“Yeah, the Tellis Group is backing that middleweight kid Aguirre from Lincoln Heights.”

  “That’s that grocery store guy, Stockworth?” his companion said, a tall man in short sleeves.

  “Him and a few other businessmen, including a guy who owns a couple of strip clubs.”

  Both snickered. Ingram walked over to them. “You said Stockworth, that would be Howard Stockworth?”

  “Uh-huh,” said the man who’d mentioned the boxer. “You figuring to get a piece of the action?”

  “You never know.”

  “Sure,” the other one said, blowing a stream of smoke toward the sky.

  Howard Stockworth was one of the names Ingram had written down from the Los Angeles magazine article about the Association of Merchants and Industrialists. Hoyt liked the ponies and apparently this grocery chain man liked the sweet science. There was some sort of symbolism there, he considered. He turned away and was pleasantly surprised to see a hot dog vendor had set up outside the gate with his cart, steam rising from it. He walked over and ordered two chili dogs, extra onions.

  Post lunch, Ingram drove over to see Shoals Pettigrew at Shop Rite Hardware. It occurred to him his friend interacted with a cross section of people coming through his door. Everybody had to take a trip to the hardware store at some point, didn’t they?

  When he walked in, Pettigrew was selling a woman two cans of paint and assorted items. She was in a pinafore dress, turtleneck and ragged tennis shoes. She was noticeably pregnant.

  “Be right with you, Harry,” he said.

  “Take your time.”

  Pettigrew carried the items out of the store for the woman and loaded them in her car. He returned. “What can I do you for today?”

  “Ever get any Black Muslims in here?”

  “You looking to do a story on them?” He stood in front of the counter where the morning mail was stacked. A letter from Pettigrew’s bank on top.

  “Need to find one of the true believers here in town.”

  “Shit, you trying to get your head caved in? You gonna lay a notice on him getting a paternity suit by some chick? Man.” He shook his head in disbelief.

  Ingram told Pettigrew what it was about.

  “Oh, well,” he said, moving back behind the counter, “that’s different. A time or two a couple of gents in blue suits and bow ties have been in. Mostly getting rat traps or drain cleaner, stuff like that. You can’t forget ’em ’cause they always say that greeting, a salaam . . . however the hell it goes,” he said dismissively. Pettigrew was an active member of his Methodist church.

  “Is there a mosque around here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “There’s a dry cleaners a few blocks over them fellas run.”

  Ingram turned to see the retired janitor who hung out here emerge from one of the aisles. He was dressed as usual, holding a box of nails.

  “Where?”

  He pointed east. “On Main, can’t recall the exact block but not far from the Boys market.”

  “I appreciate that,” Ingram said.

  “My pleasure.” The older man put the nails on the counter.

  “Catch you later, Shoals.”

  “Not if I see you first.”

  Ingram checked the address for the Boys supermarket at a pay phone with a White Pages chained to it. He then drove to the address. Using that as his starting point, he went south then north and soon spotted the business he was looking for. A large sign over the front door announced shabazz dry cleaners no. 2. He parked and walked into the establishment. At the counter was a man in a dress white shirt, buttoned at the wrists and wearing a tie, steam-pressing a pair of pants in a work area behind the front counter. Despite the heat and steam rising around him, he wasn’t sweating. A man dressed similarly was also behind the counter. His glasses were ovals over a keen set of eyes.

  “What can I do for you today, brother?”

  “I’m looking for a man who used to be named William Jones.”

  “None of us go by our slave names anymore thanks to the Honorable Elijah Muhammad.”

  “Yes, sir, I’m aware of that. I’m representing a lawyer.”

  “A white lawyer?” he asked without rancor.

  “Yes. But it’s not trouble. It’s for a good reason.”

  “From a devil lawyer?”

  From his inside jacket pocket he removed the folded-over photostat he’d had made. This was part of the letter referring to the disposition of the will. Purposefully it did not include the name of the attorney nor his location. No sense cutting out his fee as middleman if he could help it. He laid the photostat down on the counter, facing the man so he could scan it.

  “As you can see, this is the second page from a two-page letter from the lawyer. There’s to be the reading of a will and Mr. Jones—the former Mr. Jones—is requested to be present.” He tapped his finger on the date. “It’s taking place next week.”

  “Where?”

  “I can tell that to the man in question. I can say it’s in Georgia.”

  “There’s a lot of Williamses from Georgia in the Nation, brother. Even out here in the land of plenty,” he said, sans irony.

  There had been physical characteristics listed for Jones in the other paperwork Ingram had been given. “I do know the man in question is about six-one and missing a piece of his earlobe.” He tugged on his left ear. He had no idea how this had come about.

  The counterman’s expression didn’t change but he picked up the photostat and read it carefully. “Is there money or land involved?”

  “I can’t divulge that.” He didn’t know. Gently Ingram took hold of the photostat and folded it, inserting it back in his inner pocket. He then put his card on the counter. “Time is of the essence.”

  The counterman looked from the card to Ingram. “I’m not promising anything.”

