“Shit,” he muttered, resisting having another belt, though he could rationalize the liquor would help him sleep. He lay and brooded. He got out of bed and, cotton robe and slippers on, went back in the living room, where he leafed through a stack of magazines. He was like a patient in the dentist’s waiting room, quietly dreading the root canal to come. He looked through Ebony, Time, Dapper and so on going back months. He’d kept the back issues, planning to read this or that article but usually never getting around to it. He came upon a piece in Los Angeles magazine about the state’s restrictive housing covenants and the ongoing discussion in the California legislature about the matter. There was a mention of the Association of Merchants and Industrialists and several of its members. Hoyt wasn’t mentioned but Ingram wrote those names down. He yawned. Eventually sleep came as Ma Rainey sang “Bo-Weavil Blues” from his bedroom radio.

  The following morning, he awoke early, groggy yet restless to be in motion and not anchored with a bunch of introspection. In his front room he turned on one of his police scanners. By the time his coffee was ready a call was coming over the airwaves that got his attention.

  “. . . unit 1-A, see the woman corner apartment second floor, Hoover and Fifty-third Street. Male, negro American burglary suspect. Description tweed pants, silk shirt, repeat . . .”

  Ingram got dressed quickly and was out the door with his camera. He arrived at the address shortly, but two prowl cars were already parked there. There was also a white reporter on the scene he knew slightly from the Herald Examiner, Mike Piedmont.

  “Harry,” the man said as he walked up. Piedmont had been talking to one of the uniforms. He was the sole policeman in view.

  “Mike,” he answered. “What’s going on and why is your paper interested in what us natives are doing down in the jungle?”

  Piedmont was a two-pack-a-day man and reeked of the Pall Malls he enjoyed. “Crime is everyone’s concern, Mr. Ingram.”

  “Uh-huh.” Ingram began walking toward the apartment building. From around the corner of a house two doors down came two officers with a Black man in handcuffs. The suspect was dressed as the dispatcher’s description had indicated. The officers were on either side of him, one of them holding him by the arm. There was a splotch of blood on the man’s silk shirt, which was partly untucked. As they got closer, Ingram saw the fresh bruises on his lumpy face. He sighted his camera and took several rapid clicks. In the doorway of the apartment house stood a middle-aged woman in a housecoat, her hair up in rollers and a handkerchief tied around that.

  “The cops do this to you?” Ingram said to him as they got closer.

  The captured man had a blank expression on his face, as if not quite aware of what was happening to him. The woman went back inside as he was marched past Ingram.

  Ingram was mildly surprised the cops didn’t tell him to buzz off or try to stop him from taking shots. They barely acknowledged his presence. Piedmont moved in to try to talk to the arresting officers and got nothing out of them except stony silence. The police loaded the prisoner into one of the cars and drove away, one by himself and the other two with their captive.

  “I’ll see you,” Piedmont said. He hurried away to his car, no doubt to drive over to Newton Division, which covered this area. Ingram had another idea. He went into the apartment building. From the vestibule he took the stairs to the second floor, where the apartments began. No response came from his knocking softly at the first door. He tried a second door.

  “Yeah,” a male voice said on the other side.

  “Sorry to disturb you,” he said. He went to a door on the opposite end of the building and knocked. This time he got a female voice in response.

  “Yes?” she said.

  He told her who he was. The door opened on the chain. She was the woman he’d seen downstairs.

  “You have identification, young man?”

  He handed her his press credentials through the opening and after she gave it the once-over, she handed it back. She undid the chain and opened the door more, but not so much he took it as an invitation to step inside.

  “Did you know the man the police arrested?”

  “Yes, he’s my stepson, I guess. That is, his father is dead a few years now. The only one he really listened to,” she said wearily.

  Recalling the stepson’s lost look, he said gently, “Is there something wrong with him?”

  “He needs help, the kind you get in a mental hospital, mister. He lives in a group home, but he’ll put on his dress clothes and come around here. He gets it in his head his father is going to drive up in a big Cadillac to take him . . . I don’t know where. If he would just come to see me, that would be fine. I could talk to him. But he’ll go to other people’s houses, even sometimes try to get in through their windows.” She sagged against the doorframe. “I saw him outside and called to him, only he ignored me. Somebody sicced police on him but Lord help me if they shot him.”

  “They beat him a piece.”

  “Yes. I’m sure they asked him who he was and Stevie being Stevie, he might have told him he wanted to see Captain Kangaroo, one of his favorite programs. He don’t have no driver’s license. I should have gone out there, but I suppose I wanted him to go away and not bother me. So tired of dealing with his mess,” she said in a small voice. Straightening up, she drew in a breath. “Let me get dressed and go on down there and bail that child out ’fore anything else happens to him.”

  “Sounds good,” Ingram said. He got her name before he left.

