He took his time on the landing, heard the door opening and closing on the Imperial. The bruiser jogged across the street.

  “Hey, you, hold up,” he shouted, a hand in the air.

  “Me?” Ingram said, coming down the steps.

  “Yeah, who the fuck are you?” the enforcer asked as he started up the bottom step. It was Tim from the parking lot last night.

  Ingram swung, whacking a small frying pan upside the more muscular man’s head. Tim went backward off the steps and onto his back. Ingram pounced, his foot jammed sideways on the struck man’s chest. Tim tried to rise and this time got hit in the forehead with the pan for his efforts.

  “Motherfucker,” Tim gurgled, his eyes unfocused and voice thick.

  “Tell Rickler I know about what he and Mose are up to.”

  “The fuck you do.”

  “Listen, hotshot, I know the swag from heists your boss bankrolls are moved around in Restoration trucks, I also know those two are burning the candle at both ends. Stealing and selling real furs and using the labels on bootleg ones too.” Just as Ingram heard his own words, he locked on to a notion about Betty Payton. The tough glared at Ingram. Odds were he didn’t know any of this but he’d report back to Rickler, which was what Ingram wanted.

  “I don’t give two shits about any of that. But if a hair on Judy’s head should be mussed ’cause of you or one of your playmates, then hell will rain down on Rickler.” He lifted his foot off the man’s chest and took a few steps backward, ready to use the frying pan again.

  “Take it easy, Jackie Robinson.” Rickler’s man sat up on the lawn, a hand rubbing his throbbing head. “You’ve made your point.”

  A few neighbors had come out to see what was up, from a distance.

  “What Rickler needs to be doing,” Ingram concluded, “is helping find Mose. If he wants to be useful and not a stone in the road.”

  Ingram went back up to the apartment to return the frying pan and open the drapes wide. The tough got off the ground and weaved his way to his car. He retrieved a flask from the glovebox and took a swig. Thereafter he shook his head vigorously for several moments, coughed harshly and keyed his car to life. He was gone by the time Ingram exited the apartment and walked to his car. Pleased with this morning’s outcome and that apparently no one had called the police on him.

  That evening at the house in the Crenshaw District the three enjoyed the meal Berkson had prepared. They also had white wine with their dinner as they discussed what had happened earlier today.

  “That’s not coincidence,” Ingram said. When Berkson had told them about the carpet cleaners and their Starbrite marked truck, Claire said such a truck had been near the park where she’d eaten lunch the other day. And Ingram remembered her story about being approached by the stranger at the playground with an offer to break the law.

  “It occurred to me when I was at Safeway,” Berkson said, “both cars weren’t in the driveway and mine was parked on the street. That’s why they figured no one was home.”

  Claire put down her fork and got up from the table. She gestured for the two to keep talking.

  “I guess they’re a burglar crew,” Ingram said.

  “Yeah, could be, Harry.”

  Claire held up a note she’d written on in block lettering. I THINK WE’RE BEING LISTENED TO.

  Ingram stared at her, not sure what to say. Berkson was also silent. Claire spoke into Ingram’s ear.

  “Could be I’ve had too much wine tonight but the necklace not being where it’s supposed to be, the device in Tolbert’s house and now the carpet cleaners . . .”

  “Okay, we better make sure,” he whispered.

  She nodded assent. Searching, they kept talking, but about innocuous subject matter.

  “We should go to a Rams game this year,” Berkson said.

  “Good idea, Judy,” Claire answered.

  The three knew a bug would need to have an electrical connection. Found inside one of the lamps in the living room was a listening device identical to the one they’d taken from Tolbert’s home. They also found another microphone gadget in the lamp in the bedroom on Ingram’s nightstand. The third device was planted inside the electric clock in the kitchen. Along the way, Ingram took pictures of the exposed bugs with a small camera that was nearly silent when he pushed the shutter button. Done, they spoke in the middle of the backyard in case they’d missed anything. Ingram brought his flashlight.

  “Our phone is probably tapped,” Claire pointed out.

