Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 16

Those were Oth.e.l.lo's exact words in the kitchen the other night. Like h.e.l.l ACTNOW isn't involved, he thought with disgust. And that shrimpy little black motherf.u.c.ker is in there right along with them.

Eastbound traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard was b.u.mper to b.u.mper. He swung the car around and hung a swift and furious U, cutting off an oncoming city bus and slicing into a small side street heading north toward the Hollywood Hills, home of the rich, famous and, one day very soon, busted.

Snaking his way up the canyons, part of him wanted to do an about-face and head for the LA bureau to set up the wiretapping. Get Oth.e.l.lo to brag about the beating, divulge the how, when, where and why and that would be that. Raider would be on his way back to DC for the hero's welcome and the twisted little threesome would be finished. No championship for D.A. and the Bulls this year. If Deon Anthony was in on this, and that brought up another problem: were Anthony and Jasper Hollinquest involved? And how much? And who else?

Needing more answers before he could close the case, Raider kept going toward the Big House. Since Atlantic City, Oth.e.l.lo had kept his trap shut pretty tightly. Maybe he didn't trust Raider enough. Or maybe there was more to all this than just revenge on some f.a.g-hating good ol' boys. Maybe both.

With a renewed sense of purpose, he powered the Jeep up the last hill and picked up speed on the long plateau overlooking the LA basin, roaring past a handful of tourists taking in the view. At the end of the plateau, a fork in the road wrapped around a chaparral-filled hill. He went right. The road became a winding, narrow street that led to more homes, including Oth.e.l.lo's. Feeling psyched now, he charged through the tunnel of tall trees and stucco walls sealing off rich estates, only slowing down on the last curve before the wrought-iron gates of the Big House, the gates of h.e.l.l, he suddenly thought of them. He was ten yards away from the intercom box when a dilapidated tan car farther down the road caught his eye. It had emerged from what looked like a small wooded area on Oth.e.l.lo's side of the street. The Impala, Raider realized, coming from the entrance they had used that night after Simi Valley. It made a right turn, then sped off in the opposite direction.

Old Man Joe was going somewhere.

Raider jerked the wheel to keep from pulling into Oth.e.l.lo's property, instead veering into the driveway on the opposite side to avoid being spotted by Oth.e.l.lo's cameras and guards. Then, just as swiftly, he put the Jeep in reverse, made a three-point turn and headed in the direction from which he came.

Just before reaching the tourists' plateau again, he stopped abruptly just this side of the chaparral-filled hill. As he did, the Impala sped past from the other p.r.o.ng of the fork in the road that intersected the plateau. Raider had been right: there was only one way out of the small maze of roads near the Big House. As sure as anything, there was Old Man Joe, hunched over humbly, head forward, both hands clutching the wheel, looking to someone in the know like a man on a mission as he pa.s.sed the view of LA.

Raider waited for the Impala to disappear, then killed the ignition, grabbed his gym bag and hopped out of the Jeep. On the ridge were two sets of tourists fifteen feet aparta"a hefty middle-aged couple and a quartet of thirty-somethings. Their cars were abandoned by the road while they marveled at the unending sprawl of Los Angeles below. He ambled toward the first car, a navy Explorer. Unlocked, no keys. The second one, a dark green Grand Am, was ten feet behind it. Unlocked, with keys. Windows down. Just stopped to look at the view. Must not be from LA. Or just plain stupid. In no time, he started the engine, turned the car around and sped off across the plateau, ignoring the panicked middle-aged couple screaming at the back of their disappearing car. Oth.e.l.lo would recognize the Jeep, but not Ma and Pa Kettle's rental deal.

Still, he'd have to be careful. He raced through the hills, fast at first, then, when the Impala was in sight, he stayed back just far enough to catch a glimpse of its taillights disappearing around each curve ahead of him. On the straightaways, when he could take his hands off the wheel, he retrieved from his gym bag his sungla.s.ses and the white T-shirt he meant to put on after his workout. He tied the shirt around his head like a bandanna, hiding his blond locks, and put on the sungla.s.ses to mask his eyes. Catching a glimpse of himself in the rear view, he looked like a rocker type or surfer or just plain madman, but hopefully one Oth.e.l.lo wouldn't be able to recognize.

