Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 15

"Shh," Deon said as he propped himself up against the headboard, more intent on watching himself on ESPN's The NBA Today. "You should be looking at me," he told Charlie, pointing to the television at the foot of the bed.

"The D.A. was cranking on all cylinders at the United Center tonight," said the announcer's voice over a shot of Deon driving between two Knicks for a slam dunk. "Forty-six points, a whopping nine reboundsa""

"What does he mean, whopping?" asked Deon. "Like I don't rebound. That sonofaa""

"But, honey," Charlie said, "some queers did a numbera""

"Boy, hold on," said Deon, increasing the volume via the remote.

"...but it took this clutch three-pointer late in the fourth by Anthony to send the Knicks packing and the Bulls into the next round against either Charlotte or Boston," said the announcer over the replay of Deon's bomb from the top of the three-point arch with twenty seconds left. New York never recovered; the Bulls were on to round three.

"Listen, Deon," Charlie insisted. "These Kentucky cops got a bloodbath, literally, by some angry queens wearing leather hoods."

Deon muted the television and listened intently as Charlie read aloud the entire article, his husky voice full of dramatics, especially during the descriptions of the cops injuries.

"What do you think about all this?" Deon asked when Charlie was finished.

"s.h.i.t, I love it! Every Mark Furman, Jr., in this country needs to have some sense beaten into him. Bap. Bap. Bap." He jerked his shoulders side to side as if taken the blows himself. "Why, what do you think?"

Deon smiled a knowing, c.o.c.ky smile. "Charlie, my girl, have I got news for you."

JASPER WAS IN THE study of his Manhattan penthouse when he heard the news. He was at his rolltop desk, working his way through a stack of spreadsheets, when CNC's Bobbie Baretta, the female anchor with the blonde helmet, caught his attention on the small television on the bar next to the desk:

"Two Kentucky police officers are in critical condition tonight after being brutally attacked late last night."

"Jasper, look," said Bruce, glancing up from the Newsweek he was reading on the chaise lounge in the far corner. They fell silent listening to the report. Details were sketchy. Only one of the cops could even talk and no witnesses could be found. When the report was over, a smile found its way to Jasper's face.

"Monsters," Bruce suddenly said, catching Jasper off guard.

Jasper turned to him, sizing him up like never before. "Indeed," he then said, and once again, returned to his spreadsheets.

" 'DON'T EXPLETIVE WITH queers,' the notes both warned," said the white-haired anchorman from the CNC Headline Network, Jasper's other news channel.

"Oh, go ahead and say it, d.a.m.n it!" Oth.e.l.lo shouted to the small white television on the wall in a corner of the Big House kitchen. "Don't f.u.c.k with queers, Blanche, darling; it's don't f.u.c.k with queers!" He laughed at himself, clearly enjoying today's top story. "They show the cops being carted away in pools of blood, but they can't say the word f.u.c.k on TV. I like that word. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k."

"Now this is the only thing I know how to cook, but I cook it well," Raider said as he stirred a steaming twelve-quart pot on the kitchen's center island. "Back in college, half the lacrosse team survived on this in hard times."

"Hard times for a bunch of Dartmouth boys?" Oth.e.l.lo said incredulously. He was leaning against the island, his back to Raider.

Raider glanced up curiously, noting but casting aside the edge in Oth.e.l.lo's voice. "You think our pals from ACTNOW made a little excursion to Kentucky?"

"How should I know?" Oth.e.l.lo moved toward the TV and turned it off. "I've lost touch with ACTNOW since Simi Valley," he said, thankful Raider hadn't been at the lone meeting he attended a week ago.

"Oh, I know you well enough to know you've been in touch with good ol' Travis Little Horse, if nothing else."

"What makes you think you know me at all, Raider?"

Mystified, Raider stopped stirring the pot and returned Oth.e.l.lo's serious gaze. "We talk," he shrugged. "We're getting to know each other, aren't we?"

Silence from Oth.e.l.lo.

"Besides." Raider added some spices to the saut pan. "I happen to think it definitely could have been ACTNOW, the Simi Valley chapter anyway."

No answer.

"And I bet it was all the brainchild of Oth.e.l.lo Hardaway," Raider said, going for a romantic and playful tone. "How else did you know f.u.c.k was the censored word just now?"

Oth.e.l.lo scoffed. "What else could it be? Don't dance with queers? Don't eat with them? It had to be f.u.c.k. f.u.c.k with a queer, get f.u.c.ked."

Raider looked up, trying but failing to read Oth.e.l.lo's face.

"I'll go set the dining room table," Oth.e.l.lo said tersely, grabbing the silverware off the island and escaping the kitchen for the adjacent dining room, a small intimate room done in beechwood with a view of the LA basin below.