  “For sure this isn’t Rickler,” Ingram said. “It’s the same ones spying on Tolbert.”

  “It could be the FBI but I’m betting it’s Parker and his intelligence division,” Claire said. “A lot of them are left over from the Red Squad. They’re trying to get dirt on you to make the Zinum suit go away, Harry. Spread the lie you faked the picture somehow too, I’m sure.”

  “Let’s not forget who you work for, dear. I’m sure the chief don’t mind keeping tabs on uppity darkies and those that work for them.”

  She put a hand to her mouth. “Those fuckers heard us when we were having sex.”

  Berkson put wide eyes on her.

  “Dirty bastards.” Inwardly, he didn’t feel embarrassed but wanted to keep the peace and not seem anything but indignant.

  “Hope it made ’em jealous,” Claire huffed.

  “We should keep the devices where they are, you know.”

  “Why?”

  “If we take them out, they’ll know.”

  “But we’ve already talked about the Starbrite truck,” Berkson pointed out.

  Ingram said, “The dining room isn’t bugged so maybe they didn’t hear us, or at least hear us clearly.”

  “Screw those chumps,” Claire said.

  “But now we know and they don’t know we know, we might be able to use that to our advantage.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Ingram explained, “Like you said, Parker and Hoover will use lies and disinformation to tar and feather the ones they want to make look like idiots so no one believes them.”

  “Some people were harassed so bad they killed themselves,” she said gravely. “Driven out of their jobs or off of their church committees.” She trailed off, then added, “Not sure what all we can feed them, Harry, that will trip them up.”

  “Not sure either. But let’s at least leave them be for a couple of days.”

  “But now we have to try and act normal. They’ve already heard us talking about Tolbert and Rickler.” Claire paused. “Is that why he disappeared?”

  “He doesn’t tell Rickler?”

  “Could be he didn’t want him getting mad and sending a leg breaker to see him like he tried with Judy.”

  “Maybe it’s that or maybe there’s more to it. Tolbert has also been involved in left causes.”

  A chill rippled through Claire. “Your buddy Hoyt and his Providers might be part of this. It’s not a crackpot fantasy that there’s ties between the capitalists and the police who represent their interests.”

  “We can’t go getting paranoid,” Berkson said.

  Ingram said, “Yeah, can’t imagine a hardass like Parker taking orders from Winston Hoyt or any damn body.”

  “A suggestion from him could have been all it takes after a round of golf or getting a rub down after a steam at the Jonathan Club. Assuming they have a steam room there, but I wouldn’t know, being Black and a woman, neither of which is let in there.”

  “Uh-huh,” he agreed.

  A silence stretched between them until Claire said, “Well, fine, shit, this has got me all riled up and I do want to see if we can put one over on these fat cats and their lackies.”

  “Go on with your bad self, Emma Goldman,” Berkson said. “Guess I better get home and search my place too.”

  “You want us to follow you home?” Claire asked. The three began walking toward the back door off the kitchen, talking as they did so.

  “The Starbrite boys are sneaks and I’m feeling confident Mr. Rickler got the message,” Berkson said.

  “When you get home, take a slow spin around the block first before going in,” Ingram said when they were in front of the house. “Anything looks funny, you hightail it back here.”

  “I will,” she said. This time she did give Ingram a smack on the cheek and Claire a quick kiss on the lips.

  The couple stood arm in arm, waving on the lighted porch as Berkson drove away. Back inside, the two went into the bathroom off their bedroom and closed the door. They’d searched the lone overhead light fixture and two electrical outlets so were relatively certain there was no listening device in here. Claire sat on the lid of the toilet and Ingram on the edge of the bathtub.

  “Something else you better know, ’cause now with this business . . .” She trailed off.

  “I’m listening.” They both kept their voices low.

  “I’m part of the Morning Bandit gang.”

  He stared at her and finally responded, “You and your folks.”

  She nodded. “Kind of hard to explain how it all started.”