  “Of course. Thank you on this. Good day, brothers.” He nodded to the man in glasses and the presser who’d been looking on. Walking to his car, Ingram understood the counterman’s question about land or money involved hadn’t been an idle query. The one thing he did know about the Black Muslims was they espoused the separate nation idea: three states including Georgia set aside for Black folks to be left alone by the white devils. If William the former Jones was a conduit to helping make that happen, the counterman, like Ingram, had incentive. He figured the man would talk to whoever it was he reported to in the chain of command.

  The following early evening Ingram and Anita Claire had a date at Pacific Ocean Park on the beach in Santa Monica. Given the breeze off the ocean, he wore an aviator-type leather jacket and she a button-up cashmere sweater.

  “What, the big tough Army man is scared of a roller coaster?” She delicately inserted a single kernel of popcorn in her mouth.

  “I’m just saying, wouldn’t you prefer the diving bell or the Skyway ride?”

  “After we go on the Sea Serpent, tough guy.”

  “Fine, me Tarzan, you Jane.” He thumped his chest with his fist. “But you know that monstrosity was built before electricity was discovered.”

  She chuckled. “Stop being such a worrywart, you sound like my mother.” Claire guided him toward the line for the ride. It was a weeknight but there were plenty of people out to enjoy the amusement park. There was a threadbare quality to the whole thing, like shoes worn too long but too comfortable to get rid of. They stood close in the line, Claire feeding him the occasional piece of popcorn. At one point her finger came to rest on his lip and she left it there, looking into his eyes. They kissed.

  “Ahem,” said the roller-coaster operator. “You getting on or not?”

  They sat in the car. Right behind them two teenage girls got on, giggling and whispering to each other. Once the cars were full, the retaining bars were lowered and off they went. Per the protocol of roller coasters, the first part of the ride was a slow ascent to build the tension and anticipation among the riders.

  “Nervous?” She pinched his arm.

  “Ha ha.” He tried to blot out the constant creak of wood as the steel wheels of the cars rode over the rails supported by aging struts and beams. He didn’t recall hearing about any fatal accidents happening on this particular coaster, so he supposed that was partially reassuring. Even when he was a kid he’d never been fascinated by roller coasters like his friends were. His grade-school friend Shoals Pettigrew, for instance, loved them. A few years ago the two had driven to Galveston, Texas, to fetch a car a recently deceased uncle had left Pettigrew, who was also getting over a divorce then. Making sure to map their route using the Green Book so as to avoid unfriendly towns, Ingram had reluctantly made a couple of stops along the way. This so Edwards could ride a specific roller coaster in a particular town. A grown man giddy like the teenagers behind them now, Ingram recalled.

  The train of cars crested the first loop then speedily plummeted, riders screaming with joy. Claire latched onto Ingram’s arm, squeezing hard. She laughed at his stoic expression. His stomach was in his throat, but he was determined to show her how manly he could be. She laughed more.

  “Oh, hold me, you big strong hunk, hold me.”

  He had to laugh too as he put his arm around her shoulders, squeezing tightly as they whipped through a turn to ascend once more before a steep drop. When the ride was over, the teenagers hopped out laughing and ran off to the next thrill. In the last car had been a burly man with a crew cut and his date, a petite brunette with hoop earrings. His face was florid from too many beers and hot dogs, Ingram estimated. With the help of his companion, he weaved to a trash can and bending over the rim, threw up.

  “What next?” he asked Claire, smiling.

  “The one that takes you out over the water.”

  Off they went hand in hand to the Ocean Skyway. Bubble-shaped gondolas rode passengers on a cable seventy-five feet over the Pacific for half a mile out then brought them back to the docking area. After a short wait, they sat close together in their gondola on the bench seat. The doors to each vessel were secured by the operator and off they went. They swung gently to and fro as they were carried out over the dark water. Claire stared down into the depths.

  “Can you imagine we were swimming in that millions of years ago? Creatures that one day decided to get out of the muck and came up on land to check things out. Then who knows how many other millions of years it took to develop legs to move off the shore and the lungs to breathe in the air.”

  “You mean it wasn’t like on The Flintstones? Riding dinosaurs to work and eating giant barbecue ribs the size of a Mack truck?”

  She nuzzled his cheek. “When I was a kid in school I got in trouble with Mrs. Hempel in the fourth grade. The subject of how people came to be was asked and, being a nice Christian lady, she naturally said that God created Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.” She narrowed her eyes. “Until that ditzy Eve was tricked by Satan and she bit into the apple of knowledge. We got kicked out by an angry God, she told us, but that’s why we had dominion over the animals and had planes to fly through the air.” She shook her head at the memory. “I sat there frowning.”

  “You being a precocious sort with commie atheist parents,” Ingram said.

  “Yep. I blurted out evolution was the reason we walked on two legs and our brains—which had grown along with our bodies—told us how to use our opposable thumbs. Now Mrs. Hempel tried to give me the benefit of the doubt. Asking me didn’t I mean God made evolution happen?”

  “And you said?” The gondola began its round-trip back.

  “I said maybe, but nobody so far as my parents were concerned could prove God or Heaven or Hell existed and that’s what they’d told me when I’d asked about where you went when you died. I told her they’d also said as I got older, I should investigate these ideas for myself. On their shelves were science books, naturally, but also a copy of the Bible and the Talmud, or they would assist me in whatever else I wanted to learn about in terms of seeking to achieve inner peace.”