It killed him to have this kind of tension with the man he wanted to be The One, but the fact remained: Raider was lying about his life and was not to be fully trusted. He wasn't just an ex-jock who'd spent most of his life in rustic New England hamlets. That much made sense now and jibed with a feeling smoldering within Oth.e.l.lo since the day they met. There was definitely more to Raider Kincaide, instinct told Oth.e.l.lo. The time between Raider's boyhood on Nantucket Island and his arrival at the ACTNOW meeting in West Hollywood had been full of something that made him world-weary and city-wise beyond what a lifetime in a sleepy resort towna"save four years in the Ivy Leaguea"would have afforded. Oth.e.l.lo even had the impulse to have Sweeney recheck Raider's background, but ultimately nixed the idea out of fear of inviting any more trouble into paradise, or killing paradise all together.

But, in truth, there was no paradise since Atlantic City, only frustration and desire that refused to go away, which only made matters worse because Oth.e.l.lo knew that loving a dishonest Raider could not only break his heart, but also destroy the uprising. And even with all the doubt and danger, Oth.e.l.lo still possessed the impulse to fit this square peg into the round hole of his life. Raider just had to be on the up and up and fall completely and irrevocably in love with him, he convinced himself a dozen times a day. And maybe The Lie was a molehill of a lie, one they'd laugh about years down the line, say on their tenth anniversary. Either way, only one option seemed acceptable: keep the man from Nantucket around, test him and still pursue love. Oth.e.l.lo wasn't sure he could stop now even if he tried.

"Pasta la Raider Kincaide," Raider said in an Italian accent, standing at the doorway with a big bowl in hand. In return, he received the first half-smile of the night from Oth.e.l.lo.

Midway through dinner, Raider was relieved that despite the setting, dinner wasn't turning into the romantic affair he had feared. True, soft jazz was playing on some unseen speakers and Oth.e.l.lo's staff had the night off, but not once did Oth.e.l.lo put the moves on hima"no small black hand reaching across the table as they sat on either side of one corner, no deep-meaning looks coming from Oth.e.l.lo's usually piercing eyes, no Oth.e.l.lo playfully trying to feed him or serenading him with "Succulent." Just eating. And small talk. Very small talk. Which, by the end of dinner, led Raider to suspect something was wrong.

"Oth.e.l.lo," Raider said with a gruff laugh. "You don't like my cooking? I smell or something tonight?"

"What do you mean?" Oth.e.l.lo offered nonchalantly.

"If I didn't know any bettera"you're kinda distant. Makes me think it's not my imagination and you have been avoiding me."

"Avoiding you?"

"Since...really Atlantic City. I thought we were okay about that night, my not wanting to dance and all."

"I'm fine," Oth.e.l.lo said with the enthusiasm of a robot. They went back to eating in silence until Raider couldn't stand it anymore.

"So you like my pasta la Raider?"

"Fine."

"I could've put way more garlic in it. Sorry, it's the only thing I know."

"More cooking than I ever done."

End of that train of thought. The silence resumed.

What the h.e.l.l have I done wrong? Raider wondered to himself. Have I said or done something since Atlantic City? In Atlantic City? He racked his brain but came up with nothing. He'd still been working out, using the rowing machine he charged to the bureau, doing his usual push-ups and sit-ups, even boxing near the beach a few times. Was it possible Oth.e.l.lo was no longer attracted to him? No longer impressed with his physique and athleticism?

"Look Oth.e.l.lo," he heard himself say, his voice surprisingly nervous. "Talk to me."

"About what?"

"Anything. Your music. The revolution."

"I don't want to talk music or the revolution."

"Why?"

"I just don't."

"But whya""

"I'm afraida"" Oth.e.l.lo said abruptly, refusing to make eye contact. "I'm afraid I have to cut the evening short. A meeting, you know, first thing in the morning. That's the business, speaking of the business."

For a moment, Raider sat there reactionless. What is it: you don't like me anymore? he felt like saying, but realized how ridiculous that would sound.

They walked like strangers to the front door of the Big House.

"Good night," was all Oth.e.l.lo was going to offer as he opened the door. Then he added: "Let's be in touch. Between my music things."

Otherwise speechless, Raider nodded as he crossed the threshold. Then, after the door was shut, he let out a great big "d.a.m.n."

Inside, Oth.e.l.lo leaned against the door and fought the urge to swing it open and beg Raider to come back inside. Forever. Think with your brain, he pleaded with himself, not your heart, not your soul, and least of all, your d.i.c.k. But as he stood there listening to the sound of Raider's Jeep speeding down the driveway, he took an exhausted, hollow breath, knowing in the end which of the four would win out.

TEN.

"L ADIES AND GENTLEMEN," said the female flight attendant's voice, "as we begin our final descent into Louisville International Airport, please make sure your seat belts are fastened and tray tables fully locked and in the upright position...."

