“You take the padded chair, Harry.”

  Ingram did so. Two television cameras in different positions pointed at the set, each mounted on thick trunks that allowed them to be turned. A Black and a white cameraman stood behind their respective cameras. They had headphones on.

  “Good to meet you, brother man.”

  Ingram looked over to see Lomax near him, having put a hand on his shoulder. He was a large-chested man in a gray suit with a white pocket square, black tie, starched white shirt and black glasses. He looked not so much like an incendiary journalist but a loan officer—albeit one with a hip outlook in those observing eyes. They shook hands.

  “Let me palaver with my folks, then we’ll get started. You parched, you want some water?”

  Ingram could use a drink, aware his mouth was now dry. “That’d be great.”

  Lomax turned and called out, “Mark, can we get some agua for Mr. Ingram?”

  “Coming right up, Louis,” replied a voice from somewhere in the gloom beyond the set.

  A plastic water pitcher and glass were placed on the end table by a slim Mexican American in white jeans with longish black hair.

  “There you go, my man.”

  He thanked him as Mark withdrew, looking and sounding like a denizen of Venice to Ingram. Lomax returned, smoking a cigarette, a sheaf of yellow-colored papers in his hand. There were typed pages and handwritten ones as well.

  “We go live in two minutes. Phyliss went over broadly what my questions would cover, yeah?”

  “She did when we talked earlier today.”

  “I understand you served in Korea.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That where you traded in shooting with a rifle to doing it with a camera?”

  Ingram cocked his head slightly. “Something like that. There was this cat from Look magazine covering us and damned if he didn’t catch a bullet. Milo Costas was his name. When I got back stateside, I looked up his sister and offered to send her his camera.” His face went blank. The memory hitting him harder than it had in some time. “We got to talking on the phone and it came out I’d been figuring out the camera. She told me that was the best way to honor her brother. To keep using it with her blessing.”

  Lomax nodded his head sympathetically. “Man, that’s great. I’ll try to work that in if that’s okay with you?”

  “Sure.” He hoped he wouldn’t tear up if he got to tell the story on air.

  “Thirty seconds, Louis,” Mark called out.

  “Thanks, daddy-O,” he replied. Lomax walked away again to stub out his cigarette in a clear glass ashtray just out of the line of sight of the cameras. He then picked up a lapel microphone and attached that in place. The microphone was connected to a long insulated wire and he returned to perch on the stool, still holding his papers. He faced forward as he noted a silent countdown from Lansdale on her hand, who then pointed at him to begin.

  “Good afternoon, my fellow citizens,” Lomax said into one of the cameras. “The fires have been extinguished, the glass swept up and already Governor Brown has appointed his blue ribbon commission to ascertain the cause of the riot that lasted six days, property damage that’s still being tallied and most significantly, the loss of lives . . . notably negro lives being the majority of the dead. While at least we have an effort from Sacramento to explore a way forward, from some quarters—and I’m looking at you in particular, Mayor Yorty—you hear the same old refrain, it’s communists and outside agitators whipping up the minorities. That negros are anti-police. Well, today we’re going to put those notions and their ilk under the microscope if you will, as our humble program has several guests lined up to talk about what so recently went down in our fair city.”

  Lomax paused to look down at his notes. He shifted on the stool, putting one foot on a rung. Ingram noticed his tasseled Italian loafers. “We’ll have on a little later a representative from the W. E. B. Du Bois Club, a spokesperson from John Gibson’s office, the councilman who represents the 15th District that includes Watts, and a surprise guest—one that’s gonna blow your mind, I hasten to add.” He turned toward Ingram, gesturing at him with the papers in his hand. “But right off the bat we’re going to begin with a man who was on the ground, in the trenches as the happenin’ happened. Harry Ingram is a name probably known to some of you, he’s a local photo-journalist in the vein of Gordon Parks. Harry’s work has been in this city’s vibrant colored and white press, his images of the riots, if you will, also seen recently on Channel 5 and in the past nationally in Ebony, isn’t that right, Harry?”

