I thought the murder would hurt me more and would more hurtfully invade my body and mind. It hasn’t. I assumed the role of murderer and behaved in the manner of a first-time killer determined to survive. It took a few days for my mental equilibrium to adjust. I mindscaped the possible upshot of my actions as Scotty took care of business. I met him for a series of late-night dinners at Ollie Hammond’s. We boozed a bit and ate steak sandwiches. Scotty preached. In the end, you’ll survive. You did what was necessary; you’ll do it again if you have to. Feel better now?
I did then, I do now. I have the upper hand in the partnership. I know two things that Scotty doesn’t: Reginald Hazzard and the emeralds are in Haiti. The woman is Joan Rosen Klein.
My life is a series of shadow plays and non sequiturs. I work the detective bureau at Hollywood. Station. I go to movie-biz cocktail parties and enjoy the ambivalent responses that my presence there provokes. Three years ago, I was a policeman who had been beaten, ostracized and converted to the black-militant faith. That inspired film-biz cachet. Now, I am a policeman revealed to have been a planted informant; a policeman who extolls authoritarian values in prestigious speaking engagements and stands tall in LAPD dress blues. The film-biz folks would love to hate me as a sellout, but they can’t. I won the game and I look too good.
I’ve been party-hopping and meeting people, including the very attractive actor Sal Mineo, who starred in several notable angry teenager films in the ‘50s. Sal has the Bent and has determined that I share it. Sal’s tweaked on me; we run into each other; we talk on the phone, flirt, go out for coffee, but don’t do it. Sal’s very persistent, and he’s a sweetheart, but my plate is too full to accommodate a part-time or full-time squeeze. It’s funny. It’s mindscape. I talk to Sal and hang up; Scotty calls five minutes later. Scotty took care of the Thornton/Bostitch brothers business with great panache and leaked a series of Intelligence Division files showing Mr. Clean to be, in fact, a mob stooge. Crusading journalists picked the story up; articles have appeared in Los Angeles and have gotten prominent nationwide ink. Scotty slanders our dead as we grasp for leads on our living. We’ve considered making an attempt to grab Thornton’s Fed-snitch file, but Scotty thinks it’s too risky. I’ve thought about trying for an independent look, but haven’t figured out how.
I’m holding back Reggie in Haiti and the Woman as Joan. She’s Dwight Holly’s lover. That makes her unapproachable. Dwight Holly fucked with could blow our deal sky-high.
Mindscapes: feints, jabs, withholdings and deceptions.
I’m holding back from Scotty. I’ve made stabs at getting full customs files on Reginald Hazzard and have failed. Access requires legal warrants. My hold-backs are motivated by pure hubris and pure race hate. I learned some things from
Scotty Bennett represents the white world out to level me with indifference. I cannot let that be. Scotty is the white oppressor, and I will not knuckle down to him. Scotty will not split the money and emeralds. I must get to them first and kill Scotty before he kills me.
I’ve made three trips to Haiti. I’ve synced them to Scotty’s boozy weeklong fishing trips with his cop pals. Sal had been to Haiti on a film shoot and shared his knowledge of that wondrous and atavistic place. I flew to Port-au-Prince. I toured Haiti as a middle-class, French-fluent black man. I displayed my Reggie Hazzard photograph and asked questions. I learned nothing substantive and smelled the obvious fact that Reginald had to be here.
Haiti was primitive and seductive. I felt like I was regressing. It was an actor’s immersion process. I visited voodoo-sect taverns and drank klerin alcohol. I dreamt of armless men with wings. I attended a few voodoo ceremonies and ate handfuls of herbs. I came out of trances and found myself dancing with wooden-masked men. I awoke from an herb trip and saw that I had blood on my hands. The man in bed beside me said I had eaten a fresh-killed chicken.
My shape-shifting personality served me well in Haiti. I pre-tended to be a French tourist, which assisted me in my queries on Reginald. Nobody knew Reginald. Many people told me tales of the late Wayne Tedrow and his brave pro-Haitian acts. What would poor Wayne say to that? People walk around with photographs of him attached to their necks. I heard the story of Wayne’s death twenty or thirty times. The details varied. Several people told me that winged men came for him. Wayne and I shared the dream-state concept. He related it to chemistry. It was all about fated souls in flux.
I’ve been to Haiti three times. I’ll be back. Reginald Hazzard has to be there.