“You may recall Officer Bowen from an encounter he had with me on October 1, 1968,” Sergeant Bennett said. “Officer Bowen’s actions resulted in his being fired from LAPD. In reality, the encounter and the subsequent firing were just a ruse to allow Officer Bowen to convincingly infiltrate the Black Tribe Alliance and Mau-Mau Liberation Front, two deadly black-nationalist groups intent on selling heroin to finance their subversive activities.”
Officer Bowen assumed the microphone. “Jackson, McCarver and Torrance had extensive criminal records and Communist ties,” he said. “I had been gathering evidence against them since my fake firing from LAPD a year and a half ago. The purpose of the barbecue was a ‘dope summit meeting’ and the culmination of my work as an FBI infiltrator. Regrettably, a verbal argument escalated into a gunfight. I ran in and attempted to lead the two children to safety, but stray bullets got to them first. At that point, I entered into gunfire with Jackson, McCarver and Torrance, as they were firing at one another.”
FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover praised Officer Bowen’s “brilliant work in throwing a monkey wrench into the activities of two Communist-aligned organizations.” Newly installed LAPD Chief Ed Davis announced that Officer Bowen will return to the Los Angeles Police Department as a sergeant and will receive the LAPD’s highest award: the Medal of Valor.
The Dominican Republic has been comparatively peaceful since the 1965 civil war, a brief military engagement that ended nearly five years ago. The U.S. Marines, satisfied at the quashing of potential Communist revolt on the island, had left. An interim leftist dictator had been deposed, and centrist-reformer Joaquin Balaguer has been in power since 1966. But for the past several weeks, dire rumors have resounded from within the “D.R.,” as it is popularly known.
None of the rumors have been factually substantiated, but they have been persistently similar, leading some American journalists to wonder if the events are connected.
There has been a rash of demonstrations by left-wing groups in Santo Domingo, most particularly the Castroite “6/14 Movement.” Government sources have said that this is not unusual; free speech is encouraged within the D.R. and thus the demonstrations are in no way anomalous. The sites of four hotel-casino buildings financed by U.S. interests were rumored to have been sabotaged two weeks ago, which government sources also denied. Add on the murder of an American man by members of an anti-Dominican voodoo sect and the discovery of the charred bodies of one French man with radical right-wing ties and four Cuban exiles allegedly backed by wealthy Americans in the Miami-based exile community, and you have the stuff of great conspiracy talk.
CIA Station Chief Terence Brundage told correspondents: “It’s just that. Talk, and nothing else. You’ve got a bunch of unrelated rumors and no more.”
This assessment was seconded by a spokesman for President Balaguer. “All poppycock,” he said. “The casino sites were not sabotaged. Structural flaws brought them down, and we are back in discussion with our American investment group, which is anxious to start rebuilding soon.”
JEH: Good morning, Dwight.
DH: Good morning, Sir.
JEH: You sound glum, while I am elated. I have not been in such a mood since 1919. You were there at the dock with me, Dwight. We waved bye-bye to a truculent Emma Goldman.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: Young Bowen soared in the end. And I do not condemn him for his “end run” with the LAPD and the outsized Sergeant Robert S. Bennett. Our sepia seducer wanted his job back, and who can blame him for that?
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: The BTA and MMLF have momentarily eclipsed the Panthers. The Bureau has gotten a million vats of good ink. Both groups are headed toward mass indictment. It is a vivid explication of Negro moral turpitude, replete with dead pickaninnies to tug at your heartstrings.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: You sound glum and screechily high-strung, Dwight. You should-
DH: I need to foist a bluff under your name and President Nixon’s, Sir. If it comes back to you, I’d very much appreciate it if you’d offer confirmation. And I will never ask you for another favor.
JEH: Glum and impertinent. A Dwight Chalfont Holly that I have never heard before.
DH: Yes, Sir.
JEH: I’m flying high, Dwight. My answer is resultantly yes. We put the BTA and MMLF down like foaming-mouth dogs. I’m telling it like it is.
DH: Thank you, Sir.
JEH: Good day, Dwight.
DH: Good day, Sir.
85
(New Orleans, 4/4/70)
U-turns and wrong turns. Mis-marked cul-de-sacs. The road map was ten years outdated.
Signs sent him down exits and back to cloverleafs. He dodged road debris and loafing hard hats. It was hot. Things looked florid. The world moved slow as he ran breathless.
Dwight cut down an access road. Finally-signs to the Town amp; Country.
He was full-fucked shot. He stayed alone with it. Karen was back east and Joan vanished. It was full-time overtime. He saw the crime-scene pix. They looked bogus. LAPD bought or went along with Marsh Bowen’s version. Dipshit sent him a note.
“Dwight-I saw Marsh with Scotty B., two nights before the shootings. They looked friendly. It surprised me, so I thought you should know.”
The road was potholed. Wetlands pressed up on both sides. Dwight pulled into a clearing. The motel was L-shaped and sandblasted pink. Three golf carts sat outside the office.
Dwight parked beside them. The office door was open. A golf ball dribbled out and rolled down the steps. It was a stop frame. It ran heat-sapped slow. Everything he saw looked scary.
He locked up the car and walked over. His suit wilted. He saw Santo, Sam and Carlos in golf duds.
The office was knotty pine. The Boys sat in beanbag chairs and poured liqueurs from cut-glass decanters. Carlos pointed to a chair and the door. Dwight complied. Santo slapped a wall unit and roused cold air.
Sam said, “Dwight’s too thin.”
Santo said, “This is not a man bearing glad tidings.”
Carlos said, “We’ve got good news. Let’s hope his bad news don’t intervene.”
Dwight sank into his chair. Air swooshed out of it. He felt weightless.
Santo sipped anisette. “Dwight H. at a loss for words. What’s this I’m seeing?”
Sam sipped Galliano. “He’s been eating crow. He’s lost weight on the all-crow diet.”
Carlos sipped XO. “He’s a man who’s suffered a loss. Wayne T. torched the building sites and robbed us blind for God knows what reason. He’s coming to grips with all the grief caused by that Mormon cocksucker.”
Dwight said, “I know you have plans. I only need a few minutes of your time.”
Santo sipped anisette. “You’re right in that regard. Time is a commodity we are currently short of.”
Sam sipped Galliano. “I’m writing a book about Wayne. It’s called Death of a Coon Hunter.”
Carlos sipped XO. “Some Reds fried Tiger Krew. I’m betting they went out shooting.”
Santo switched to Drambuie. “They were too zealous for my taste. Tell it like it is. They were right-wing nuts.”