  “One time,” Ingram stressed, holding up his index finger.

  Turning back face-front, a smiling Lomax continued. “But in particular, Mr. Ingram is here today because his now famous—or maybe it’s infamous to some, like the authorities—photo of the demise of community leader Faraday Zinum by members of the Los Angeles Police Department has encapsulated in stark black and white what many of us, the so-called negro in America, has been campaigning about for years seeking redress. No,” he said leaning forward, “we are not anti-police, we are, though, anti the police’s abusive and dare I say murderous tactics in our neighborhoods. And yes, this show reached out to Chief Parker’s office for their interpretation of this incident, but we were roundly rebuffed.”

  Swiveling back to look at Ingram again, he asked, “So, Harry, tell us what brought you out that day and what led up to the act you so boldly captured on film.”

  He’d prepared a flip answer, all about the need to document what the white press would miss. Sure, that was part of what brought him out then, but it wasn’t the whole answer. “Louis, I owe it to the reporter whose camera I took it upon myself to inherit during the Korean War when he got killed covering us dogfaces. Milo Costas was his name and it wasn’t like we were fast friends, nothing like that. But when it came down to it, when the action was hot, he didn’t flinch so I can’t either.”

  The segment lasted for nearly half an hour including breaks for commercials. When they were done, another set of commercials came on and Lomax got off the stool, arching his back and working his shoulders.

  “Don’t you find sitting like that uncomfortable?” Ingram asked.

  Lomax had removed his glasses and was cleaning them with his handkerchief. “I do, and sometimes use a chair like yours.” He put his glasses back on. “But I find when I’m doing a subject matter I really want to dig into like today’s, being slightly discomforted seems to give me a sharper mental edge.”

  “Thanks for having me on.”

  “You keep doing what you’re doing, Harry.”

  “You too, man.”

  “We’ll get this bus out of second gear one damn day.”

  They shook hands again. When Lomax walked off to do his next interview, Venice Mark was at his side.

  “This way, Mr. Ingram.” The young assistant walked him down a different path than the one he’d used to enter the studio. “The surprise guest entered the building and will be in makeup soon. Only a few get to see him without his mask being put on.”

  “Why’s that?”

  Mark whispered, “He’s LAPD, a negro gentleman who patrols just outside of Watts.”

  “You mean he’s still on the force?”

  “That’s correct, and he’s going to speak out on not only the riots but what it’s like to be a minority cop.” They were snaking their way through gloomy hallways and came to a brightly lit area where table saws and the like were being used. Hammering and the assembly of several sets was going on as Mark guided Ingram past the workers to a side door with a push bar. He opened this and held it for Ingram.

  “I dug what you laid down today, Mr. Ingram. I’ve read a couple of your articles, you know.”

  “You mean in the Freep?”

  “Yes, sir. Been thinking on a publication like that for the gente. It’s a new day for brown folks too, baby.”

  “Righteous.”

  They slapped five and Ingram stepped out fully in the sunshine. Making his way back to his car, he felt elated from his conversating with Lomax. He hadn’t mentioned he’d lost the camera in Watts and how for damn sure he missed his Speed Graphic. Ingram realized he deliberately hadn’t been focusing on finding it so as not to be disappointed. Here he was, looking for a missing man, and certainly a human meant more than any object, but he was emotionally attached to the camera while he remained detached about finding Tolbert. But wasn’t that how a detective was supposed to be?

  Key in the lock of his car, Ingram considered, did that kind of mindset make him a dispassionate professional or a cold-blooded motherlover? Maybe, he concluded, getting behind the wheel, you can be both.

  ENERGIZED FROM the interview and hungry, Ingram made it over to one of his favorite eateries, the Detour diner, which had come through the riots intact. Unless he was with Claire or someone else, he normally sat at the counter and did so today. Winnie McClure, co-owner of the establishment, wasn’t around. Janet Burnham was behind the counter.

