Scotty said, “Don’t tell me. Mr. Hoover wants the Hiltz thing chilled.”

“Why tell you? It wouldn’t do me any good.”

Scotty laughed. “Would you like to watch?”

“Yes. Will you give me a concession first?”

“Yes.”

Dwight pulled out his cigarettes. Scotty took two and lit them both up.

“What happened? Tell me why we’re standing here.”

Scotty tossed the apple in a trash can. “Your boy Marsh called me and snitched Jomo for some liquor-store 211’s. I grabbed him before BHPD could glom him for the Hiltz job, which I think he’s good for. Funny thing, though. I talked to Marsh on the phone, and it sure didn’t sound like him. More-fucking-over, it sounded like a woman was whispering in the guy’s ear and telling him what to say.”

Dwight touched his ring. It was gone. Scotty stubbed his cigarette out on the wall. Jomo spat at the mirror space. The glob hit a bolted-down table. Jomo squirmed in his bolted-down chair.

Scotty opened the door. Dwight followed him in. They pulled chairs up and loomed over Jomo. The fucker was floor-bolted and chair-cuffed in tight.

“I want to talk to a lawyer. Get me one of them frizzy-haired Jewish guys that work for the Panthers.”

Scotty said, “Mr. Holly’s a lawyer. He’ll advise you of your rights.”

Dwight said, “You have the right to confess and avoid physical punishment. You have the right to tell Sergeant Bennett exactly what he wants to know. I’ll require prompt answers to my questions, as well. If you cooperate, we’ll give you a pack of cigarettes and a candy bar. If you resist, we’ll kick the shit out of you and dump you in the queen’s tank.”

“This is fucking humbug shit! I know the law! Miranda-Escobedo passed in 1962!”

Scotty said, “Miranda-Escobedo doesn’t apply here. This is a kangaroo court, and you’re the kangaroo.”

Jomo spat on the table. Scotty pulled a rubber-hose chunk from his waistband. It was ten inches long and friction tape-gripped.

“Over the past seven months fourteen liquor stores have been robbed in southside Los Angeles. You match the general description of the suspect. A confidential police informant called me today. He gave you up for the crimes, and I found him credible. I would advise you to confess. If you require legal counsel, you may address your attorney.”

Dwight said, “Confess.”

Jomo said, “Marsh Bowen snitched me. First, he whups me, then he snitches me. You see the stitches on my head? That ex-pig motherfucker did that. You think I’m not gonna get no get-back when I get out of here?”

Scotty flexed the hose chunk. “Son, I would love to see that happen. Marsh put some hurt on me as well, and I would love to see him get his comeuppance.”

Jomo squirmed. His cuff chain rattled. The cuffs were tight-ratcheted. His wrists bled.

“Marsh snitched me, right?”

Scotty said, “That’s correct.”

“So let me out of here. Give me a skate on them chump-change 211’s and I’ll get us both some get-back.”

Dwight said, “Confess first. We’ll get you a day pass to get your shit in order. I’ve got a Jew lawyer buddy. He’ll plead you out. You’ll do a year at the honor farm, tops.”

Jomo spat on the table. “Fuck your mother. You a fascist cockroach and a minion of the pig power structure. Your mama sucked my big black dick.”

Scotty winked at Dwight. Scotty circled the table and stood behind Jomo. Scotty stroked Jomo’s Afro with the hose chunk.

“Confess, son. It’s in your best interest to do so.”

Jomo said, “Fuck you.”

Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed. Perfect kidney shot.