“She did,” Ingram said, cutting off a piece of meat. “It relates to what I wanted to ask you about. I’m a little gun shy talking over the wires these days. Including the Free Press’s phones.”

  His friend weighed that as Ingram told him about finding the listening devices and the Starbrite cover the intelligence squad used.

  “See,” Tackwood said, gesturing with the end of his fork at Ingram before plunging it into his macaroni and cheese. “That photo of yours, man,” he said over a mouthful. He swallowed and added, “I’ve been nosing around, hearing about a few men and women advocates on our side of the fence suspected of being in cahoots with Parker’s G2 one way or the other. I’ve also ID’d a couple of undercover narcotics officers along the way.”

  “Yeah . . . .” Ingram sighed. He recalled a story his late friend Ben Kinslow had told him. Kinslow, because he was white, had been let go in a bust at a club that snared two black musician friends of his for a couple of marijuana cigarettes. The one who ratted them out to the narcotics squad was the colored drummer.

  Ingram told him what Crossman had relayed about the cops searching Atkins’s apartment. “Still, we could be trying too hard to connect them dots, Gerry.”

  “Maybe,” Tackwood allowed. “But it does seem awfully convenient that Atkins winds up dead. And here you are being bugged, which means you’re not the only one. Who knows where those Starbrite trucks have been.”

  For a while they both ate in silence, consumed by their own thoughts. Eventually Ingram asked, “So what’s your next steps?”

  Tackwood reached into his back pocket. “Check this out.” He took a folded piece of paper out and handed it across. “I’ll be covering this for the paper.”

  Ingram unfolded the paper. It was a flyer announcing a “Be-In” at the Fifth Estate coffeehouse where the Free Press had its offices in the basement.

  “Kind of a cross between a ‘Happening’ and a ‘Teach-In,’” Tackwood said, bemused.

  Ingram nodded. “Teach-Ins,” he knew, involving among other aspects discussions of direct action techniques, had started earlier this year around anti-war protests at the University of Michigan. The name inspired by “Sit-Ins” at lunch counters by those involved in the struggle for civil rights. The flyer stated there would be various discussion leaders, including a representative from the Disciples, along with poetry and live music and art. The lettering was artfully done and designed as if issuing from the flute of a snake charmer sitting cross-legged toward the bottom of the page.

  Ingram noted the name of the artist. It was Deebeck. Ingram asked Tackwood if he knew him since he’d done other work for the paper.

  “Art knows him, not me,” Tackwood said.

  “Think he’ll be there?”

  Tackwood hunched a shoulder and spread his hands. “There’s always a few painters at these things, man. Dolling up chicks in bikinis, face painting and all that.”

  “Mind if I keep this?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Ingram tucked the flyer away. “G2 will be at the Be-In too, you know.”

  Tackwood touched two fingers to his temple. “Maybe we can get the transcendentalists to use their mind waves to detect them.”

  Ingram chuckled hollowly, like a man who’d had a good steak before his appointment with the guillotine. He supposed a reasonable person would have a knot of dread in their stomach, given the import of his and Tackwood’s discussion. Instead, he was hungry for the food before him and ready to confront what was sure to come. Finding Tolbert was part of the answer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Toward the evening, Ingram and Claire stood in their living room and talked about their day for the benefit of their listeners. Thereafter, they took the day’s mail out back with their beverages to the patio table. An adjustable light attached to the house provided light on the patio. They’d searched it for a listening device. Being out here was a normal thing to do given the day’s warmth was yet to dissipate. Among the selection of mail was a business-sized letter from Betty Payton. Claire used a nail to open the flap. She removed the folded-in-three sheet of crème colored paper and the check encased within. Unfolding the sheet, she regarded the amount on the check before handing it over to Ingram.

  He whistled, appreciative of the thousand dollars Payton had paid him. “Damn.”