At the bottom of the hill, there was a long slope that spilled onto the flat streets of Hollywood. At the end of the slope was a stoplight. The Impala was already there, alone, waiting for green. When Raider saw this, he held back a bit, flipped down the sun visor to further camouflage himself and crept toward the Impala, hoping the light would change before they found themselves idling there inches apart. But the light didn't budge and he had no choice but to come right up behind Oth.e.l.lo. Anything else would have called even more attention to the Grand Am.

"Turn, you mother," Raider commanded the signal through his teeth. It didn't obey. Scratching his nose to hide more of his face, he saw the old man'sa"he saw Oth.e.l.lo'sa"head arch up toward his rear view mirror, searching. Did he recognize Raider? What the h.e.l.l would Raider say? Why was he coming down the hill in a Grand Am? What the h.e.l.l was a T-shirt doing on his head?

Instinctively, Raider felt his hand toot the horn. A split second before, the light had changed and like so many LA drivers, Raider was being an impatient a.s.shole. Oth.e.l.lo appeared to fidget, then took off, waving an apologetic hand out the window, apparently too nervous to realize it was one Raider Kincaide.

Following the Impala was child's play, Spy Games 101, the congestion of LA only making it easier to blend in with the ma.s.ses of chrome and steel but still keep track of a vehicle that couldn't get too far away in the maddening traffic. Oth.e.l.lo headed south; Raider headed south. Through the streets of Hollywood they drove, past double-decker tourists buses and souped-up low riders on the road, and rail-thin rockers dressed in black and hookers dressed in as little as possible on the sidewalks. Before long, Oth.e.l.lo made a left turn and headed east. Raider got stuck at the stoplight, behind two slow-moving cars, but caught back up with the Impala three blocks later, still staying a cool distance behind. Next, the Impala pa.s.sed the Chinese Theater with all the stars' hand- and footprints. A few seconds later, Raider pa.s.sed the Chinese Theater. After several more blocks, the Impala pa.s.sed Capitol Records, the building that looked like a stack of records or pancakes, depending on one's interpretation. Soon after, Raider pa.s.sed Capitol Records.

Half a mile later, the Impala turned toward the Hollywood sign, dipping into a residential neighborhood at the foothills and leaving the traffic behind. With no other cars to cover him, Raider let the light turn red without making the same left turn. Instead, he checked out the intersection and fetched his cell phone out of his gym bag.

"Kincaide here," he began once the LA Bureau answered. "I need you to pick up a black Jeep from Vesper Canyon Road. Hold on to it. And wash it for me while you're at it. I don't know how you guys live with this soot and smog day after day. What must your lungs look like?a"oh, and you might need to take care of some p.i.s.sed-off tourists who lost their rental car."

He hung up the phone, and made the turn, finding himself on a quiet but large street lined with palm trees and homes a quarter the size of the Big House. The Impala was nowhere in sight. He crept down the road, pretending to be absorbed in the rock song on the radio, tapping the steering wheel and bobbing his T-shirted head while surveying the many side streets that shot off this main boulevard.

On the fifth side street, pay dirt. A block down, the back of the Impala was disappearing into a driveway on the right. A few minutes later, the Grand Am drove toward the house, then past it. It was a modest one-story stucco number sitting atop a small hill with stone steps leading up to the front door. No cars were parked outside. The Impala was safely tucked away inside the attached garage. All the windows were sealed off with dark curtains. No sign of life inside or out, although Raider knew all too well that didn't mean there weren't armed guards around the place, not to mention cameras, dogs or whatever else a paranoid pop star with a criminal mind might use to protect himself. At the end of the block was a parking s.p.a.ce on the opposite side of the street. Deciding it was far enough away, Raider took it, and keeping his sungla.s.ses and headdress on, got out of the car, gym bag in tow.

Before turning onto the boulevard that led to this side street, he had noticed a market on the corner of the main drag. Glad he was still in his tank and shorts from the workout, he jogged the five blocks. It was a small market, mom-and-pop variety, and just as he'd hoped, a couple of bikes were parked outside.

