Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 18

"I'm only kidding," Oth.e.l.lo said after a drawn-out beat, but only because of Raider's hesitant reaction.

"Good," Raider said in relief. "That's something that has to be special and happen naturally."

"Agreed." Oth.e.l.lo reached up and retrieved a small piece of leaf that had found its way into Raider's hair. "Maybe we do need a break from talk of war. You know you still haven't told me one Nantucket joke."

Raider groaned. Then obliged. "There once was a man from Nantucket, whose d.i.c.k was so long he could suck it. He said with a grin, as he wiped off his chin, if my ear were a c.u.n.t I could f.u.c.k ita"there, you happy?"

They both broke into laughter.

"And when was the last time you were there?" Oth.e.l.lo asked, trying hard to hide the hint of seriousness in his voice.

"Right before I moved here," Raider said absently, then suddenly remembered his words on the boat that night.

Nantucket? I haven't been back to that place in years.

Oth.e.l.lo had caught him in a lie and hadn't mentioned anything about it for weeks. But it was still gnawing at the pop icon, which explained so much. Putting ice in his veins, Raider stood up and surveyed the view.

"I think I may have lied to you once and said I hadn't been there in a while."

"You did?" Oth.e.l.lo said ever-so-innocently.

"My dada"the one who calls us fudge-packersa"he disowned me right before I came out to California. I couldn't go back now if I tried. That's why I told you that, so you wouldn't press the issue of going up there."

"I see."

Raider turned to him. "You're not convinced, are you?"

Oth.e.l.lo pursed his lips as if to say, the jury's still out.

"You think I might be some kind of traitor or something," said Raider. "That's why you brought it up tonight. That's what you've been thinking since that night on the boat."

Oth.e.l.lo held out, not knowing what to say yet.

"Well, let me ask you something, Oth.e.l.lo Hardaway of Riverside, California: would a traitor do this?"

Raider plopped back down on the bench, closed his eyes and dove in, one hand wrapping around the back of Oth.e.l.lo's neck while the other arm grabbed his shoulder. At the same time, his lips found Oth.e.l.lo's, another man's. A gay man. He was kissing a gay man. Mouth to mouth. Lip to lip. And why the h.e.l.l not? He wasn't about to lose the case to end all cases due to some asinine slip-up about his hometown. He felt tongue. His brain told him that he could bite down; but he didn't. Couldn't. He went with it. Had to. No choice. Of all the things he ever allowed himself to imagine doing with a guya"just for the sake of imagininga"kissing was never, ever, not in a thousand years, part of the picture. But here he was, his tongue dancing with that of a black gay man. He wasn't even sure if he was breathing. More like gasping from within. Felt like he was drowning, being sucked under into a world of darkness, their world. Oh, s.h.i.t....

Oth.e.l.lo kept his eyes open. He wasn't going to miss this, his lacrosse legend, his strapping blond dream man, holding him with his big manly paws, his soft, full lips pressing against Oth.e.l.lo's soft, full lips with equal force. Yes, Raider wanted it, Oth.e.l.lo rea.s.sured himself, and he wanted it just as much as Oth.e.l.lo. With one arm, he held tight to Raider's back. With the other, he roamed Raider's thick blond mane as if he were G.o.d combing a field of wheat. More than anything, that was what he loved about white men, the silky strands of flowing hair he could never possess. But tonight, he possessed them, in Raider. In Raider, Oth.e.l.lo felt at that instant, he could possess everything he ever wanted.

"HEY, LITTLE f.a.gGOT boy," came blazing across the walkie-talkie. "f.a.ggot boy, come over here."

All five bodies in the van came alive from their various states of rest, stirring in antic.i.p.ation.

"Silence," Travis commanded from the driver's seat, turning up the volume on the walkie-talkie.

"f.a.ggot boy, I'm talking to you," came crackling through.

Directly behind the driver's seat, on one of the crates that served as chairs, Oth.e.l.lo, dressed as the old man Joe, shot a glance to Raider, who was sitting across from him.

"It's a red Camaro, all right." Trudy was peeking out the back window of the van. She was the black woman Oth.e.l.lo had called Afro at Simi Valley. "Gotta be them. And there's Gary, ten feet away from 'em."

"Yes!" exclaimed Rainey, the bald man in his fifties Oth.e.l.lo had called Sparkplug. "After six nights, the fools had to come back for more."

"Freedom," Travis spoke into the walkie-talkie, "got a fix on the perps?"

"Three of them, just like in the police reports," came from Freedom, who was in the other van. "I could put a bullet through each one of their brains if I had a bazooka."

"Freedom!" scolded Travis.

"Don't worry, I ain't got one. With the shakes, my aim is probably shot to h.e.l.l anyway."

"Don't let Gary out of your sight," ordered Travis.

"They would have to show up when it's Nervous Nell's turn to be decoy," said Freedom.