  Reading the note accompanying the check, Claire said, “She says she heard from Mose. He’s down in Puerto Vallarta. Thank you for your efforts.” She put the sheet aside, the script on it neatly handwritten in blue ink. “That’s a pretty nice payout, Harry. Maybe I ought to try this gumshoe hustle.” She grinned, imagining them a version of Nick and Nora of the Thin Man movies she’d seen on television over the years.

  “You’d be good at it.” He tipped his bottled beer at the letter. “Of course you know this is bullshit.” He drank some of his brew. “It must be because of Rickler. I’d suggested to his goon to produce Tolbert.” They talked in their normal voices, assuming they were unheard or at the most muffled from the devices inside their home. To be doubly sure, they’d left the radio on inside at a higher volume.

  “And he can’t?” Claire wondered.

  “I think it means Rickler didn’t put the snatch on him. Tolbert went away on his own.”

  She waved the check. “And this?”

  “You heard her that night. Betty may be all help the downtrodden, but not so much when it affects her bottom line. She’s satisfied him and her are cool, that they can go back to their little schemes.”

  “And you don’t mess with Rickler and therefore create another problem what with being concerned about attention from the attorney general. You gonna talk to her?”

  “I’m’a cash her check. But no, what for? She’s heard from Rickler enough to figure out I know what she’s up to.” He shrugged. “Who am I to judge?”

  “Yeah,” she drawled. “Mom’s going to be disappointed in her, though.”

  Ingram touched her arm. “This isn’t about Betty now. We’re the ones the cops bugged.”

  She nodded slightly.

  “Let’s go over to the Cloverleaf and you can buy me a proper drink.”

  “How about an order of onion rings too?”

  They both rose. “They don’t serve ’em and anyway, you’d only eat two.”

  She patted her butt. “Gotta watch my figure.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m watching it.” Ingram reached out and drew her close, nuzzling her neck. He pulled her tighter, grinding against her as he became erect. She pulled away, holding his hand.

  “Get a move on, Ingram, I’m thirsty.”

  “You sure know how to deflate a guy.”

  She laughed and walked toward the house. Ingram followed her.

  The actual name of the bar was the Lucky Clover, and it was on Broadway not too far from the Herald Examiner newspaper, which was at the intersection of 11th Street. The watering hole had garnered the nickname Cloverleaf because the location once upon a time had been the end point station for the Yellow Car trolly. In that era the bar had served the trolly operators, mechanics and other workingmen. Yet as freeways crisscrossing one another came to symbolize the dominance of the car in the Southland, the watering hole had acquired the moniker.

  “I say we rip the bugs out and write an article for the Sentinel. Probably get you back on the Lomax show.”

  Ingram replied, “The cops will say we planted those bad boys.” He and Claire sat close in one of the booths. A cocoon of smoke, clinking glasses and muted laughter filled the bar. The Supremes “Stop! In the Name of Love” played quietly on the jukebox.

  “There has to be a way we can authenticate the listening devices,” she countered.

  Ingram nodded. “Not exactly electrical do-dads you could buy at Zodys.”

  She leaned toward him, touching her forehead to his. “Exactly.” They smacked a kiss loudly.

  “I know you want to take it to the tools of the capitalists, but maybe you better run this past your boss first.”

  She stuck out her bottom lip. “Now who’s ruining the mood.”

  “Just being practical.”

  “Shit,” she retorted. “Tom is going to want to do some sort of look into this on the quiet like, pussyfoot around and whatnot. That would take too damn long.”

  “How about we disconnect the one in the bedroom? I take it to some dang engineer or another to write up his assessment of the device.” Since they’d discovered their home was being surveilled electronically, they’d been going to a motel on Western to make love. “Our secret audience might not think too much of that. One or two of their bugs probably crap out regularly.”

  “Then do the article?”

  “I could leak it to Gerry for a piece in the Freep. Or for that matter, go to Louis Lomax directly.”

  “That could work,” she allowed.