Like a typical Angeleno out for an afternoon ride through the neighborhood, he was soon cruising down the boulevard on a raggedy old mountain bike. Amazing what people will do for you when you flash 'em a federal ID, promise 'em 500 bucks to replace their old bike and tell 'em you'll make sure they'll be on the TV reenactment. He pedaled slowly as he turned onto the street of the house of the Impala, swaying side-to-side as if he had nowhere to go, musing vacantly at the houses pa.s.sing by. His sungla.s.ses still covered half his face, but now, a bike helmet replaced the T-shirt on his head. Headphones dangled from his ears, leading to a device that resembled a ca.s.sette headset and was situated inside his bag swinging from the handlebars.

He didn't even acknowledge the house in question as he pa.s.sed, riding on the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, pretending to be consumed by music. Then, just past the house, the bike jerked as if something mechanical had gone wrong. Appearing surprised, he halted, dismounted and took up the body language of someone mystified as he knelt down and checked the gears, spokes, chain, pedala"every inch of his supposedly broken-down bike, never once eyeing the house across the street. With a long line of parked cars between the house and himself, he also used the time to adjust the k.n.o.bs on the headset inside his gym bag, at first getting interference, then voices: "...the Dodgers have won eleven and lost four so far in the month of May...." came from somebody's radio.

"...she no home right now. You call back?" came from a man with a Latino accent.

"...the lawn or no allowance...." a woman was saying inside another house.

He peered through the windows of the white BMW beside him and saw a woman in her front window in the house next to the house of the Impala. She was straightening the curtains. Must be Allowance Mom. He tweaked the headset once again.

"...the guy in Dallas might have brain damage," said a white man's voice.

Finally, something worth listening to.

There was another voice: "The guy in Dallas threw jars of acid on people coming out of gay bars as he drove by. Maybe brain damage will improve his IQ."

The distinctive snarl of Oth.e.l.lo, no doubt about it. Next came the white man's voice again: "All punks who prey on young boys in search of their s.e.xuality in parks need an att.i.tude adjustment in the form of brain damage. Makes me want to meet Travis Little Horse and our foot soldiers and personally thank them face-to-face."

Gotta be Hollinquest.

"If only we Three Wis.e.m.e.n could," said Oth.e.l.lo.

Three Wis.e.m.e.n, Raider thought. That's what they call themselves, c.o.c.ky fools. Must mean Deon's there. Speak up, buddy boy, give your country something to indict you on. Talk to my little tape machine here, you big all-star, defending-NBA-champion f.a.ggot.

"Take my word for it." It was Oth.e.l.lo again. "Travis tells me these guys are loving it, traveling around in the middle of the night, putting on their little hoods, crushing bones."

"There's a couple of hung-up guys in the NBA I wouldn't mind sending them after, Malone especially. Can you believe a black redneck?"

Thank you, D.A. Slam dunk.

Inside the Temple, Oth.e.l.lo circled the conference table, bursting with more pride than he'd ever felt as a gay man while Jasper was sticking pushpins in all the latest battle sites: Elliotville, Dallas, Bradenton, Tallaha.s.see. Since the attack in Kentucky, all three Wis.e.m.e.n had relished the idea of counter-bashing, as Jasper had coined it. The elite force responsible was known as Level 3 and consisted of seven men and one woman from the ACTNOW Simi Valley troop. In Florida, they'd targeted two different trios of gay bashers who were let off scot-free by the courts. In Dallas, they bypa.s.sed the judicial system altogether, hunting down the infamous Acid Thrower and sending him on an extended vacation to Parkland Hospital.

"Central Park," said Jasper, pointing to Manhattan on the map. "That's where I want them next. I've got some scores to settle there, even though it won't be the same barbarians who worked me over and broke my nose years ago."

"That's why you like this so much," said Deon, his face hovering over them on the monitor suspended from the ceiling. Due to the playoffs, The D.A. couldn't make it to the Temple in person. He had a date with the Charlotte Hornets in game one of the Eastern Conference finals in a few hours and was using a laptop computer and digital video camera to plug into the meeting from his hotel in Charlotte.

"To counter-bashing." Jasper raised his gla.s.s of champagne. "Don't knock it till you've tried it."

They toasteda"Jasper and Oth.e.l.lo with champagne and Deon with sparkling water.

"Not to break up the party atmosphere," Oth.e.l.lo said, "but we do have business."

"I don't know if I can get serious with you in that." Jasper pointed to Oth.e.l.lo in the old man getup.

