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Back Blood Grove
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. Discover More
  53. Praise for Walter Mosley andBlood Grove
  54. About the Author
  55. Also by Walter Mosley

The cops used the classic flanking maneuver. One came to the driver’s-side window while the partner moved up along the rear, making sure that I wasn’t hiding an army in the back seat.

The cop facing me gestured that I should crank the window down. I did so, feeling the pressure of the other cop’s eyes on the back of my head.

“License and registration,” the man outside my window demanded.

He was tall and slender, thirties and tan.

“Aren’t you an LA cop?” I asked instead of obliging.

“So what?” His name tag read L. BOWEN.

“This here is Beverly Hills.”

“We can make arrests outside our jurisdiction if we’re in hot pursuit.” He allowed himself a smile.

“Pursuit of what?” I asked, thinking of the Bill of Rights.

“The report of a brother who stole a Rolls-Royce.”

Our eyes met over his lie. Then he recognized something.

“Say . . . you’re that nigger, right?”

O America, my America.

“Which one did you mean?” I asked, even though I knew the answer to his question. He recognized me as the sometimes special adviser to Commander Melvin Suggs—the third-highest-ranking cop in the LAPD rank and file.

“Don’t you get smart with me,” L. Bowen said.

I had license and registration on the dashboard. There was also the legal-ownership document signed by Charles Zuma in my breast pocket. These I handed to a man who had somehow managed to despise me with no personal knowledge whatsoever.

L. Bowen and his partner, E. Simmons, pored over the documents while discussing my fate. I didn’t hear what they said but I imagined that they were considering whether or not they could roust me without incurring the ire of the LAPD brass. Finally L. returned my papers.

“You were three miles over the speed limit, but we’ll let you off with a warning this time,” he said.

“The Beverly Hills limit or the hot pursuit one?” I asked. I shouldn’t have.

They had me get out of the car and put my hands on the roof of the Rolls while they patted me down. They gave me a ticket, knowing I’d never pay it.

The whole process took about half an hour. If I added up all the half hours the police, security forces, MPs, bureaucrats, bank tellers, and even gas station attendants had stolen from my life, I could make me a twelve-year-old boy versed in useless questions, meaningless insults, and spite as thick as black tar.

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