  Ingram remembered his conversation with Charlie Sutton, a man who knew her father. This was a couple of years ago, while he was looking into the death of his army buddy Ben Kinslow. He’d talked to him when he’d been tasked by Anita to find a missing diary written by Judy Berkson’s father naming names. To hopefully make sure it was lost but not stolen by the FBI. Ingram had debated then about mentioning the conversation to her and didn’t at the time as he’d ultimately dismissed what Sutton told him: that Solly Claire was the Morning Bandit. Now, he did tell her, finishing with, “Like them old Bolsheviks, your pops was pulling down scores to strike a blow against the moneyed class, huh? Robin Hood by way of Che Guevara.” Ruefully, he shook his head. Ingram was surprised he wasn’t that surprised. He also recalled the money band in her mother’s car.

  “At first it was just him. We got involved to protect my dad. Now not for nothing, it’s brought Mom and Dad closer together again.”

  “The family that steals together,” he quipped.

  “Mom is great for casing the banks,” she said proudly. “Nice white schoolmarm-looking lady.”

  “And you the pistol-packing backup.”

  “Shotgunner, but yeah.”

  “Naturally you three goddamn revolutionaries are carrying out orders from the ghost of Lenin.” He laughed too loud.

  Indignantly, she replied, “We’ve gotten money to ANC, Harry. We ain’t bullshittin’.”

  “I know. But even without whoever listening in on us, it’s crazy dangerous, Anita. I mean shit.” He pointed at the bathroom door and what lay beyond.

  “We decided after our last close call to quit.”

  “Good.”

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t be shy now.”

  She told him about the codded notebook. “Mom and I took the book to a friend of theirs, Del Standers. He’d been a Ritchie Boy during the war.”

  “Who were they?”

  She explained what the group had been. She added that Standers was one of the group. She added, “We kinda hedged it was a notebook left behind by Mickey Cohen or his accountant.”

  Ingram nodded. The bank they’d robbed was in Maywood, not far from Boyle Heights. Though he had a nightspot on the Sunset Strip, the gangster kept a place in Boyle Heights where he’d grown up. “But it’s not?”

  “It’s dynamite, Harry. Del cracked the code. This book details all sorts of transactions by the Providers. Going back years.”

  “Fuck,” he whispered, trying to take this all in.

  “I’d been wrestling with coming clean, Harry. But now knowing what the logbook is, I had to tell you.” A pause and she added, “Talk about bad timing.”

  “Look, we got no choice. We gotta deal with these bugs and Tolbert first. After that, if we’re still around, we get on the book.”

  Claire got up and so did he. She hugged him tight. “It’s a lot, I know.”

  “It’s you and me, baby. Right down the line.”

  Claire kissed him like a woman long alone in the desert. In their bedroom the two tried not to be too self-conscious. After a few minutes of sounding stilted, they settled into their natural patter. Sleep, though, was elusive for both.

  FINALLY, CLAIRE was able to achieve slumber. Ingram eventually dozed. Yet as he descended into a deeper state, Seoul City Sue, the Arkansas born white woman propagandist for North Korea, invaded his dreamscape once again. She would broadcast over radio and her recordings would be heard over public address systems telling the GIs their wives and girlfriends were seeing other men. Or she would question, why were negro soldiers fighting for white Uncle Sam, a country that would not recognize their sacrifices back home?

  Ingram stood at the end of the driveway. Seoul City Sue came out of the garage workshop. She was curvy like a Dapper model, in a silk dress, showing thigh through a slit up its side. A cigarette smoldered from the end of her ivory inlaid cigarette holder. The propagandist was giving orders to two hulking flunkies like out of an EC horror comic book. The goons carried boxes of Ingram’s photos.

  “Hey, that’s my stuff,” he objected. He moved to stop them. “Put that down.”

  “Back off, Yankee,” Seoul City Sue warned.

  “The hell you say.”