"I always wear it to and from the Temple. This time, I kept it on so you two can see for yourself how I keep the foot soldiers in line."

Outside, the sound started to break up in Raider's headphones, bringing him out of the trance he'd been in listening to the gay Goodfellas. He was sitting on the sidewalk, resting against the tire of the BMW, so engrossed he only now spotted the white-haired old lady in a pink robe in the yard directly in front of him. She was watering her rose bushes, but mostly keeping a suspicious eye on him. To throw her off, he remounted the bike and tried to ride off, then stopped as if there was still a problem. Then, messing with the back tire, he listened once again.

Jasper pointed in the general direction of Dixieland on the map. "Seems as though there's these Marines in South Carolina, two of them, just beat up two queers after accidentally walking into a gay bar."

Oth.e.l.lo turned away from Jasper in the room and Deon on the monitor. "Maybe we should move to another part of the country for now."

Jasper eyed him curiously. "Our troops are still in the South aren't they, hiding out, waiting further instruction?"

Deon laughed. "I say we send them after my so-called buddy Big Daddy Callahan, get him to stop pestering me about playoff tickets in Charlotte and that d.a.m.ned golf tournament of his, wants me to get him some white athletes to show up. f.u.c.king racist."

"That's Herman's best good ol' boy, isn't it?" asked Jasper.

"Let's stay out of the Carolinas for now," said Oth.e.l.lo.

"What's wrong?" asked Jasper. "You still want a piece of Herman, don't you?"

Oth.e.l.lo turned to him. "More than any of these fools we're running around clubbing."

"Well, then." Jasper looked him squarely in the eye. "I'm ready to exchange ideas when you are. He's about to cost me another quarter of a billion in Belize."

"He's also about to open upa"get thisa"" said Deon, "The Jimmy Herman Museum of American Decency."

"Heard about it," said Jasper. "He wants it to be like a freaking presidential library and right wing theme park all rolled into one."

Deon laughed. "Trying like h.e.l.l to get me to attend the opening as a fellow legend of South Carolina. Already sent a dozen telegrams to the hotel here."

"What we gonna do about that, Rock Star?" asked Jasper.

For a moment, there was silence, Jasper and Oth.e.l.lo not taking their eyes off each other.

"This isn't the meeting for Jimmy Herman," Oth.e.l.lo said. "D.A. has to get ready to vanquish the Hornets. Jimmy Herman needs our full attention in a full-scale meeting."

"He's right," said Deon. Oth.e.l.lo and Jasper didn't take their eyes off each other. "Let's vote on the next counter-bashes so I can go play ball."

Hearing that the meeting was coming to an end, Raider lifted the rear wheel of the bike, spun it around, and declaring it fixed, took off, giving the meddlesome woman who was still watering her lawn a facetious nod as he pa.s.sed. He ditched the bike on the next block, then returned to the Grand Am and hunkered down in the driver's seat, waiting and replaying just enough of the tape to make sure he had captured the voices of the Three Wis.e.m.e.n in their Temple of Doom: "This isn't the meeting for Jimmy Herman. D.A. has to get ready to vanquish the Hornets. Jimmy Herman needs our full attention in a full-scale meeting."

"He's right. Let's vote on the next counter-bashes so I can go play ball."

The quality wasn't great, but the words were clear. Certainly enough to be the beginning of the end.

Fifteen minutes later, a long black sedan emerged from the garage of the house, backing out of the driveway, its windows except for the front windshield darker than midnight. Upon reaching the street, it turned toward Raider's rental car, forcing him to slump down and out of sight, but not before he caught a quick glimpse of Sweeney playing chauffeur. "Bye-bye, Jasper Hollinquest, you big h.o.m.o," he said, figuring them to be on their way to LAX.

It was another ten minutes before the Impala came creeping down the driveway. "Where we going now, general?" Raider asked, refitting the T-shirt on his head as he watched Oth.e.l.lo heading off in the opposite direction. When the Impala was at the stop sign at the end of the block, Raider began to follow it, but another cara"a white Honda Civic parked a few cars up on Raider's side of the streeta"pulled out in a hurry in front of him, causing Raider to have to break unexpectedly. The lone occupant of the car made no apologies. He was a white man from what Raider could tell, a man who hadn't been in the car when Raider rode past on his bike, nor had he just gotten in the car. Perhaps he too had been slumped down, waiting?