  “How it going, Harry?”

  “Not bad, you?” The waitress was a slim woman with high cheekbones and elliptically shaped eyes. Burnham was a few years older than Ingram.

  “Trying to make my way.” She reached below the counter, then put a paper napkin and utensils on it before him. “What’s it going to be today?”

  “Liver and onions and a lemonade.”

  “That comes with green beans,” she said. Burnham made the notations on the top sheet of her order pad and tucked the pencil away in the pocket of her apron. She fetched a pitcher of water from where it rested under the order window and poured him a glass. She also clipped his meal ticket in place for one of the two cooks, then turned back to him.

  “You get around, Harry. I saw your pictures in the paper from that young man’s memorial. What you think about this general strike talk?”

  “How’d you hear about that?” Claire had told him this had been chanted at the town hall she’d attended.

  “I’m a wage slave, ain’t I?”

  “Damn, Janet, you better not let on to Winnie you been reading bootleg paperbacks by Karl Marx.” He visualized the ones on his old lady’s shelf.

  “I have no idea who that is,” she said seriously. “But we had us a lively discussion the other night with somebody from those Disciples for Defense or whatever those rabble rousers are calling themselves.”

  Then it clicked into place as Ingram remembered she was on a bowling team. “You mean over at the Holiday Bowl?”

  “That’s right. Well, what do you figure?”

  “Can’t say it’s been much on my mind.” He told her how he’d first heard about the call for the mass action, a term he’d learned from Anita Claire. “Sounded like it was people getting themselves excited, but there wouldn’t be follow-through. Like the usual.”

  She regarded him and said, “The riot was a sign these aren’t usual times. Computers doing math, polio vaccines on sugar cubes. Rockets trying to get to the moon. Time to aim high it seems to me.”

  Ingram said, “It would take thousands of people, Janet. Bus drivers, handymen, nurses, all that.”

  “That’s a lot of colored folks in them people, you know,” she said.

  “And take a lot of organizing,” he said, using another term he’d come to understand.

  “Okay, sure,” she went on, “probably not like the March on Washington, but still. This guy Chet had us convinced a sea of Black faces could fill the streets in Watts. Carrying picket signs and speakers, real types who work with their hands, not figureheads like Dr. King, though God bless him for what he’s done. Demanding fair hiring in jobs and putting a spotlight on the police. He pointed out if people like me talk to my circle of friends and fellow workers, then they talk to who they know, the idea spreads.”

  “You sure you’re not in cahoots with Fidel Castro?” Ingram cracked. He noted the Chet she mentioned must be the lefty buddy of the missing Mose Tolbert.

  “I know who that one is. But look here, Dick Gregory, it’s time to get with the program.”

  “Hey, Janet, maybe you negro agitators could discuss your plans to take down the white man later and right now give me a refill, huh?” The older man who spoke held aloft his coffee cup, jiggling it.

  “Hush up, Roger. Flapping your gums might loosen your dentures.” Roger Kirk was a retired city garbage collector and a regular at the diner. She started toward him and said to Ingram, “It’s about us having solidarity in a time like this. Right, Harry?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You gonna be covering it, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  CHET HORNE let the bowling ball go just as his arm completed its downward arc, at a slight angle to his leaning body. The ball rotated as it whooshed along the lane, canting slightly to the right nearing the pins. All but two went down when the ball struck. The remaining pins stood next to each other.

  “Man, that’s something I wouldn’t know about,” Horne said as he picked up his ball from the return rack. “Anything funny about the money is not my department, brother.”

  They were in the Holiday Bowl on a Wednesday night. Several of the lanes were occupied. Ingram sat with a beer and a half-finished hot dog with potato chips on a paper plate. He had to put on bowling shoes like Horne and everyone else, but had no intention of bowling. He’d bowled on leave in the service and was devastated to discover there was more involved than simply rolling a damn ball made of clay.

  “You ever been to the Emerald Room with Mose?”