From his aisle seat in coach, Bruce Jones tightened his seat belt a little tighter and began counting backwards from one hundred. He wasn't afraid of flying the way he had been as a child, but some rituals were harder to break than others. If nothing else, it helped him to relax, something he figured he needed on this trip.

Counting backwards worked; the plane landed safely. Br.i.m.m.i.n.g with confidence, he made his way through the gate and into the terminal, holding tight to his briefcase containing his tape recorder and laptop. His first stop would be the rental car counter, then it was on to Elliotville, a small hick town just outside Bowling Green.

THE BEARDED, MIDDLE-AGED f.a.g peered over the deli counter, the girlish goo-goo eyes he was making magnified by his bifocals. "How was the workout?" he asked demurely, nodding toward Raider's sweat-soaked red tank top.

"Fine. Whatever," grunted Raider. Why did everyone in this freaking neighborhood leer at him? If he hadn't been so hungry after the gym, he would have driven to a store in the normal part of town, instead of Mayfair Market in the very bowels of West Hollyweird.

"Thick or thin slices?" asked Four Eyes, no doubt just another excuse to lean over and gawk at Raider's crotch straining through a pair of cut-off gray sweats.

"Thick." He refused to lay eyes on the man again. Instead he surveyed the crowded aisles to his right, thinking: every single guy in the joint is gay except me.

At the checkout line, he hastily chucked the package of roast beef and six pack of Bud Light on the counter, hoping the Mexican checkout girl would get the hint and hurry up with the young Asian "couple" ahead of him. But any idea of a quick exit disintegrated when into the market walked that flaming f.a.g with the flaming red hair who tried to fondle him at the ACTNOW meeting and made such a mess of things at Simi Valley. This time, he was wearing tight leather shorts that stopped at the crotch, tall black army boots and a silver sequined muscle shirt. And, of course, enough ear, nose and eyebrow rings to disgust every G.o.d-fearing mother in America. What was his name? He sure recognized Raider right off, flinging one arm in the air like the world's biggest sissy and heading straight toward him.

"Hey, bupka!" he cried loudly, swishing past the Asians who were on their way out. "Didn't know you shopped at Gayfair." With him was a shorter man who thankfully didn't look as wacked out. His hair was normal and brown, his only visible piercings two sizable loops in both ears. "Freedom," the flamer said, commandeering Raider's hand. "And this here's Davy, non-activist." Regrettably, Raider also shook hands with Davy, whose eyes were just as glowing as the deli f.a.g's, prompting Raider to quickly turn back to the checkout girl who had begun ringing him up. "Haven't seen you at the meetings lately," said Freedom.

"Got what I came for," Raider mumbled to himself while handing the Mexican girl a wad of ones.

"Hope you haven't abandoned us like chickens.h.i.t Davy here."

"Chicken?" Raider repeated absently, more concerned with bagging his own groceries and grabbing the change.

"Maybe your hair scared him off," joked Davy.

Freedom ignored his friend and started to manhandle Raider's right bicep with both hands. "f.u.c.kin'-A, man. We need this."

"Hey!" Raider shouted, s.n.a.t.c.hing his arm back and clenching his fist. Freedom gasped and his buddy jumped back. They were on the verge of a scene, Raider realized, stealing a glance at the checkout girl and the line forming behind him. "Look," he began unsteadily, dropping his arm and trying unsuccessfully to find a friendlier tone. What do you say to a freak like this? "s.h.i.t. Talk to you later" was all he could come up with, then he swiped up his groceries and walked away without waiting for a response.

Outdoors, the California sunshine was a welcomed sight. As the market's doors closed behind him, he dumped the roast beef in a trash bin in front of the store and walked hurriedly to his car. Right now, the thought of eating anything handled by a gay guy....

He collapsed in his Jeep, out of breath as if he'd gone through more than the mental gymnastics it took shopping at Mayfair Market. With the plastic bag holding the six pack in his lap, he slumped over until his head was resting on the wheel. "Get the job done and get the h.e.l.l out of here," he ordered himself.

This was the hardest UC work he'd ever done. Pretending to be a dope dealer who got off peddling crack to junkie mothers was cake compared to pretending to be a f.a.g. He knew at any time he could call it quits, say adis to Oth.e.l.lo and Boystown and return home to his Harleys, his son and Sally's Bar and Grill. It was FBI policy. Yet that option never seriously entered his head. Why? he asked himself daily. Simply put, he could smell the glory. Each night, going to bed in that West Hollywood apartment, he envisioned the legendary status sure to be his amongst the boys in the bureau after Panty-Raider Kincaide ferreted out this whole bizarre plot against G.o.d and country by three world-famous, in-the-closet h.o.m.os. Why, he could retire on the book and movie rights alone, not to mention becoming a fabled agent whose name was invoked with reverence by and for all the rookies at Quantico, just like his boss and mentor Dockweiller.