  Seoul City Sue pointed her fist at him, index finger extended, and a gun winked into existence in her hand. She shot him three times in the chest. After that, Ingram slept peacefully.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Claire and Ingram went through their normal routine in the morning, making sure to close the bathroom door for some sense of privacy. As he shaved, it occurred to Ingram that like Dorothy Nielson, Betty Payton probably cased the homes of the swells she palled around with. Had to be Rickler using Tim and whoever ripped them off. Lining his and her pockets. That was old-fashioned greed, not about no redistribution of wealth.

  Dressed, the two went into the kitchen and had a light breakfast.

  “The more I think about it, I bet Mose went off on a bender.” Ingram slurped his coffee.

  Claire said, “What are you gonna tell Betty?”

  “That she should accept the truth,” he said. There was a two-day-old edition of the Herald Examiner folded on the table and he quietly tore off a piece. Using a pencil, he wrote a note and slid it across to her. “What else is there to do, right?” he said.

  “I guess so.” Claire read the note asking her to call Judy Berkson later from a pay phone to see if she’d found a bug. Claire nodded. He asked her what she had planned today and she provided their listeners with a bland itinerary.

  Outside, like otherworld versions of denizens of the Donna Reed Show, Ingram quickly kissed Claire on the lips as she walked toward her car to leave for work while he stayed home. He waved at her as she departed. Before turning back, he scanned the street, hoping he wasn’t obvious doing so.

  Inside the house, he went through and out to the garage, turning on one of the goose-necked lamps. There was power in here and they hadn’t searched the place last night. If one of the cops’ eavesdropping doohickeys had been installed, there weren’t too many places to hide it. In addition to several types of lamps, there was his portable radio. He unscrewed the back of the radio and the plates on the bases of the lamps. He soon was satisfied there wasn’t a bug in the garage. He turned on the radio to the beginnings of a Dodger game and took a seat in one of his mismatched chairs. Two of them he’d found discarded at the curb and the other two bought at Goodwill.

  He wanted to light up a cigar but, given the photo chemicals in here, not a wise idea. He wondered why the cops had come back to the house. Their devices were already in place so was the idea they wanted to put one in here? Had one of their bugs stopped working? Or was something even more nefarious their objective? Ingram stayed with the game for the first two and a half innings, then turned off the radio and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. He answered the phone on the second ring.

  “Hello?”

  “This Harry Ingram?” a gravelly voice said on the other end. The man sounded older.

  Ingram told him it was and the caller continued. “I’m Len Beck, heard you came around to see me.”

  “Yes, sir. Are you at your shop now?”

  “Sure am. I understand you were looking for—”

  “Not to cut you off, Mr. Beck, but I got something boiling over on the stove. Look, I’ll be right over, okay?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “See you soon.”

  Ingram hung up. Just in case eyes were watching the house, he took a few beats as if taking care of his emergency. After leaving his house, he considered doubling back to see if the carpet men showed up, but decided to get to Treasure Island without further subterfuge.

  He arrived to find the elder Beck in the middle of a negotiation with two women over the price of a scarred credenza.

  “You understand this is for the church, Len,” one of them was saying.

  “I do, Delphina, that’s why I’m only asking a fair price.”

  “Seems high for the condition this is in,” Delphina’s companion said. She put a hand on the credenza, causing it to tilt to and fro. One of its legs was shorter than the other three.

  Beck wore bowline glasses with thin lenses. He had a receding hairline of salt and pepper hair and a trimmed snow-white beard. He moved easily though he might be sixty or seventy some odd, Ingram estimated. Beck hitched his thumbs in the corner of the pockets of his worn dungarees. “Tell you what, I’ll even up the legs and see what I can do about the finish.” He waved a hand over the piece of furniture like a magician about to perform an act of conjuring.

  Delphina regarded the other women and to Beck, said, “You got a deal, you ’ole smooth talker you.” They shook hands. Ingram, who’d worn his snap brim hat, touched the brim as they went past and on out of the shop.

  “You must be Mr. Ingram.”

  “Harry is fine.”

  “You took that picture, didn’t you?”

  “I did.”

  “You gonna make Donnie famous like you?”

  “Can’t guarantee something like that, Len, if that’s okay to call you that.”