  “Sure, a couple of times,” Chet answered. Holding the ball just below his eyes, he sighted down the lane and then, assuming his form again, let the ball loose. It tore down the lane, a replay of Horne’s previous roll. This time, the ball veered left just at the right moment, striking one of the remaining pins. In turn that pin knocked the other one over too.

  Ingram nodded in appreciation of the man’s skill. Horne was captain of the bowling team and this was his solo practice session before his team’s game next week. Members of the Mighty Strykers represented several businesses, including Restoration Building Supply. Ingram hadn’t told Horne about finding the tags for the fur coats. What he’d asked him initially was did he know if Tolbert had ever gotten a loan from any rough types.

  “You saying Mose got money from that guy?” Horne sat in the plastic molded chair next to Ingram and had a sip of his water.

  “Have you met that gee, Rickler?” Two lanes over, two Japanese women were bowling and laughing and talking in Japanese.

  “I remember seeing him there walking around, glad-handin’ and so forth, making sure everybody was happy losing their money.” He smiled at that. “But no, he wouldn’t know me to say boo to.”

  “I know he knows Miss Betty,” Chet added. “But rich white folks always know each other don’t they? Now I ain’t been there when she was there if that’s what you want to know.”

  Ingram nodded.

  “Look, man, believe me when I tell you I’m grateful to be punching a clock at Restoration. ’Cause different than other slaves I’ve had working for them crackers, this here situation has worked out better than I could have imagined. And I goddamn know you know what I’m talking about. So yeah, me and Mose get along fine. But do I think that one day I might own a piece of that cherry cream pie?” He paused, his own statement having surprised him.

  “It could happen, Chet.”

  “Maybe when we get flying cars.”

  “From what I understand about Mose, he might be open to it.”

  “That the real reason Miss Betty sent you around, Harry? Maybe she does know what happened to Mose and he did run off with some big titty blonde and ain’t come up for air yet. Your real job is to see if us coloreds are looking to take over. Eyes getting too big for our stomachs as the old timers used to say.”

  “I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but don’t want handkerchief head as one of them,” Ingram replied.

  “For sure, soul brother.”

  Sipping his drink, Ingram made a pointed remark. “You all must be talking, though, what’s going to happen if Mose doesn’t show up.”

  Horne stood up. “Sure, there’s been talk, worried talk if I’m being honest. Naturally we’re wondering what’s going to happen and if some Caucasian takes over is not, you know, of a mind like Mose, then what? But look here, don’t you figure Miss Arlene might be part of this here equation you trying to put together in your head?” He turned to resume bowling.

  Ingram took another bite of his now cold hot dog, chewing and mulling over what Horne suggested. Horne bowled several more sets, including three strikes in a row. When he sat back down, Ingram continued, “She knows the numbers but she don’t know how to palaver with customers like you. She don’t know the trade.”

  “But that works, ’cause some of them gray boys I got to deal with in those peckerwood places like South Gate tolerate me since they know I represent Mose. What they gonna say if Mose really isn’t around? Or Miss Betty and her investor pals throw in the towel and sell off the business to the highest bidder?”

  “That could happen too,” Ingram conceded. He’d called Doris Letrec, the office manager of Galton, the process server company he did work for. She was well-versed in legalese and he’d asked her how long did a person have to remain missing before they were declared dead, at least in California.

  “Presumed dead is the term,” she’d said. “And it’s five years. But,” she’d continued, “there could be any number of clauses in an agreement your missing man has with this woman who hired you and her fellow investors. He doesn’t own the assets outright, does he? That is, is he paying them back a loan on a monthly basis and they would have to seize the goods?”

  “Don’t know,” he’d said.

  “You might want to look into that.”

  In the bowling alley, Ingram watched Horne for nearly another hour before he was done, intermittently asking him a few more questions about Tolbert but learning nothing else of use to his search. He did tell him that the employees were looking to meet in the next two weeks if Tolbert was still missing.