But in the deepest recesses of his mind, Raider also knew there was more to his drive than mere fame and fortune. By becoming submerged in the gay world, he was exploring territory he never thought he'd explore in twelve lifetimes. Not that he ever, ever wanted to have s.e.x with a guy, but now, at least while he was under for the count, he could let his mind roam a little freer and think about things he previously didn't know how to think about, nor want to think about. Over the last several weeks, certain memories would pop up out of the blue like ghosts, until now hidden in the shadows of his psyche.

On the plane out to LA, he had told himself he never once thought about being with another guy. Now, he had to confess this was untrue, as unnerving as it was to admit. When he was a kida"fifteen, maybe sixteena"he thought about h.o.m.o-s.e.x more than once, but more in the sense of wondering why one guy would want to be with another guy. To try to figure that one out, he would imagine putting his mouth on one of his buddy's d.i.c.ks or having that buddy's lips around his own p.e.n.i.s. It seemed so weird, he remembered thinking every single time. He also imagined getting cornholed, even stuck his finger up his b.u.t.t once, when he was seventeen. But it hurt like h.e.l.l and that's when he knew for sure he'd never be a f.a.g. What a relief, the teenage Raider thought.

There were also other memories that now demanded attention, like all the crazy questions he and his pals used to put to each other in high school. It was always a matter of: if you were forced to choose, which would you rather do? Eat a ninety year-old woman's p.u.s.s.y, or give a buddy a b.l.o.w. .j.o.b? Have your right arm cut off, or only have s.e.x with guys for the rest of your life? Take a d.i.c.k in your a.s.s, or in your mouth? Lick a filthy public toilet seat in the restrooms near the beach, or let Philip La.r.s.en, the school f.a.g, suck your d.i.c.k? Posing these kinds of stupid questions was their favorite past time while hanging out at the sh.o.r.e, drinking beer. And now that Raider thought about it, the questions almost always had to do with h.o.m.o-s.e.x. If anyone ever sounded as though they would actually commit any of the gay acts, everyone else would laugh in disgust and called that person a f.a.g for a couple of minutes. But the h.o.m.o-s.e.x option was almost always part of the game.

And then there was Lenny, his best friend at Dartmouth, the straightest guy Raider knew other than himself. Together, the two of them terrorized Hanover, New Hampshire, for four years, not missing one hot girl or killer party between them. They hardly kept in touch these daysa"Lenny had snorted his life awaya"but back then Raider and Lenster must have screened every straight p.o.r.no video on the market and they never failed to talk about the male star's "hose-potential" and how they both loved to see the stud j.i.z.z in the movies. "We can admit that to each other because we're not f.a.gs," Lenny used to say. And when he got drunk, which was often, he also used to say, "Panty-Raider, man, before I die, I'm gonna f.u.c.k you in the a.s.s, man, I swear." To that, Raider would laugh, then they'd hit each other, hurl a derogatory name or two and start wrestling or boxing.

To think now that Lenster might have really meant it, that Not-So-Skinny Lenny might have had gay tendencies. For the first time in his life, Raider conceived it as possible. No way did Lenny Jerricho look like a f.a.g, but neither did some of the guys Raider saw walking around West Hollywood. Some of them actually came off like guys he could have played sports with. Did Lenny turn out to be gay? What about the buddies of his youth who used to joke about it so much? Any of them ever try it? Ever want to?

Drudging up all these incidents from the past was unsettling at best, yet Raider couldn't control the mechanism in his brain that rendered these memories insignificant until now. It was this job, he knew, and West Hollywood and Oth.e.l.lo pursuing him. And Freedom and ACTNOW and Jasper Hollinquest and Deon Anthonya"Deon Anthony for Christ's sake; who wasn't gay? Who didn't think about it? One thing was for sure: Raider wanted to bust the case and get the h.e.l.l out of Boystown before he had to deal with that $64,000 question.

He lifted his head off the steering wheel and started the engine, trying to forget about Freedom and the deli guy as he flicked on the radio. A rock song was playing. Thank G.o.d it wasn't Oth.e.l.lo. To avoid the prospect of hearing his sultry come-ons, he turned it to an all-news station, hoping to catch some baseball scores. What he heard instead as he pulled away from the parking lot and onto Santa Monica Boulevard was a woman's voice reporting the news: "...will not say if the beatings in Tallaha.s.see and Bradenton, Florida, three days ago, as well as the one yesterday in a Dallas suburb, are linked to the attacks in Elliotville, Kentucky. However, CBS Radio News has obtained information that similar notes have been left at all four sites, reading: F-word with a queer, get F-word, past tense. So far, no one has been killed, but several victims remain hospitalized."

"s.h.i.t," Raider said, feeling like somebody sucker-punched him in the face.

f.u.c.k with a queer, get f.u.c.ked.