  Her door closed quietly and he walked down the stairs, going over how he would write the incident up. Normally he’d go with a shot of Stevie worked over by the cops and get the few particulars from the station house. He would contrast the dry facts he’d get from the cops with how the man looked, emphasizing the rough treatment of yet another negro in cuffs. And this time it was a man who lacked certain mental capacities. Maybe even get a longer piece out of it if he did it for the Eagle. Driving back home, though, he considered the angle should be on the woman. He wouldn’t ignore how the police had treated Stevie, but wasn’t it more about how for guys like the stepson, it shouldn’t be the cops handling this sort of situation? Of course cops weren’t social workers, he could hear them saying. They would claim he was resisting arrest, the old catchall to excuse the use of nightsticks.

  Damn Hanisha must have put a spell on him. Had him thinking about his work in a whole other way. Getting all up about people’s lives and wants and whatnot, rather than just take his pics and move on.

  He arrived at his place and brightened upon seeing Anita Claire sitting on his front steps. He pulled to the curb, putting the car in neutral. He leaned across the bench seat and rolled down the passenger-side window. She walked toward the car.

  “Hey, young lady, you want some candy?”

  “What kind you got?”

  He patted the seat. “Get in and find out.”

  She slid in beside him.

  He gave her a peck on the cheek. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “You had breakfast yet?”

  “No, I was out on a shoot.”

  “Then I’m buying.”

  “In that case, anything for you.”

  “We’ll see.” She looked straight ahead.

  Ingram put the car in gear and pulled away. For a change from his usual, he took her to Lovejoy’s Broiler on Vernon near Central Avenue. The couple got a table and sat opposite each other. They ordered coffee as they perused the menus.

  “Feeling kinda famished,” Ingram said.

  Claire fooled with her spoon.

  “I can wait, I got all morning.”

  “I need a favor.”

  “This a test?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Go ahead.”

  “You remember Judy from the party?”

  “Sure.”

  “She kind of grew up like I did. Her father wasn’t in the Communist Party, but he might as well have been, given who he associated with. He was a plumber who became an organizer for the Boilermakers union. Her mother was more of the stay-at-home type, but she got involved too, especially by the time Judy and her brother were teenagers.”

  “Her dad was in San Pedro with the ships?” Ingram said. He’d done a photo story about several equal rights organizations pushing to have more Black workers hired on the docks.

  “Yes, though in his case that meant talking to those men in the bars where they drank and socialized after their shifts. He was involved in quite a few strikes and work actions, as they called them.”

  The waitress came and they ordered. Claire continued once she was gone. “When I mentioned that business about the loyalty oaths, her parents went through that too. Fact we’d met at a summer camp for youngsters like us when we were kids.”

  “Indoctrinating y’all to be the beachhead of the revolution, huh?” His joke only made her look graver. He touched her hand. “I’ll keep my big mouth shut.”

  “A lot of these people were scared, Harry. Eisenhower had signed the Communist Control Act. At that time California had the most Party members outside of New York State and the largest number were in Los Angeles. Papers like the Mirror whipped up the fear, talking about housing areas as communist operating divisions. And not too many years before that the Rosenbergs had been sent to the electric chair at Sing Sing.”

  “I remember the day I heard the Rosenbergs were executed,” he said.

  “It was bad all over. People my folks knew had their jobs threatened and the authorities told them they could get their children taken away. The pressure was unrelenting. In that regard some turned their backs on their friends and what they believed in. Marriages broke apart. Others ratted out a good friend to a school board or what have you to save their own skins. Even the ones who stayed the course tried to hide their”—she searched for the words—“political persuasions. Secreting away what kind of books and pamphlets they had on their shelves in case the FBI came knocking.”

  “Your folks do this?”

  “They did,” she acknowledged. “I helped move boxes into garages and rented spaces all over town, and out of town too.”

  “And this gets us to Judy?”

  “That’s right. Her folks also participated in hiding their books. Mind you there were a few, and only a few, who kept records of what was put away where. One of them in particular is a man named Emil Freed, an electrical engineer by training. He was a main organizer of this effort.”

  “Didn’t want to see this stuff get thrown away.”

  “Right,” Claire said. “Obviously then these lists also had to be hidden away as they would be a propaganda coup if the authorities got ahold of one of them.” She spread her hands wide. “Have a big ol’ televised bonfire of book burning on Main Street.”

  “Yeah,” he said, agreeing, “the commie hunters would make a show of it.”

  Their food came and Claire went silent again. They each had a forkful of their breakfast. Claire then continued. “Okay, skip forward to now. While it isn’t the workers’ paradise long envisioned, there’s been a degree of loosening the vise.”

  “Meaning these books have been returned to their owners?”

  “In some cases. But a lot of the books at Freed’s urging have been donated to what will be a library, an archive of this kind of material. To keep this history alive, ’cause it’s not the kind that will be taught in our schools.”

  Ingram had more of his catfish and scrambled eggs.

  “About a month ago, Judy and me and her folks gathered up their boxes from where they’d been tucked away. We took them to their place to go through to determine what they wanted to give to the proposed archive.” She stopped to have another sip of her coffee. “One item in particular wasn’t in any of the boxes. A diary really.”