  “Did her head explode?”

  “I was escorted to the principal’s office and my mother was called. I remember clearly he didn’t say much to me but had a worried look on his face. I guess he was concerned about the fate of my immortal soul.”

  “Did she yell at them when she got there?”

  The gondolas stopped. The couple automatically looked around. Both were relieved the cable was still intact.

  Claire said, “Mom was a seasoned organizer, used to confronting screaming bosses and cops itching to bust heads. Particularly this race traitor, a white woman married to a Black man. When she got to the school, she quietly asked what the problem was. By then the vice-principal was in the office too. He was a hard-ass, ex-Marine, was at Guadalcanal and all that old mess.”

  Their ride ended and they stepped out and started to walk back along the planks toward the main part of the venue. The ocean broke against the pilings beneath them. Nearby a child squealed with delight.

  She continued. “I found out years later he was not on the front lines. He was a supply clerk. But he terrified us kids. Anyway, Mom began with a reasoned approach. She said wasn’t school the place where thinking and asking questions should take place? The principal answered that was true but there were underlying notions, shared beliefs as to how learning took place. One of them being we were a Christian nation. That’s what we affirm in the Pledge of Allegiance, he said.”

  “Your folks tell you not to do the Pledge?”

  Claire said, “Sounds like a teacher drilled that into you.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Mr. Lakefield and his icy glare.”

  “Well, just so you know, my parents remain loyal Americans. They had big arguments with their friends over the Rosenbergs. It was one thing to work for equality and certain socialist ideals, but giving up secrets to the Soviets was a line they wouldn’t cross. They would never sell out the United States,” she said proudly.

  “But to answer your question, yeah, there’s that part about ‘One Nation Under God,’ but they said I could ignore that in my head if I wished. My dad always said the part to really pay attention to was the liberty and justice for all. Nonetheless I stood, hand on my chest and all that.”

  They wandered through the amusement park with no particular destination in mind.

  “I bet at some point your gung-ho Marine got excited at this meeting with your mom.”

  “Very perceptive. Mr. Ingram. Yes, things soon deteriorated, and the two so-called educators pretty much accused my mother of being a bad parent, and asked if she was even born in this country, her with her Brooklyn accent.”

  They’d stopped in front of the ring toss game. Ingram asked, “Did they kick both of you out of the office?”

  “I got suspended for a week. Now of course my parents knew a few firebrand lawyers who’d gotten them and their comrades out of hot water over the years. When Mom returned to school with one of them, a tall woman partial to pearls, threatening to sue in violation of my folks’ free speech rights and saying that this had been settled in the Scopes Monkey Trial and so on and so on, I was back in two days.”

  Ingram paid for three rings. “You and Mrs. Hempel avoided the subject for the rest of the semester?” He made his first toss.

  “Only two more, friend, and you win the lady a teddy bear,” the man in the booth said. He was reedy and balding, wearing a rainbow-patterned vest and straw hat.

  His next toss was good too, landing on the neck of one of the upturned milk bottles assembled together in the middle of the booth.

  “Way to go, dead-eye,” Claire encouraged.

  Ingram did a few practice moves with his arm and let the third ring fly. It bounced off the neck of a bottle and fell onto the dirt floor.

  “Aw, too bad, friend. The lovely lady goes home empty-handed.”

  “No, she won’t.” Claire gave him a quarter and got three plastic rings. She made all her tosses.

  “There you go, ma’am.” The attendant handed her the teddy bear. As he did that, he bestowed a quick sneer on Ingram.

  “My dear.” Claire handed the small stuffed animal to Ingram as they walked away.

  He gladly took it. “Thank you, darling.”

  By the time they left the amusement park they were happy and hungry for more than amusement park food—at least Ingram was. The teddy bear on the seat between them, he drove them from Santa Monica, taking Olympic Boulevard east. They went past the Olympic Drive-In, “Enjoy Movies in Your Car.” At several intervals parallel to the car, they could discern the dark forms of graded earth, heavy machinery and the skeletal framing onto which concrete would be poured to form the lanes of the upcoming freeway. He arrived at La Cienega and pulled onto the parking lot of the Ships Coffee Shop on the southeast corner. It was a twenty-four-hour Googie futurist-designed building suggesting the promise of space-age efficiency. Anita Claire dozed on the seat next to him. Light from inside the restaurant colored her in soft ambers and yellow. She seemed to him a living painting. He touched her shoulder.

  “Want to eat?”

  “Yes.” She opened her eyes and turning her head toward him, pulled him close.

  The two kissed passionately, but eventually went in. Occupying the counter and booths were the denizens of the night, including hotel clerks just getting off work in nearby Beverly Hills and Black and white men in bus-driver uniforms eating prior to their early morning shifts.

  The waitress deposited two menus at their booth, as well as several slices of white and wheat bread on a saucer. Each booth was outfitted with its own toaster, the same for the counter.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “None for me,” Claire said, a hand in front of her yawning mouth.