Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 14

Eight Armani-suited executives scurried out of Jasper's Manhattan office. When they were gone, he smiled at his two most trusted colleagues standing on either side of his chaira"the white-haired Browning and the bald Hoppera"and aimed a large remote control toward the bank of televisions on the opposite wall, turning all twelve of them on his toy, CNC, and his boy, Bruce Jones, who was standing on bustling Madison Avenue, thin blond hair blowing in the wind, looking like the recent Missouri School of Journalism graduate that he was.

"At a time when charitable contributions are otherwise becoming more and more scarce," he began, "some gays and lesbians have found a new source of support and are calling it a welcomed ray of hope."

"Give it to us," Jasper said with a proud grin.

"The Triangle Fund has been in place only a few weeks and has already given out over twenty-five grants." The report cut to footage inside the Fund's office in a New York brownstone. Half a dozen gay men and women were answering phones, working on computers, conferring on reports, all looking quite business-like. "AIDS organizations and political activist groups are chief among the applicants so far, but fund spokesman Harold Bookman" a"cut to a shot of Harold, the black man in his forties Jasper had chosen to run thingsa" "says the Triangle Fund will consider any and all requests for grants from the gay and lesbian community."

On the big black sofa in his den, a comfortable smile wiped across Deon Anthony's face as he watched Jasper's lover's report. This is a good thing, he concluded, extending the remote to turn up the volume, but not too much lest he wake Charlie, who was sound asleep against his left shoulder. d.a.m.n, he said to himself with amazement. I'm finally doing something for my gay side. 'Bout time.

"CUT, PRINT, CHANGE wardrobe," barked the director, a hefty blonde woman who couldn't have been more than twenty-five. Consciously, Oth.e.l.lo didn't hear her. It took the rumblings of the cast and crew surrounding him to bring him back into the present. Then, once he realized he had a few moments of freedom, he rose up from the stool he'd been ensconced on for the past few twenty minutes, untangled himself from the two black supermodels bookending him and stormed through the stark set that consisted of nothing more than the stool in front of a neon version of the American flag.

Just outside the soundstage was his trailer. When he reached it, he flung the door open, then slammed it shut just as furiously, his actions immediately followed by Sweeney flinging the door open again and joining him inside.

"That went well," Sweeney began, then quickly corrected himself. "What am I saying? That sucked. O, could you act like you actually know the models are there? Try to have something called chemistry with them? I really want you to think about having this Sharon woman direct your next videoa""

"There's not going to be any next video." Oth.e.l.lo jerked off the leather jacket that resembled an American flag and slammed it on top of the TV set, knocking over a beverage tray full of sodas in the process. "Rock the f.u.c.king vote," he said, referring to the public service announcement they'd been shooting all afternoon for MTV. "Why should I tell young America to get off their a.s.ses and vote when we've got uptight a.s.sholes like Jimmy Herman around for decades? I should be telling them to rock the f.u.c.king offices, storm 'em and...." He s.n.a.t.c.hed a clock off the desk and threw it down the corridor of the trailer. It smashed against the wall.

Sweeney remained silent until he was sure Oth.e.l.lo was done. "What you're doing with the Triangle Fund is admirable and more than enough."

Oth.e.l.lo scoffed.

"What more can you do?" pleaded Sweeney.

With both hands, Oth.e.l.lo rubbed his head, which was shaved bald for the shoot. He didn't answer Sweeney. The Log Cabin Republican wouldn't understand. He'd loved and been loved by the same man for years. No nasty virus inside the gay Ozzie and Harriet, Oth.e.l.lo was willing to bet. As much as he truly loved his manager....

He remained silent.

"Better let you change for the next shot," Sweeney said. "And there will be a next video. And soon."

Oth.e.l.lo rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, waiting until he heard the door shut to breathe again.

What more can you do?

There was a rap song by some brutha whose name escaped him. How did it go? If I could just kill a man. If I wanted to kill a man. I would kill a man. Something along those lines, but definitely resolute about the rapper's ability to snuff out the life of somebody who stood in his way.

Maybe I should do a song like that, he thought. A song of protest instead of getting more tangled up with Jasper and Deon, instead of Joe becoming linked to Simi Valley and eventually exposed, instead of having my life ripped to shreds by a man claiming to be attracted to me but unwilling to hold me and dance in the moonlight. A song of protest instead of trying to find somebody to put a bullet in Senator Evil's brain.

Good G.o.d, can I really end the life of another human being just like that? Even one as vile and despicable as the fat-a.s.s senator from South Carolina?