  Time passed and they left the bar and headed to their parked car. As they were approaching a driveway, a car zoomed from behind them and blocked their path. Two cold-eyed white men in sport coats got out of the vehicle, a Ford Fairlane. There was an adjustable spotlight outside the passenger side window of the Ford. This was turned to shine in their faces.

  The one closest to the couple was momentarily backlit and his shape reminded Ingram of the dead hoodlum named Wicks. The man he’d killed in cold blood. Claire noticed his intake of breath and tightened her hand over his.

  “Hands on the wall,” the one closest to them said.

  “Fuck off,” Claire said.

  “You got a mouth on you, gal.” He stepped closer. Along his jawline was a several days old gash. “You best be keeping it shut.”

  His partner, also white, stepped from around the driver’s side. He flashed a detective’s shield. “Police. Now do as we say.” He tucked his credentials away.

  “What’s this about?” Ingram said.

  “It’s about you being a colored snoop.” He shoved Ingram. He was taller and had a build like a linebacker for the Rams.

  “We better do as they say, Harry.” Ingram knew she was worried her boyfriend was going to strike the man.

  “Yeah, Harry, listen to your mulatto pinup girl. Being half-white, she might know a thing or two.” The plainclothesman with the chin injury snickered.

  Slowly, Ingram put his hands on the wall.

  Chin Injury gestured. “You too, sweetie. And hand over that purse.”

  Claire complied.

  The bigger one began patting Ingram down while the other dumped the contents of Claire’s purse on the hood of his cruiser. Her lipstick rolled off onto the sidewalk.

  “Asshole,” she muttered, looking over her shoulder.

  He then put his hands on her hips.

  “Get your goddamn paws off of her,” Ingram said.

  “Or what, boy?”

  “Or I put my foot so far up your ass you’ll spit polish.”

  “Harry . . .”

  The one with the wound began to ostensibly search Claire again. All emotion was drained from her face. The other cop put a hand on Ingram’s shoulder as he flinched. The detective also reached his free hand under his coat.

  “Ain’t this some shit?” a female voice said. “The fires are barely out and Parker’s gray boys still act like they own us.” She was a slender woman with big glasses. Another woman and a man flanked her. Customers from the bar.

  “Get back inside or you’re spending a night in jail,” the plainclothesman near Claire warned.

  “That supposed to scare me?”

  “These colored broads, the fuck is in their Wheaties these days?” He turned from Claire. Pedestrians across the street had stopped to look as well. Three of them stepped off the curb, one of them pointing.

  “Hey,” the taller cop said in a low tone, “The idea was to do this quietlike.”

  “Yeah, so?” his partner growled.

  “Take your head out of your ass, Stevens. You want the wagon over here? Then you explain how it went,” the one on Ingram retorted. He then said in a low voice into Ingram’s face, “Consider seriously switching up your career, Ingram. Wedding pictures and bar mitzvahs, that sounds about right, don’t it?” He clamped a hand on Ingram’s upper arm. “Nothing you can do to bring Zinum back.”

  Ingram glared back at him.

  “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  More people were gathering in front of the Lucky Clover, Clyde Hampton the bartender among them. The taller one got back behind the wheel of the Ford. His partner stood with his back toward the passenger door, staring down the clientele. Reluctantly he also got back in the car, the engine running. The unmarked car backed up in a lurch. Rear tires screeching, the car was righted, and the two policemen drove away.

  “Sure want to thank you folks.” Ingram had an arm around Claire’s shoulders. Both were shaky.

  “No sweat,” Hampton said as he came over, smiles going all around.

