Omissions. A paper dearth. He knew Scotty. They bullshitted at the wheelman lot. Scotty showed him reports on minor heists-always detail-packed. His reports on 2/24/64-slight by comparison.
He tried to pump Scotty. He came on suuuubtle, but Scotty did not reveal shit. He didn’t tell Scotty that he’d hot-wired Marsh Bowen. Scotty would slam Bowen at the proper time.
A ripe rumor rippled: Bowen snitched a spade named Jomo for some liquor-store jobs. Jomo offed himself in jail. Scotty told Crutch that he was spreading the rumor. Safe bet: Bowen’s queer ass was cooked.
Rotation.
The island was a Zombie Zone. L.A. was a safe zone. He dropped by the wheelman lot and brought beer and pizza. He went by his pad at the Vivian and his downtown file pad. He read his mother’s missing person file. It helped smother his nightmares.
His mother sent him five bucks and a Christmas card. This one was postmarked Kansas City. She split in 1955. She sent her first card that year. She sent a card for Christmas ‘69. It was 1970 now.
She was still alive. Like Celia and Joan. Like Dana Lund and all the Hancock Park girls in windows. His case was stalled. Scotty had to have more paperwork. Dana Lund had new gray hair. She wore the cashmere sweater he’d bought her at Christmas.
Dana’s gray streaks looked like Joan’s. It was all a fucking knife to the heart.
76
(Las Vegas, Los Angeles, the Dominican Republic, Haiti,
Dream State.
It was Bowen’s stated concept. It was his life now. It was unquantifiable. It reminded him of his early chemistry studies. Some experiments brought assured results. Many did not. He took greater risks and became more attuned to uncertainty. A world existed beyond his comprehension. The notion drove him and consoled him, then and now.
His herb trips clarified his dream state. They brought him an unforeseeable hope. They dulled his sense of risk more.
He flies to the D.R. and detours into Haiti. He hires Tonton thugs to protect him as he chemically dallies. He brings money for Celia and Joan. He tells Celia to deploy the money and spare him the details. She has pledged to leave the building sites alone. He has donated $1,649,000. The results are unquantifiable.
Dream State.
He liquidated his father’s estate and reimbursed Balaguer’s construction firm. That covered his first impromptu tithe. He became an embezzler then.
The Boys trusted him with quickly tallied and un-vouchered cash. They knew he loved power and gave little thought to financial remuneration. He skimmed skim off Drac’s hotels. He diverted payments from Teamster-book buyouts. He cooked the books at Tiger Kab and the southside clubs. He quick-wash-and-dried funds through the Peoples’ Bank. He delivered monthly stipends to Balaguer and near-equal funds to Celia.
He asked to speak to Joan. It pertained to a young man she knew at one time. Celia said, “Under no circumstances” and “Please don’t ask me again.” He refrained from further requests. He chased Joan and the ghost of Reginald Hazzard back to L.A.
Dwight refused to discuss Joan. Wayne submitted a Federal file request through a friend on LVPD. Joan’s file was missing from Central Records. The Bureau had no file on Joan’s colleague Karen Sifakis. Dwight pulled both files. He was sure of that. He ran a nationwide PD check on both women and got nothing. That second little click kept clicking him. He did anti-redaction work on Joan’s file. His memory clicked and stalled out there.
He scoured South L.A. He couldn’t find Joan. He built a partial Joan-Reginald time line. The Freedom School, ‘62. The jail bailout, ‘63. He scoured files in the D.R. Joan: tied to Celia Reyes and embroiled in Dominican revolt. Joan: one file photo. The 6/14 invasion and a younger woman with a fist raised.
Late ‘63: Reginald studies Haitian herbs and hard-Left politics. Joan’s a renegade professor. It’s a wild tutelage. The Haitian connection-jump then to now.
Joan is BTA-tight. The BTA “Armorer”: Haitian hellion Leander James Jackson. Brother Jackson had a knife fight with the late Jomo Clarkson. Wayne and Marsh Bowen provoked it. Jackson was allegedly ex-Tonton Macoute. Wayne tried to run a Tonton records check on him. The Tonton kept no written records.
More file checks, more dead ends.
No file on Leander James Jackson. No immigration files on men with those three initials. No Fed or muni-PD files extant.
Jackson: most likely unrelated to Reginald and Joan. He considered bracing Bowen on Jackson and decided against it. Bowen would probably double-deal confidential information.
Dream State.
He cruises southside L.A. He looks for people who aren’t there. He’s got Tiger Kab and the clubs as information hubs. Nobody knew Reginald then or knows Reginald now. He’s hand-checking LAPD and Sheriff’s station files. He’s looking for one name in millions of words.
I will find Reginald Hazzard just as I found Wendell Durfee. I will impart mercy as I once imparted death.
His dream state imposed clarity. It seamlessly bridged L.A. and the D.R. The hotel-casinos were going up. It was a controlled experiment with quantifiable results. He was tithing revolution at a consistently opposing rate. Ivar Smith was watchdogging Tiger Krew. The fucks were abstaining from Cuban runs and had scotched their dope biz. That was quantifiable. That controlled experiment worked. He visited Tiger Krew. He soaked up their hatred and fear. The RED borders of his U.S.-Caribbean junkets blurred.
The Boys loved him. He hated them and sucked up to them and bilked them. The Boys knew he was with a black woman. They kept quiet because they needed his skills. He spends time with them. He fraternizes with queer black militants. He’s riding his dreamscape through a Zeitgeist with an off-RED flag aswirl.
Marsh Bowen was full-time wired. Wayne checked the listening post every third day. Marsh and his pals talked revolutionary shit and never did shit to create revolution. They can’t score heroin. Half of them don’t want to score heroin. A few have tenuous moral qualms. Most just fear the fuzz. Chicago cops killed two Panthers in December. The Panthers shot it out with LAPD the same month. It was a non-fatal/let-off-steam/could-have-been-us moment. Whew! Heroin? Brother, I’m not sure.
It frustrated Dwight. It delighted Wayne. He smoked weed with Marsh once. They again discussed the dream-state concept. Marsh didn’t know he was wired. Marsh didn’t know that LAPD bagged his ass. They stood in the Tiger Kab lot. Wayne got this nutty idea: I’ll tell him I killed Martin Luther King and see how he takes it.
Dwight didn’t trust Marsh. Dwight was right-he’s a time-buyer and a favor-doer lost in compliant calculation. Marsh bailed Ezzard Donnell Jones out of lockup twice-77th Street and University stations. Marsh was afraid of MMLF reprisal and BTA whiplash. Marsh’s mindscape was all stasis and circumspection.
Dwight’s brainscape was all machination. He was losing weight. He was boozing to suppress his nerves and notch some sleep. Dwight said Mr. Hoover was reaming him for results. Wayne said, “How?” Dwight mimicked a junkie shooting up.
The pantomime was spooky. Wayne got chills. Dwight said, “Son, you cannot fuck with me on this.”