The Impala had already turned and was heading south on the residential boulevard that led to the main streets of Hollywood. The Civic reached the stop sign and made the same right turn. A little more cautious now, Raider idled toward the same point and made the same turn.

Like a caravan, they drove down the main thoroughfare at the foot of the Hollywood Hills, westbound. Traffic was just as heavy as before and Raider barely had sight of the Impala. But this time, he didn't need it. Sure as s.h.i.t, the Civic was following Joe, with bad technique at that, staying too close, always making sure no car separated them, making the lights when the Impala did, even when it meant almost running them. An amateur, Raider deduced, hanging back so he himself wouldn't be spotted.

Through Hollywood they went, retracing the path to the Big House, which Raider took to mean Joe was done for the day. But who was this uninvited third party? And couldn't Oth.e.l.lo see he was being followed so poorly?

"Come on, O, you're smarter than this buffoon."

At a chaotic intersection clogged with construction, the Civic lost Oth.e.l.lo when an orange-vested worker abruptly held up a stop sign from his post in the middle of the street. Deciding this was as good a time as any to get a good look at the driver, Raider, who'd been in the same lane, sped up a bit and cut in front of a long black limo, pulling up right next to the Civic. At first, Raider pretended not to notice him, instead musing at the lingerie store on the right. Then, slowly bobbing his head to a rock ballad on the radio, he glanced over just in time to see the man turning toward Raider. Their faces froze on each other, the man's stare trying to penetrate Raider's sungla.s.ses. Raider knew the man from somewhere, but with the shot of adrenaline he felt, he couldn't place him right away.

The orange-vested worker lowered his stop sign and began waving them through. The man took off, still very much in a hurry. He was from ACTNOW, Raider realized. The guy in his thirties with a beard who had worn black overalls at Simi Valley. Raider stayed in the adjacent lane but picked up speed, understanding this wasn't good news for Oth.e.l.lo.

The canyon road leading to the Big House was a half mile away. Oth.e.l.lo pressed the gas pedal to the cranky old machine a little harder now and eyed the rear view mirror to admire the silly grin he knew was splattered across his face. That was when he noticed a Honda Civic bearing down on him awfully fast. That car had been with him for blocks, his brain tried to tell him. Or was he being paranoid? He turned up the canyon road, but then quickly veered off onto a small side street that circled back around to the boulevard at the foothill. You only took this way if you made a mistake and needed to turn around or you were following the car in front of you. The Civic mimicked the Impala's move. This isn't paranoia, Oth.e.l.lo decided. Once back on the boulevard, he sped up to forty, darting in and out of the other cars in an effort to distance himself. The Civic didn't let up, cutting the same path as Oth.e.l.lo, who tried to get a good look at the driver but couldn't take his eyes off the road for too long.

When Raider saw Oth.e.l.lo circle around the canyon road and speed off heading west, he picked up his pursuit, staying on the tail of the Civic. The Impala turned south at the first possible intersection, followed by the Civic five seconds later and the Grand Am five seconds after that. Next, Oth.e.l.lo swerved onto Sunset Boulevard, heading west again, away from the glossy high rises and movie billboards toward the sprawling estates of Beverly Hills, going fifty.

His panic increasing by the minute, Oth.e.l.lo raced past the Beverly Hills Hotel, the famous fortress that was mostly hidden behind palm trees. The light up ahead was already yellow. He was too far to make it under normal circ.u.mstances. He gripped the wheel tighter and floored it, fighting the temptation to close his eyes. The Impala's engine roared like an overworked boiler. The car itself sailed through the air and cascaded back down on the other side of the intersection like a boat rocked by a furious wave, heaving up and down and tossing Oth.e.l.lo around like a rag doll. Made it, his senses told him. He looked back only to find the Civic also sailing through the intersection.

Quickly, he put his foot on the brake and jerked the wheel with all his might, making a quick right onto the next side street, a long straightaway lined with mansions and palm trees. The Civic followed. Once again, he floored it and tried to outrun it, but the Impala wasn't built for this and the Civic seemed to be gaining. An alleyway was coming up on the left. He slowed down just enough to make another sharp turn, not antic.i.p.ating the garbage truck sitting there like a big elephant, temporarily blocking the road.

