Jomo’s jiving with three male Negroes. They’re slurping peach liqueur and smoking Kool cigarettes. They just had their hair frizzed at Sister Simba’s shop.
Dwight was three stories up and directly across Central. The building was empty. He climbed the fire stairs and crouched behind a signboard. He held binoculars and a Poloroid pic.
The photo was Joan’s proof. He waylaid the pedophile gym teacher and did some sap work. Joan’s revenge or Joan’s deterrent. He didn’t care-it was the Joan Zone. Stray women were starting to look Joan-like. She was always Joan. She was never Confidential Informant #1189.
Dwight looked southbound. There’s Marsh Bowen on his mandated late-night stroll. Dwight looked northbound. There’s unit 4-Adam-29, slow-cruising.
Two white cops. Scotty Bennett idolaters. A C-note apiece.
On cue:
The cops sniff the Afro-pride strip. Jomo and the Jivehounds hide their jug. The cops cruise on. The jug reappears. Jomo and the Jigmeisters re-jungle-ize.
The cops see the lone male Negro. Shit, it’s Marsh Bowen. That’s a good roust.
The cops U-turn and pull over. The Afro-pride strip perks up. Party! Party! Let’s groove social outrage and hate up The Man!
Sister Simba’s empties out. Likewise the Scorpio Lounge. Jomo and the Junkyardogs electrify. Their Brillo-pad hairdos sizzle.
The cops exit their car. Marsh walks on by. One cop whistles, one cop yells, “Get back here.” The spectators start making pig sounds.
Dwight’s view was good. His soundtrack was bad. It was pig-snorted past comprehension.
Marsh walked back. Dwight saw the cops spread-search him and frisk him. He thought he heard “nigger” and “Scotty Bennett sends regards.” He heard overlapping oinks, snorts and bleats. The cops emptied out Marsh’s pockets. The cops goofed on his Afro comb. The spectators started chanting “Go, brother!” One cop shoved Marsh and jabbed at his chest. One cop yelled in his ear. The spectators cranked up their pig act. The verbal cop sprayed spit and goosed the volume. Dwight heard “nigger,” “traitor,” “nigger motherfucker” and “faggot.”
Marsh lost it. He headlocked the verbal cop and ran him into a streetlight. The spectators clapped and Go, brothered. The pig noise went hi-fi. The verbal cop spun Marsh around and flipped him up on the patrol car. The other cop pulled his baton and started banging his head and his kneecaps. Marsh took a BAAAAAAD BROTHER beating. Jomo and the Junglejivers saw the whole thing.
48
(Los Angeles, 10/28/68)
Two dozen cabs. All bumper-locked, in rows. All with the Big Boy logo: a dinge in a fez like that dictator dude Sukarno.
The dispatch hut was off-site. The lot was half a city block. An all-night guard patrolled the premises. He always drank his dinner at Sultan Sam’s Sandbox. Froggy slipped two yellowjackets into his last scotch. The guy was snoozing in a Dumpster behind Sultan Sam’s now.
Wayne and Froggy called the shots. Crutch did the shitwork and took orders.
Wayne molded the C-4 and placed it in the wheel wells. Froggy set up the detonator. Crutch rigged the cords cab-to-cab.
The setup took hours. They worked from midnight to 4:00 a.m. Crutch got cramps from squatting down and duck-walking. They all sweated bad and carried towels to get some dryness. The C-4 looked like Play-Doh and smelled like burned oil. The cords abraded your hands.
All done-4:11 a.m.
They walked out to the street and toweled off. Wayne looked grim, per always. The Frogman was smiling. Crutch felt prom-date swoony.
Wayne pushed the plunger. The fucking cabs exploded and jumped off the ground. The noise was immense. A dozen shades of red and pink erupted. Glass blew across the sky.
Ex-VEEP HOLDS LEAD IN KEY STATES
PRANKSTERS DISRUPT HUMPHREY RALLIES;
The victim himself called his palatial Beverly Hills home “the House That Hate Built,” so it’s no surprise to many that Dr. Fred T. Hiltz, 53, former dentist, former golf professional and alleged FBI informant, should come to a horrible end in that very place itself.
On September 14 of this year, Dr. Hiltz was shotgunned in his backyard bomb shelter, and the crime has remained unsolved. There are suspects: a robbery gang who held wealthy families hostage in Brentwood and Newport Beach. But some local journalists and many assassination buffs take issue with that. Dr. Hiltz was a well-known purveyor of viciously worded hate pamphlets that attacked Caucasians as well as racial minorities, was rumored to have a backyard hidey-hole stuffed with cash, had been married numerous times and allegedly indulged in scores of liaisons with provocative women. Beverly Hills Police Captain Mike Gustodas told reporters, “Dr. Hiltz had volatile relationships, was in a dirty business and cut our work out for us, that’s for sure.”
Yet, it’s the Los Angeles FBI Office that’s doing the bulk of the work on the Hiltz investigation, and that fact is what so intrigues certain journalists and conspiracy theorists. Captain Gustodas had no answer to address that issue; he simply stated that the FBI had usurped BHPD’s case for “national security reasons.”
John Leahy, Special-Agent-in-Charge of the FBI’s Los Angeles Office, told reporters, “Yes, it’s a politically sensitive case, and there is a national security aspect, albeit a minor one. I’m not at liberty to divulge the details just yet, but there will be a full recounting when and if this agency makes an arrest.”
An especially persistent rumor is that Dr. Hiltz was murdered by members of a black-militant group, as a political statement. SAC Leahy had no time for that theory. “I think it’s ridiculous,” he said. “No black-militant groups have claimed credit, and I also think that the danger of black militancy has been grossly overreported by the press.”
Meanwhile, the Hiltz investigation continues.
NIXON, HUMPHREY IN LAST BARNSTORMING EFFORT
Los Angeles,
November 4, 1968
Nixon’s going to win. Humphrey is saddled with the attenuated onslaught of LBJ’s war and the American people want a credible dialogue on the end of the war suffused with reactionary pap that will make them feel good about leaving (and, in fact, losing) the war, and Nixon is telling them exactly what they want to hear. Chicago was a disaster, not because it secured Nixon’s victory, but because it made the Left appear rancorous, petty, vicious, divisive and buffoonish. The sin of self-indulgence. I must take note of my self-indulgent tendencies, and I should begin by classifying them as misconduct and thus drawing a clear moral line to interdict their practice.
Dina has started asking me the inevitable bright-little-girl questions about Dwight and W.H.N. and my relationship to the two men. Of course, I cannot tell her that W.H.N. and I are politically compatible, but not comrades, and we have never had a fully passionate relationship, but are friends in certain shared ideals and the business of parenthood. W.H.N. knows about Dwight, but never mentions him; the prescient and too-worldly Dina never mentions Dwight to W.H.N. because she knows it would hurt him and because she understands that it might adversely affect my relationship with Dwight. Dina will become a compartmentalizer (as I am) and may/will inherit my penchant for dramatic and dubious men. Dina likes Dwight more than she likes her father, because he is fierce with the world, but very soft with her, because he carries a gun, because I am demonstrative with Dwight in a way that I am not with her father and it makes her feel properly loved as a child and thus feel safe. And-brilliant girl-she understands something that I just figured out: that Dwight and I truly are comrades.