Wayne and I have smoked dope a few times. We discussed the oddly different and oddly similar metaphysical states of our lives. It was in many ways the most beguiling interchange of my life.

Time has been bestowed on me. I am probably ghetto-safe because Scotty Bennett wants me ghetto-safe. The revised ghetto word is that I may be a police informant. This is Scotty’s protracted vengeance on me, I’m sure. The worrisome thing is that I see no vindictive punch line or conclusion in sight. Scotty greatly enhanced his ghetto-legend status late last year. In the process, he dealt a severe blow to black nationalism in Los Angeles and bought me more time on the score-heroin front. There were Panther-pig dustups in October and December. Both incidents received wide publicity. A full dozen Panthers have now disappeared, six per incident. Scotty fulfilled his promise of August ‘68. Reprisal, deterrent, vengeance enacted and time purchased for me. The upshot? More BTA bewilderment, fear and indecisiveness. The growing notion that smack is heat we don’t need. I’ve got the sense that MMLP is reacting similarly. And, nuggets of gold in with the dirt: more and more rank-and-file brothers think that dealing smack is wrong.

With gifts of time handed me, I stepped up my queries on the heist. I must have said, “Say, man, you remember that armored-car job back in ‘64?” a million times and received a million dumb-struck looks and bullshit answers. I have mentioned Reginald Hazzard and described his tenuous resemblance to the burned-face robber an equal number of times, with the same results. Then two things clicked, independently.

I was engaged in a routine phone-drop talk with Mr. Holly. He casually mentioned Scotty’s brutal grilling of Jomo Clarkson. Scotty asked Jomo a string of pointedly non sequitur questions pertaining to the heist. Mr. Holly found this confusing.

It sat with me for weeks. Aaah, Scotty-what do you know and what aren’t you telling us? Shortly after that, I bailed Ezzard Jones out of jail twice. The first time was a drunk-driving beef. I pulled Ezz out of 77th Street Station and took him out drinking from there. A week later, Ezz was popped for drunk-and-disorderly. I filled out paperwork in the University Station squad-room, was left alone briefly and took advantage of it.

I checked the Unsolved 211 file cabinet and found a routing sheet for the heist. I memorized the divisional record number, called LAPD R amp;I and impersonated a cop. The clerk consulted the master file and came back on the line. She said, “I’m sorry, Officer. No such DR number exists.”

And I knew then:

Scotty had a private file stash. He was pulling filed reports in from throughout the LAPD’s geographical divisions and was hoarding the information for himself.

I am certain of it. There can be no other explanation.

78

(Jarabacoa, 3/12/70)

Heavy rain stalled out work. The thirteenth-floor framing dragged. All four sites dipped behind schedule. A few slaves escaped.

La Banda reacted. They combed the crews and drew torture lots. “Hate-ins”: lashings and slaves screaming in the rain.

Crutch watched the latest. A monsoon just passed over. The ground was ankle-deep mud. The site was packed with sodden lumber and equipment. It was all miasma and muck.

The La Banda guy used a tassel whip. Little bulbs supplied extra pain. Crutch bopped behind voodoo herbs. It focused him and zoned the ugly shit out.

The slave was strapped to a bulldozer. His shrieks boomeranged. The lash-to-lash echoes overlapped.

The whip man was good. The tassels cut down to the rib bone. The slave crew watched. Crutch shut his eyes.

The slave collapsed. A La Banda guy bug-sprayed his wounds for added hurt and disinfection. The slave ate mud. It muffled his screams.

A horn honked. Crutch looked over. Froggy had a new ‘59 Cadiblack. It was de rigueur striped. Froggy called it “Tiger Kar.”

The Cubans were crammed in with Tommy guns. Canestel pointed north-Tiger Kove now.

Crutch got queasy. Tiger Kar ran rough roads on soft suspension. He was squished between Morales and Saldivar. His brainpan popped. He kept checking the rearview mirrors. He’d had this surveillance vibe. He couldn’t validate it. Hell hound on my trail.

They hit Tiger Kove at dusk. Tiger Klaw was gassed to go. The storm had passed over. Residual chop pushed them east. The north shore and the Mona Passage-one big whitecap. They made Point Higuero early. They smoked weed to kill time. The Puerto Rican spies trusted them now. Froggy called them their “Tiger Kompaсeros.”

Crutch heard onshore movement. The spies popped out of the brush. They lobbed the dope suitcase on board. Gomez-Sloan lobbed the cash suitcase at them. It was kwick and kompanionable.

The Krew unmoored the Klaw and sailed away, kove-bound. White-caps bucked them. Crutch launched a torpedo for kicks. It hit a shit-flecked atoll and exploded.

They moored and draped Tiger Klaw with camouflage netting. They took Tiger Kar back to Santo Domingo. Crutch dozed off his dope jolt. Mosquitoes buzzed into his mouth and woke him up periodic.

It was dawn. The Krew decamped at the El Embajador. Froggy told Crutch to hold the suitcase. The Tonton guys would shag it to Port-au-Prince tomorrow. Crutch yawned and elevatored up to his suite.

He opened the door. He re-caught the vibe. He smelled cigarette smoke. He saw a tip glowing.

The light snapped on. There’s Dwight Holly on the couch. There’s some shit on the coffee table.

A paint can and a paintbrush. A syringe and a morphine Syrette.

Crutch shut the door and dropped the suitcase. Dwight pulled out a pocketknife.

“How much are you holding?”

“Three pounds.”

“That’ll do.”

His mouth dried up. His bladder swelled. The walls loop-de-looped.

Dwight said, “Take your shirt off.”

“Man, you can’t-”

“I’m not saying it again. You’re taking your shirt off, I’m taking the suitcase. I won’t stop you from running out the door. I’ll call Wayne and rat out your dope business the moment you do.”

Crutch pulled his shirt off. His sphincter almost blew. Dwight opened the paint can and dipped in the brush. The paint was bright red.

He walked the walls and pulled off the artwork. He painted “6/14” above the couch. He re-dipped his brush. He painted “6/14!!!!” above the wet bar. He re-dipped his brush. He painted “Death to Yanqui Dope Peddlers” beside the door.

Crutch prayed and tried not to cry. Dwight popped the Syrette and plungered the syringe. Crutch held his arm out. Dwight clamped his biceps and brought up a vein.

Crutch squeezed his Saint Chris medal. It snapped off his neck. Dwight poked the vein and geezed him up.

He went loosey-goosey. His bladder blew. He didn’t care. His eyes rolled back.

Dwight flicked his lighter and warmed up his knife. Crutch braced his hands on the door. Dwight carved “6/14” on his back.