He had thirty feet to stop. He used twenty-nine and a half.

The Impala fishtailed and came to a screeching halt sideways. The Civic also stopped, still straight, five feet away from blindsiding Oth.e.l.lo. Another car, a dark green Grand Am, also stopped, farther back at the beginning of the alley. Oth.e.l.loa"his car trapped, his heart racing, his body covered in sweat underneath the old-man getupa"shot a glance at his pursuer in the Civic.

The Impala door slammed shut. Oth.e.l.lo charged toward him, ignoring the frantic Spanish he heard coming from the vicinity of the garbage truck.

"Joe, it's me, Gus." There was genuine fear in his voice. "You all right?"

"I know who you are," Oth.e.l.lo said, relieved when Gus called him Joe, but angry just the same. "What the h.e.l.l are you trying to do? Why you following me?"

"I'm so sorry. I saw you driving through Hollywood and I wanted to stop and just say hi. Then you sped off and I figured something might be wrong. I chased you because I was worried you might have had a heart attack while driving."

"What? You saw me where?" Oth.e.l.lo asked, his anger not subsiding.

"On Franklin," Gus pleaded. "I was coming from Griffith Park and I saw you driving on Franklin near Vine."

"f.u.c.kin' liar," Raider said to himself. He was slumped over in the Grand Am, catching this guy's act with his headphones and listening device. Gus had been on Oth.e.l.lo's tail way before Vine.

"You all right, Joe?" Gus asked, full of concern.

"h.e.l.l if I am," Oth.e.l.lo said, barely able to appreciate the fact that his ident.i.ty remained a secret. "You almost gave me the heart attack. Next time, don't bother. And who's your friend?"

Now it was Raider's turn to panic.

"What friend?" asked Gus. "I'm alone."

"That!" Oth.e.l.lo said, pointing to the Grand Am, not satisfied when Gus began stammering for an answer. He turned to see that the garbage truck had moved to the next house and had cleared a path for the caravan, but he wasn't through with his fan club. "You there," he called out to the Grand Am, unable to see the driver who was either hunched down or one short sonofab.i.t.c.h.

Through the headset Raider heard the footsteps and for the life of him didn't know how to get out of this one smoothly, if at all.

"Come out, coward!" Oth.e.l.lo shouted, stopping twenty feet from the car. Part of him was scared of risking more than he already had, the other part incensed at the idea that someone was playing games with him. He started toward the Grand Am again, angry, determined.

Raider began to inch his way up, ready to turn on a zillion watts of charm while coming up with a logical explanation. Then he heard sirens closing in.

Oth.e.l.lo heard those same sirens and decided whatever was in the Grand Am wasn't as bad as what was heading this way. Hastily, he limped back to the Impala. "Don't ever do this again," he shouted to Gus, then got in his car and took off down the alley.

The Civic did the same, surely not to follow Joe this time, but to also escape the law. But not before Raider had just enough time to sit up and get a good look at the man's license plate.

ELEVEN.

T HE HOUSE LIGHTS were out in the miniature movie theater that was the Big House screening room. The seven rows of plush oversized seats were vacant save one lone chair in the middle of the front row, occupied by Oth.e.l.lo. The movie screen itself was blank; it hadn't been used in months. Instead, directly in front of it, four identical fifty-six-inch television sets equipped with VCRs stood side by side in an arc, looming like four monoliths.

Darting his focus from screen to screen, Oth.e.l.lo sat hypnotically as the images flickered in the darkness, filling up the room and reflecting off the red velvet walls. With four rather large remotes in his lap, he resembled a navigator of sorts, clicking to the left, then the right, muting one set, turning another one up, rewinding this scene, pausing that tape. Each screen featured a different Level 3 counter-bashing, caught on tape by Level 3 itself. The footage was shot using night-vision cameras, bathing the violence in ghostly shades of greens, blacks and grays. Crazy, yes, these boulder-sized big screens he ordered up only an hour ago, but in view of the tightrope he was dancing on, made tighter by this afternoon's dangerous chase through town, he felt the need to gawk at these images and confront them face-to-face. To that end, each counter-bashing, which lasted no more than a few minutes, repeated itself over and over on tape.