Mr. Holly is a very difficult man to decipher. He understands racial bias and says “jungle bunny” routinely.
I was invited to a fund-raising party for Senator Hubert H. Humphrey at a big home in Beverly Hills. Mr. Holly told me to go, so I did. I was quite the center of attention, until some movie stars arrived and eclipsed me. Natalie Wood made a fuss over my facial wounds and slipped me her phone number; Harry Belafonte shook my hand; numerous liberals boo-hooed the recent passing of Senator Kennedy and Dr. King. People looked to me for expressions of political outrage. I had none to give them, because I now require Mr. Holly’s script-writing services in order to sound properly enraged. I will soon be a wonderfully apostatized black-militant convert, because a Klansman’s son will fuel my anger with his radical perceptions, leaving me to wonder at their origins and marvel at the man himself all over again.
Mr. Holly gave me $8,000 in cold FBI funds and told me to move farther south into the “Congo.” I should start frequenting the “jig joints” where my “soul brothers” congregate, to see what kind of “shine action” I draw.
Mr. Holly calls me a “shit magnet,” and I think he’s rather suspicious of me. I’d like to indulge “the Bent” right now, but I can’t. Mr. Holly might be having me spot-tailed. I have to keep my personal pleasures on hold until I feel more secure in my role.
I have an entirely new life now. My mother is dead; my father is elderly and living in Chicago. I have no real friends and my relationship with Mr. Holly is mutually usurious. I now have a dauntless and implacable enemy in Scotty Bennett. I’m sure that I know more about Scotty than Scotty knows about me. I have read the sanitized official reports on the eighteen armed robbers Scotty has killed in the line of duty. They were all black men. They were all summarily executed, per the unspoken LAPD mandate that armed robbers must die. The policeman in me condones this sanction; there is a large body of empirical data that states that most armed robbers take innocent lives and must be preemptively interdicted. It is the ghoulishly cherry-picked “male Negro” armed robbers that makes Scotty so unique. Other hard-charging Robbery cops have a middling “equal-opportunity” mйlange of white and Mexican kills. Not our Scotty. Oh no.
Last August 5, two University Division officers shot it out with four Black Panthers. The officers survived, but the Panthers did not. Two days later, Chief Reddin sent Scotty down to the Panther headquarters with pizza, beer and a pound of confiscated marijuana. Scotty was, by all accounts, courtly. The Panthers welcomed him with apprehension and seemed befuddled by his gifts. Scotty advised them not to shoot at Los Angeles policemen again. Should they do so, reprisals would be instantaneous and brutal. For every L.A. cop shot at, wounded or killed, LAPD would kill six Black Panthers.
Scotty walked out then. He did not take questions or linger for a slice of pizza and an ice-cold brew.
My admiration and hatred of Scotty Bennett run roughly equal. He was there on February 24, 1964. He has no idea that I was there, too.
I was nineteen. I had graduated Dorsey High School two years earlier and was living with my parents at 84th and Budlong. The sky was the first thing I saw. There were weird prisms of color and a gas stench in the air. I stood on the roof of my house and saw streams of police cars approaching. The siren noise was near deafening. I saw a crashed-up armored car and a milk truck and dark shapes emitting fumes on the ground. I saw a very tall man in a tweed suit and bow tie drive up and survey the scene.
My father made me abandon my perch. Three dozen policemen roped off the street. Rumors soon flooded the neighborhood: the dead robbers were white; the dead robbers were black; the bodies were scorched past recognition and were racially unidentifiable. The absence of the robbers’ vehicle meant that at least one man got away.
Two men got away. I know this as fact. Scotty Bennett may know it, as well. I cannot prove Scotty’s knowledge. I simply sense it.
LAPD was out in brutal force. Scotty was running viciously indiscriminate roundups of local “suspects” at 77th Street Station. The local citizenry was outraged. I was outraged. I went roaming the alleyways behind my house, a kid looking for adventure, coveting my proximity to history. That is when I saw the second man.
He was hiding behind a row of trash cans. He was young, in his teens or early twenties, and he was black. His face was chemically scalded, but extra precautionary gauzing, a mouthpiece and a bulletproof vest had saved his life. I took the man to an elderly doctor neighbor; he was in shock and refused to discuss the robbery-killings at all. The doctor treated the man’s burns, fed him morphine and let him rest. Scotty continued to steamroll his investigation. Detained and released “suspects” came home bruised and pissing blood. The doctor decided not to turn the wounded man over. He had saved the man’s life and could not now condone physical abuse that might well result in his death.
The man left the doctor’s house after two days of care and never divulged his identity. He left the doctor with $80,000 in ink-stained cash. The doctor deposited it in the Peoples’ Bank of South Los Angeles and told the manager, Lionel Thornton, to leak it back to the community in charity donations, if it could be done safely, with no harm to the recipients. Thornton somehow found a way to partially obscure the ink markings; the bills surfaced sporadically in southside Los Angeles. Scotty Bennett tracked that money assiduously. He detained and leaned on the innocent people passing the bills in his unique and uniquely persistent manner. The case remained unsolved. The racial identity of the heist gang’s leader and the other dead heist men has never been determined. Scotty had become obsessed with the case, and so had I.
The doctor died in ‘65. The ink-stained bills continued to circulate through southside L.A. I maneuvered my way into a menial job at the Peoples’ Bank, learned nothing substantive and quit. Scotty Bennett fascinated me. I wanted to test my courage by going up against him and to see if he would reveal information within the brutal context of a back-room interrogation. I had pilfered a stack of ink-stained twenties from the bank and began passing them. Scotty found me, toot sweet.
The room was ten by ten feet and walled with soundproof baffling to keep screams at a dull roar. I protested my innocence. Scotty was genial when he wasn’t beating me. He deployed a phone book and a rubber hose; he loosened my teeth and decimated my kidneys. I stoically asserted my innocence. Scotty revealed no inside knowledge of the case. I refused to scream. After two hours, I got my pro forma phone call. I called a friend; the friend called his friend Clyde Duber; Clyde made some calls of his own and got me out.
Clyde liked me. Clyde had his own fixation on “the Case.” It’s a hobby for him, no more. It’s a consuming quest for Scotty and me.
I entered Clyde’s kid-private-eye world and began infiltrating left-wing groups for his rich and richly paranoiac right-wing clients. I became a fine actor, prevaricator, dissembler, spy and snitch. I learned how to improvise, extrapolate and work off of Clyde’s rough scripts. I have never had a role as demanding as the one Dwight Holly has prepared for me, and I have never had a scriptwriter as brilliant as Mr. Holly.