  When the couple returned home, they systematically removed all the listening devices, being careful not to damage them. Finished, they went to bed, holding on to one another. When Claire finally went to sleep, Ingram untangled himself from her and removed his .45 in the drawer in the nightstand. He put the gun under his pillow. He double-checked the door locks and spread pages from the newspaper at the thresholds of the front door and the one off the kitchen. Back in bed, every night sound brought him fully alert until daybreak.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ingram and Claire held hands as they made their way toward the Fifth Estate. There were a goodly number of Black folks at the Be-In, distinct from other such gatherings that tended to be mostly white folks. Familiar faces such as Lawrence Lipton and Art Kunkin, publisher of the Free Press, a sponsor of this event, were also here. Several other organizations were co-sponsors, including the Disciples for Community Defense and even Ascension Grace Lutheran. Mark Schmeling, the pastor there who’d spoken at the memorial for Faraday Zinum, was billed as one of the discussion leaders. In addition to the Fifth Estate coffee house, the parking area beside the building had been blocked off for use for the event. Tents and colorful canopies had been erected there and other activities were taking place. The gathering even spilled over to the currently empty storefront next door.

  Because this section of the Sunset Strip was technically an unincorporated area lying between the cities of Los Angeles and Beverly Hills, sheriff’s cars of deputies were stationed about along with some from the LAPD. A block west of the coffeehouse and one and half blocks east were closed to traffic. People milled about in the cordoned-off roadway.

  “Our coordinated efforts are paying off,” a speaker was saying at the standing microphone. He wasn’t a youth but a middle-aged, muscular white man in a wrinkled suit in need of a visit to the cleaners. He wore an open collar shirt and held a few rolled-up sheets of paper in a beefy hand. “Know that the head of my union, Harry Bridges, leader of the 1934 west coast longshoreman strike, has given full-throated support, which also means material support, to our brothers and sisters, be they in the ghetto, the barrio or here in bourgeois West Hollywood.” He laughed, raising both his arms and shaking his fists over his head, crumpling his papers. Whoops and cheers filled the room. He continued as the adulation faded away. “We did it then and we can do it now. It’s not just in Montgomery and Natchez that the cries go up for justice and equal treatment. In the shadow and signifier that is Watts, we must have it here in this our home. General strike, general strike . . .”

  The chant was taken up by those in the room, “General strike, general strike!” was repeated over and over. Ingram had his hand around Claire’s waist and the two danced some as they also took up the slogan. The labor representative stepped away, waving to the crowd as he exited the establishment. As a young woman in braids then came to the microphone, Ingram and Claire started for a side door to check out what else was going on. Nearby stood Pastor Schmeling studying his notes in preparation for what he was going to speak on. He and Ingram exchanged a nod.

  “Over there,” Claire said, pointing at one of the canopies in the parking lot. Several people were gathered around checking out a man painting designs on bikini-clad young women of various hues and ethnicities, some of whom were fruging in between getting adorned. The beat was provided by another woman in jeans and a fringe top percussing on a set of bongos. She had masking tape around a few of the joints on her fingers. A rectangular piece of carpet had been laid down to protect the asphalt underneath from spills. Yet even as the women moved about, Deebeck twisted and contorted with them, meticulously working his brush while depicting flowers and fire breathing dragons on skin.

  “Well, all right,” Ingram muttered. “He did show.”

  Claire looked at him, then back at the painter. “That’s Deebeck?”

  “Yep.”

  The two remained there, waiting for a break so Ingram could talk to Deebeck. At some point all the women had artwork on them, including peace signs, ankhs and slogans like “US Out of Vietnam” and “Freedom Now.” Donnie Beck stripped off his shirt and he too was painted upon by a few of the women. There was a lot of laughter and applause and the conga drummer finally took a rest, rising and bowing to the praise. Ingram and Claire approached him.

  “You must be the guy who visited Papa B.” Beck was wiping his sweating brow with a small towel. He gestured to one of the cameras draped around Ingram’s neck.

  “I am,” Ingram said. “And I’m looking for Mose Tolbert.”

  “Yeah . . . why?”

  “This was great, Donnie.” A lithe woman in a polka-dot bikini, a brilliant flame painted on her, clasped him by the shoulder and gave him a big, loud kiss.

  Smiling, Ingram said, “Maybe we should talk privately.”

  Momentarily Beck studied Ingram, then said, “See you in a minute, Annette.” She winked at him as he walked off with them.