He tried to wander around the small confines of the trailer, but felt trapped, so he sat on the coffee table, the image of Jimmy Herman being felled by a bullet resonating in his mind like no other time since the night he found out he was positive.

The life dropped out of his stomach. His palms began to sweat. Was he shaking?

If I could kill a man? Would I kill a man?

What made perfect sense beforea"start an uprising with the a.s.sa.s.sination of Jimmy Hermana"seemed so utterly senseless all of a sudden. Was it the fact that his plan was in motion, albeit seemingly slow motion? Or was it Raider's lie, big or small, that only reinforced the mind-numbing fact that deceit and slip-ups by anyonea"Jasper, Deon, Travis, Raider, Sweeney, himself, anyonea"could someday lead to Oth.e.l.lo being caught and exposed to the world, his whole life, his s.e.xuality, the virus and his crazy scheme to kill a politician fodder for a thousand nights of tabloid and network TV, a plot that would rank right up there with O.J.?

"What the h.e.l.l am I doing?"

He tried to stand but couldn't.

Maybe a song of protest would be better, he told himself, partially trying to lighten the mood. But in the next second, he squashed the idea and rather scoldingly: Yeah, right, while I'm telling the world "baby, baby I want yo' p.u.s.s.y, can't live without that p.u.s.s.y, lots and lots of p.u.s.s.y, oh, how I live for p.u.s.s.y," I'll tell them I got the urge to kill a man who stands in the way of f.a.ggots' rights. The reason? Oh, by the way, America, and Southeast Asia, where I made fifteen million alone on my last alb.u.m and tour, I'm a big f.u.c.king h.o.m.o myself. La dee da.

Killing a man in secret was a h.e.l.luva lot easier than that. Wasn't it?

At the Big House that night, in his bedroom, which had been repaired to look as good as new, he replayed the videotape of Jimmy Herman's venom, listening over and over to hours of anti-gay sludge whose vile and logic was mind-boggling.

Then, at about 3:00 a.m., he firmly decided: yes, he could have a b.a.s.t.a.r.d like Herman snuffed out, and with Oth.e.l.lo's smarts and determination and vision, he could get away with it. And this was the best way to breathe new life into the revolution and his own gay soul. It was acceptable. It was necessary. With Jimmy Herman, it was downright justified.

THE ALLEYWAY WAS dark and almost empty. Halfway down, a tall Latino man stood behind an old station wagon. The white man who had been facing him only moments before was now on his knees and out of sight, presumably sucking away. At the other end, a lone heavyset man lurked desperately in a doorway, hands in pockets, waiting for more prey. It was a slow night. Midweek. One of the reasons this was a good place to meet.

"Forget about Simi Valley," the old man Joe told Travis. They were standing shoulder to shoulder behind a dumpster. "The old lady is back in the game and more p.i.s.sed off than ever."

"Do tell," Travis said. "What about the help she spoke of?"

"Slow right now, just like the cruising around here." Joe glanced around to make sure they still had privacy. If any men saw Travis, they might be drawn to that long black hair and sequoia-like figure in jeans, but no one was gonna touch ol' beer-bellied Joe with a ten foot anything. "Her friends will come around, she a.s.sures me. The old lady has a way of making people come around."

"The more the merrier," said Travis.

"How many are still with us from Level 2a"that's what I call the Simi Valley faction."

"Good name for it. Me and Freedom, of course, and six others. Beth, who got left behinda"she's out. So's her lover. They both freaked. So did two others. But eight of us are ready for more. And we threatened to cut Freedom's b.a.l.l.s off if he ever pulls another stunt like that again."

"Eight is plenty. Tell them to be ready. At a moment's notice. Time to work."

The smile on Travis's face said he couldn't agree more.

"I CAN'T SEE THE Fund aiding them, no." Jasper circled the oak desk in the middle of the Royal Suite, pa.s.sing Deon who was pacing in the opposite direction.

"What they're doing is just as legit as your crime watch groups," said Oth.e.l.lo. He was also pacing the floor, as they'd all been for the last few minutes. "Or your black hospices, Deon."

"How we gonna control people like that?" Deon argued. He was the reason they were meeting at the Palace in Atlantic City. The Bulls had just polished off the Knicks at Madison Square Garden to take a commanding 3-1 lead in their series. "We give them money, next thing you know they've used it to, I don't know, burn something."

"You might have ties to ACTNOW," said Jasper, "but you can't convince us that you can control groups like Queer Nation and Gay Rage."

Oth.e.l.lo paused. "Okay, then. How about just my gang, ACTNOW? ACTNOW we can control."

"Even so," said Jasper. "The Triangle Fund isn't for them."