  Ingram said, “I’m guessing this diary contains sensitive information.”

  “Yeah, it’s her dad’s. The one her mom kept they have—several, actually.”

  “Sounds like his was misplaced.”

  “Maybe,” she allowed. “Both sets of diaries name names. Not in a malicious way, but people he knew and worked with. There are those who are or were in the Party or had other radical affiliations they want—rather, need—to keep such hush-hush.”

  “But if it was stolen, why not take the mom’s too?”

  Claire said, “The crazy thing is, Judy’s mom, Ester, never hid her diaries, despite being advised to do so at the time. She always said she would burn them before she’d let them be confiscated.” Claire added, “But if the information her dad has in his gets out, a lot of people would be . . . uncomfortable.” She leaned forward. “Like there are a few he knew who were tasked with burrowing from within.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “For instance, their job was to get hired at a factory and talk up the benefits of being in a union.”

  “That include sabotage?”

  “Not so anyone would get hurt. But yes, striking a blow for the workers against the bosses was sometimes called for.”

  He said, “After y’all went through the boxes, Judy’s folks looked for the diary other places too?”

  “Nobody was in a panic. They figured they must have put it elsewhere. Given to a friend out of state for safekeeping, like certain other items.”

  “But they checked around and they came up dry.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Aren’t you curious as to why I’m coming to you?”

  “You mean from among your many male friends?”

  “Yeah,” she said, “you figure since you’re a man, you can take command and help us silly women out.” For the first time, her mood lightened.

  “I was thinking that, but it sounds wrong when you say it out loud.”

  “I ought to reach across and slap you.”

  “Please.” He offered his chin. “What does Miss Judy do, by the way, for a living?”

  “Works at a tile factory in Huntington Park.”

  “Really?”

  “Operates a machine that cuts them down to size.”

  “Damn.”

  “Oh, you’re impressed by her, are you?”

  “Not at all like I am by you, baby.”

  “Good answer.”

  He grinned and ate more. “You asked me not for my manliness, which I find disappointing, but ’cause I’m with the press.”

  “There is that, and you being a stranger to these folks.” She seemed to have more to say but stopped and instead had more of her food.

  Ingram studied her. Taking his time, he eventually said, “You ain’t so slick.”

  “What, Harry?”

  “Are you working your wiles on me?”

  She batted her eyes theatrically. “Whatever do you mean, darling?”

  “You and old buddy Judy have come up with a few suspects and you want me to interview them like I was doing a story about bringing the books out of hiding. What with me having a press credential for legitimacy, not to mention I’m covering the rally for the Nation.”

  She crooked her head to the side, smiling.

  “But these are some white folks, isn’t it?”

  “Two are and the third is Black. And anyway, the white people are all about equal rights, they’ll go for a colored man interviewing them.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Claire. Playing on their good intentions.”

  “This is for a greater good, Mr. Ingram. Judy’s folks aren’t getting any younger, and they want to use their diaries to write a book about their times. A joint memoir. One missing diary isn’t that critical to them writing their book.”

  “It’s the fact that it’s missing.”

  “Right,” she said.

  “No blackmail note sent?”

  “Nope. And as far as we can tell, the diary remains tucked away. The G-men haven’t busted in the door of anybody the family knows lately.”

  “It could just be lost, Anita.”

  She shook her head. “He has an exact memory of which box he’d put it in. We checked all the boxes. Even a few still in the closet.”

  “When do you want to start doing this?” He liked that he was useful to her.

  “Let me talk to Judy first and we’ll get it set.” She held up her cup, signaling the waitress for more coffee.

  “Naturally I’m in. But you counted on that, didn’t you?”

  “You think me a tease?”

  “Of course not.”

  The waitress came with more coffee and filled Claire’s cup.

  Over the rest of their meal, they discussed the matter more and Claire gave him a list of names. Written out too was brief information on who these people were.

  “Freed isn’t on your list of suspects.” Ingram tapped the paper with his finger.

  “Judy’s dad, Jacob, insisted that he was above reproach.”

  “That’s not being thorough.”

  “Me and Judy argued that, but he wasn’t budging.”

  “Doesn’t mean we can’t talk to him.”

  “I don’t know, Harry. Her dad wouldn’t dig us going behind his back because I’m pretty sure Freed would call him if we did.”

  “Them being good friends shouldn’t be a blinder. Sometimes it’s the ones closest to you could be up to no good. Could also be Freed put the snatch on a few things like this diary. Figuring he knew best where to hide or even destroy this stuff ’cause as you said, it could do too much damage if Hoover’s boys got ahold of these accounts.”

  She crossed her arms. “And what do you suspect me of, Harry?”

  “Well, since you asked, you said this happened a month ago.” He stopped talking and had more of his food.

  She said pleasantly, “I see where you’re going, hotshot. Us meeting at the party and what if I was reeling you in all the time like a sucker.”