Dwight said, “Confess.” Jomo spat on the table. Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed louder. Perfect kidney shot.
Dwight said, “Confess.” Jomo retched for air. Scotty placed a sheet of paper on the table. Dwight skimmed it. The fourteen 211’s were listed.
Scotty said, “Look at the list and nod your head. We’ll consider it a confession.”
Jomo spat on the table. Jomo said, “Fuck you.”
Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed. Perfect kidney shot.
Dwight said, “He looked at the list. As his lawyer, I’m calling it a confession.”
Scotty bowed. “I agree. I’ll write it up later, and Mr. Clarkson can sign it when he’s capable of holding a pen.”
Jomo dripped bile. Blood was laced in. His head lolled. His cuffs cut deep. His eyes did funny things.
Scotty said, “I have a good deed in mind.”
Dwight said, “Tell me.”
Scotty fondled the hose chunk. “We could get BHPD a clearance on an old case of theirs. We could get you a clearance on that safe house and those guns.”
Dwight thought of Joan. “Forget the safe house. My people might get compromised. Let’s concentrate on the Hiltz job.”
“Hiltz job” tweaked Jomo. Say what? Whazzat? Don’t know no Hiltz job.
Scotty said, “Last September 14, two male Negroes pulled a string of residential robberies and in the process killed a wealthy hate pamphleteer named Dr. Fred Hiltz. I believe that you were Male Negro #1. I think you should confess to those crimes and reveal the identity of Male Negro #2. Mr. Holly, how would you advise your client?”
Dwight said, “Confess.”
Jomo spat blood on the table. Jomo said, “Fuck you.”
Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed. Perfect kidney shot.
Dwight said, “Confess.”
Scotty said, “Confess.”
Jomo spat blood on the table. Jomo gasped, “Fuck you.”
Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed.
Dwight said, “Confess.”
Scotty said, “Confess.”
Jomo spat blood on the table. Jomo sobbed, “Fuck you.”
Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed.
Dwight said, “Confess.”
Scotty said, “Confess.”
Jomo spat blood on the table. Tissue chunks were laced in. Jomo rolled his head upright and took a big breath.
“Okay, I did them jobs. Me and a nigger named Leotis Waddrell. Leotis ripped me off. Went to Vegas and blew our stash on coke and roulette. I snuffed him. He’s out in the desert. You let me cop to Homicide-Two, I give you the fucking body.”
Scotty said, “He confessed.”
Dwight said, “I’ll verify it.”
Scotty said, “I’ve got a few more questions.”
Dwight shook his head. “Get him an ambulance. He tried to escape and you nailed him. You can post-date the confession.”
Scotty shook his head. Scotty tickled Jomo’s chin with the hose chunk.
“February 24, ‘64. The armored-car heist on 84th and Budlong. I’m sure you’ve heard about it. Dead guards, dead robbers, a very large take in cash and emeralds. The lead robber killed his own men and burned their bodies past recognition. He got away, and I’m halfway convinced that a second man may have gotten away, as well. While I have you here, may I ask if you know anything about that?”
Dwight blinked. It didn’t track, it didn’t play, it didn’t pertain-
Jomo blinked. Blood dripped down his chin.
“Man, why you askin’ me this? That case is age-old stale bread.”
Scotty swung the hose chunk. Jomo screamed. Perfect kidney shot.
Dwight stood up. Jomo lolled his head on the table. Scotty grabbed his hair and jerked it. The tabletop was blood-smeared.
“Rumors, scuttlebutt, anything you might have heard. I asked a civil question and I expect a civil answer.”
Jomo pulled his head away. His Afro came loose. It was a paste-on wig. Scotty laughed and threw it on the floor.
“One last time. The events of February 24, 1964. Tell me what you know about-”
“Man, I don’t know shit! Rumors is rumors! Maybe it’s BTA before they was BTA, maybe it’s white guys! Man, I don’t fucking know!”,
Scotty stroked Jomo’s scalp with the hose chunk. Dwight said, “Enough.”