"You're right," said Oth.e.l.lo. "I now see the error of my thinking. If we funnel money to them, it's got to be cash on the sly, no publicity, no CNC pieces. Just private backing through their leader, Travis Little Horse, like I was doing on my own before the Three Wis.e.m.e.n."

"You trust him that much?" Jasper stopped pacing and stood across the desk from Oth.e.l.lo.

"How?" Deon stood next to Jasper.

"The disguise I once mentioned." He put on his scratchy voice. "Just call me Old Man Joe, a gardener for a rich old widow." He told them about the fool-proof disguise and the envelopes of cash he doled out to Travis to be used how the old lady wanted. "So far he hasn't given me the slightest reason to think he'd put a knife in my back."

Jasper moved closer to Oth.e.l.lo, as if to further scrutinize him. "There was an old black man seen running from that deal in Simi Valley."

Oth.e.l.lo sighed. "I didn't mean to get that intimate with the hands-on operation, but yes, it was me. And was it ACTNOW? Yes and no. It was more like an offshoot comprised of people willing to go a step further than the rest of the group. I call them Level 2."

"You believe in taking chances don't you," Jasper said warily.

"The old man has been officially dropped as a suspect," said Oth.e.l.lo. "There's no link."

Taking it all in, Deon sat down at the desk.

"I could still give them cash on my own," Oth.e.l.lo said, "but I want this to be a group effort. United we stand, et cetera et cetera."

"The blond fellow who helped the woman," Jasper said, trying to remember the CNC report on the incident. "Who was he?"

"Just a guy." Oth.e.l.lo averted his eyes to the floor. "One of the soldiers."

"What do they want to do next?" Jasper asked, his tone full of curiosity, amazement or both. "This Level 2, or would it be 3 now?"

"What would you have them do?" asked Oth.e.l.lo. "Any hatemongers p.i.s.s you off lately?"

Deon, who had been quiet for a while, put his long legs on the desk and thought about Charlie, who had to run for his life last week. He'd been shopping near Michigan Avenue, not even dressed as Charlene, but he must have been swishing up a storm like he always did when he was on a shopping trip. Turning up a side street, he found himself being chased by four, maybe five guys who started calling him names and saying they were gonna rape his a.s.s with a crowbar. He got away only after dropping most of the bags he was carrying and running into a restaurant. He came home crying and terrified, reminded of his days and nights on the street.

"Maybe we can help them somewhat," Deon suddenly heard himself say, but decided against telling them about his lover's ordeal. "On the sly through this Joea"but maybe not."

"We can vote on their acts just like the Fund," said Oth.e.l.lo. "Think of them as our personal strong arm."

"This s.h.i.t is pretty dangerous," Deon said.

"So is being a f.a.ggot in the good ol' U. S. of A."

Oth.e.l.lo walked over to the window overlooking the casino, giving Deon time to think about his boyfriend's little run for his life in Chicago. He made a mental note to praise Travis and his buddies for a job well done, especially seeing as how they carried out the orders blindly. Travis had said Charlie was scared s.h.i.tless, tossed his loot and p.i.s.sed in his pants. Poor kid. Anything for the cause though. Terrorizing one Charlie might save a hundred Charlies from the real deal. This was war. In war, there had to be sacrifices. He turned back to his partners. "So, Wis.e.m.e.n, do we evolve into even more powerful m.u.t.h.a f.u.c.kas or not?"

"By doing what?" asked Jasper. "Get specific."

Oth.e.l.lo paused, then made his way to the desk where he retrieved a folder and handed both Jasper and Deon a series of newspaper clippings. "In a small Kentucky town, three weeks ago, a thirty-six year-old gay man named Jeffrey Glenn was arrested for lewd conduct in a cruisy park. Mr. Glenn had AIDS and was on his last legs. Now, I don't know if he was cruising or not, but according to another friend who was with him, when Glenn told the police he had AIDS and wasn't there for s.e.x, the cops roughed him up quite a bit, calling him everything from a fruitcake to an infected f.a.ggot and smacking him with their batons every time he tried to plead his case. Three hours later, Jeffrey Glenn was found dead in an isolated jail cell. Official word is he hanged himself, but the coroner's report says he had four broken ribs and internal bleeding."

"Must have been black, too," said Deon.

"In this case, being a queer with AIDS was enough."

"Says here one inmate heard him crying for help for hours," said Jasper. "But the officersa"the same two that arresting him also were supposed to guard him at the stationa"refused to give Glenn medical attention because he was bleeding and they didn't want to go near him."

Oth.e.l.lo shook his head. "The friend he was with alleges he heard the cops say they were gonna finish Glenn off at the jail."

"So the friend is the key witness," said Jasper.

"Yeah, yeah," Oth.e.l.lo said, "and internal affairs is doing their investigation, but we all know what that'll lead to. Plus, the friend won't get involved, says he's tired of fighting the system and he's dying, too." Oth.e.l.lo paused to let the whole thing sink into their collective conscience. "The people left over from Level 2a"they want to go to Kentucky and pay the two arresting cops a visit."

"What kind of a visit?" Jasper asked. Oth.e.l.lo told them. Both Jasper and Deon fell silent, digesting the plan. Waiting for an answer, Oth.e.l.lo sat down on the couch underneath the casino window. Several minutes pa.s.sed without a word, no one making eye contact, each Wiseman locked in his own private reflection.

Finally, Deon was the first to speak.

"Do it," he uttered, thinking of all the creeps who ever chased Charlie, not to mention J-Boy, his first lover who was just as effeminate and probably got hara.s.sed just as much.

Oth.e.l.lo checked the triumphant yelp swelling in his chest and turned to his other partner. "Hollinquest?"

Jasper rubbed his chin. "Give her a shot."

"Gentlemen," Oth.e.l.lo began, not bothering to conceal his grin, "next time we're in the Temple, please remind me to nail one of those red pins into the bluegra.s.s hills of Kentucky."

JACK GATOa"TALL, burly, mid-forties with a black bushy mustache and dark Russian featuresa"entered his ranch-style home in Elliotville, Kentucky, thoroughly exhausted from a ten-hour shift upholding the law. It was 8:00 p.m. and the whole house was dark. His wife Sally and ten year-old daughter Megan were apparently out. Odd, he thought. They hadn't called down to the station to tell him they wouldn't be home tonight. He pondered this rare aberration in the family routine as he grabbed the mail off the television set just inside the front door and absently reached for the adjacent floor lamp.

Jack Gato never turned on the light. The next thing he knew, chunks of his body were being crushed with ma.s.sive force, his back, his gut, his groin, his cheek, his other cheek, his skull. Baseball bats...thugs...three of them...maybe four...with no faces...dark faces...dark masks...stockings...no black leather....

It all happened too fast. He was unconscious in fifteen seconds flat, a limp entanglement of flesh showered in blood. A small white piece of paper floated down toward the floor, slow and graceful like a lazy snowflake, landing in front of his body, which was lying in the fetal position. Don't f.u.c.k with queers, the snowflake read.

TOOLEY SIMS, a thirty-six year-old red-headed country boy who'd never been out of the state of Kentucky, knocked on the back door of Harlan's Barber Shop, calling out Harlan's name several times. It was way past closing time, which was sundown, but ol' Harlan had cut Tooley's hair since Tooley was a toddler, and Tooley had a date with LouAnn Hubbard tonight, so Harlan had agreed to meet him at the shop after supper.

Having come right over as soon as he got off duty, Tooley was running a bit early. The shop was still dark and empty. Tooley lumbered his tall, spidery body back toward his black pickup truck parked in the alley, ready to prop up his feet on the dash and catch a few Z's 'cause Lord knows LouAnn Hubbard could wear out half the force before she got tired.

He was just about to open the door and hop in the cab when two men came out of nowhere from the right. At first, he thought they were n.i.g.g.e.rs, but then he realized the blackness he was seeing wasn't skin, but dark gloves and clothes and hoods. Instinct told Tooley right away they were after him on the count of what he'd done to that f.a.g in jail.

"Freeze!" He whipped out his gun, but they kept coming, baseball bats pounding in their hands. He shot the f.a.ggot on the right, a direct hit to the chest. Both would-be attackers stopped. The wounded one staggered a step before hunching over and falling to the ground. Tooley lowered his gun, staring and gasping at his work. Then, he realized he should order the other guy to get down on the ground. But it was too late. The back of Tooley's skull came crashing into his eyes. The last thing he saw was the wounded man leaping up, his body unblemished, as if he'd hadn't been hit at all. As if he'd been wearing a bulletproof vest, Tooley realized as his gun fell from his hand and clunked on the pavement. He felt his body twist and turn violently, giving way to blow after blow by two more hooded men behind him.

He remained conscious through the whole thing, but his mind was nowhere near coherent. When the blows ceased, he was on the ground, his lower body rolled halfway underneath his truck, rivers of blood coating his face. The eye pressed into the concrete was partially open, and with it, he was able to make out a blurry cloud of white as close as his eyelash, as thin and flat as a small piece of paper. Or an oversized snowflake.

"CHECK THIS OUT, baby," Charlie said from the other side of the bed, indicating the newspaper he was reading. "Front page, tooa""