Scotty stuck the hose chunk in his waistband. Scotty said, “As you wish.”
“Call an ambulance. Get him to Morningside.”
Scotty winked. “Sure, Dwight. I’ll call an ambulance, and we’ll say good night now.”
Dwight walked to the door. His ring was gone. His feet were numb. He smelled bile and blood.
Scotty said, “I still owe Marsh Bowen one.”
Dwight got out the door and downstairs. His feet were gone. He hit the parking lot shaking. Joan was leaning against his car.
Dawn at the fascist cop shop. Black amp; whites parked all around her. The Red Goddess in a pea coat and scuffed boots.
“I’m as good as you are. Are you convinced now?”
Dwight said, “Yes.”
It was cold. Joan shivered and jammed her hands in her pockets.
“Word will spread. Marsh handed up Jomo. We certified Marsh and got Jomo off the street in one go. It’s why I let the MMLF store guns in a BTA safe house. The BTA and MMLF will take it from there.”
“You knew Marsh was my infiltrator.”
Joan nodded. “Off a fight with Scotty Bennett? It was so fucking bold that it had to be you.”
Dwight shivered. “ ‘Nobody dies.’ Remember?”
“There’s some guns that won’t hurt anyone.”
“It might not be that simple.”
“Which should not impede our actions.”
Two cops walked by. Dwight stepped toward Joan. He took her hands with his cop world in view.
“Why this? And why now?”
“We both have blood on our hands. Maybe I’ve got more than you.”
“What do you mean?”
Joan said, “There’s things I know about you.”
DOCUMENT INSERT: 4/21/69. Extract from the privately held journal of Karen Sifakis.
Los Angeles,
April 21,1969
The outside world infringes on the quiet home life I’ve tried to create for my children. The newspaper lands on my door every morning, and I can’t help but look. Then Dwight knocks on my door and tells me what the newspapers have omitted.
Two Panthers were charged with non-fatal assaults on two police officers in Brooklyn; legal actions against the Panthers are proceeding in a dozen cities. Dwight thinks the Panthers are self-destructing. They are riddled with FBI and municipal police informants, who are creating internal discord, which leads to intra-group violence, which gets large-scale publicity, which leads to large-scale public censure, which leads to more publicity-seeking violence. The Panthers, and occasionally US, get the headlines, while Dwight continues to hammer at the lowly BTA and MMLF, because he considers their antics to bode as a fully contained media event that he can orchestrate at whim. In that sense, he is the quintessential “Man with a Job,” and “the Job” appears to be getting to him.
The newspapers tell me that “black-militant firebrand” Jomo Kenyatta Clarkson, “who admitted to a daring series of liquor-store holdups,” committed suicide while in custody at the Los Angeles County Jail. The incident has sparked a revitalized hatred between the BTA and MMLF. I’ve heard street talk about this. It’s considered gospel: ex-policeman Marshall Bowen, now an avid BTA supporter, ratted off Clarkson for the robberies. I came to a realization belatedly: Bowen must be Dwight’s infiltrator.
Dwight has never named the man. He protects the identities of his cutouts, infiltrators and informants. He has done that with me, although Mr. Hoover, in his declining state, has spoken injudiciously about my relationship with Dwight. Mr. Hoover is a celibate homosexual prone to crushes on rugged and assertive men. My intimate accord with Dwight, suffused with conflicting ideology, must confuse and appall the old man no end.
The Clarkson matter weighs on Dwight. The machination-whatever went down with Clarkson and Bowen-had to have been at Dwight’s instigation, perhaps with Joan Klein’s involvement. I’ve seen Dwight twice recently. We made love, but he seemed to want the consolation more than the sex. He kept bringing up the topic of heroin and how leftist radicals view it as a political tool. I smelled Joan all over that construction.