Oth.e.l.lo's own nerves grew a little more tense, imagining Garya"the short Asian boy he had called Miss Saigona"just around the block on a dimly-lit street, being approached by the thugs who were responsible for five f.a.g bashings in the last two months in Silverlake, an urban neighborhood just east of Hollywood that included a smoldering mix of gays and Latinos. From the police reports, the bashings were always the same: three Latino boys who drove a red Camaro, spoke perfect English and never brandished weapons, pulled up to gay men walking the three blocks between two popular bars, then lured them to the deserted dead end where the vans were now parked for some good old-fashioned f.a.g bashing. So far they hadn't been caught.

"Want some d.i.c.k?" one of them was heard saying over the walkie-talkie.

"Nellie is going up to the car now," Freedom said.

"You like sucking big thick ones?" the driver said as Gary approached, his legs visibly trembling in his cut off jean shorts.

"I got a thick one for you." Rainey pounded his baseball bat in his hand.

"Driver's pointing toward the dead end," said Freedom. "They're revving the engine."

"Get ready to move," said Travis.

"Be careful," Oth.e.l.lo begged of Raider, hoping he'd never regret letting his lacrosse legend talk him into this in the days after the kiss, now over a week ago. Raider nodded once in acknowledgment and began working the night vision video camera, focusing it on the inside of the van and its occupants.

"Not our faces, stupid," Trudy said right before putting on her hood.

"It's not on," said Raider. "Just checking it." Cameraman was all the other members of Level 3 had agreed to let Raider be tonight, as a way of getting his feet wet. Had it not been for Joe's connection to Travis, he wouldn't have even gotten that far. "You be careful yourself," Raider said to Oth.e.l.lo, pulling the black leather hood over his blond locks.

"Travis will take care of me." Oth.e.l.lo was taking this chance not only to see Raider in action, but also to check out the other eight members of Level 3 in person, to find out who cracked under pressure, who flinched at the sight of blood, and most important of all, who was right for the next and biggest job.

"Still, if I see you in trouble," Raider promised Oth.e.l.lo through his hood, getting a smile in return. No one is gonna steal this case, Raider thought: not the LAPD, not Level 3, not some barrio boys out for a little fun.

"Slide on out of here," said Travis.

With their hoods in place, first Trudy, then Rainey, then Raider slithered out the back door and glued themselves to the side of the van that faced away from the street. The other van was closer to the action. From it, three other members of Level 3 emerged: Giorgio, the former p.o.r.no star, Darnell, the black man with dreadlocks Oth.e.l.lo had called Rasta, and Gus, the overzealous tailgater in the Honda Civic. Freedom was only a driver tonight because he was feeling ill, the effects of some new medication he a.s.sured everyone.

For what happened next, Oth.e.l.lo and Travis had a front row seat out of the back window of the van. The Camaro crept into the dead end while Gary followed on foot. The boys then got out, cornered Gary and began pulling down their pants. "You wanna suck some d.i.c.k?" the middle one said. "On your f.u.c.king knees, beg for it."

Gary sank to his knees. The Latinos then zipped up their pants and started hurling insults toward Gary, who was trembling with fear he didn't have to fake. One of the boys spit at him. Another kicked him once in the stomach. Then, in the next second, tan baseball bats went flying toward little brown heads. And guts. And faces. And the rest of their bodies. In no time, all three boys were limp on the ground, next to the Camaro, its motor running and doors wide open. All five members of Level 3 got in shots while Raider captured it all on tape. When the beating was over, the rest of the gang ran to the vans, but Raider stayed behind and took more footage of the boys lapsing into unconsciousness. As if he relished it, Oth.e.l.lo thought as Trudy, Rainey and Gary dove into Travis and Oth.e.l.lo's van.

Travis started the engine. Freedom's van was already in motion, turning around in the middle of the dead-end ten feet away from Raider. Deciding he had enough footage, Raider ran toward the vans, and seeing that Freedom's was closer, jumped into the back of it as both vans took off, burning rubber down the street.

"Got 'em good," Raider said triumphantly, plopping down on an old tire and brandishing the camera for Giorgio, Gus and Darnell who were all removing their hoods, affording Raider a good look at all of them. Especially Gus, if that was his name.

Settling onto the crate behind the driver's seat, Oth.e.l.lo breathed a sigh of relief that things had gone smoothly. But more than anything, he was dying to learn Raider's reaction to all this. He strained his neck for a view of the other van in the pa.s.senger side window, but all he got was a quick glimpse of Freedom veering off down another street and the taillights becoming smaller and smaller. As planned, the getaway vans and their occupants were speeding away from Silverlake in different directions, not to be seen together for the rest of the night.

Money, Raider thought to himself as the vans split up. Time to scope out this half of Level 3 and perform a little Kincaide magic.

TWELVE.

T HE NOISE IN THE Charlotte Coliseum was deafening. The Bulls had just called their last time-out and 23,000 fans were on their feet, dancing to the most popular song in all of sports, "Rock and Roll Part 2," more commonly known as "The Hey Song" because every crowd in the country knows when to shout "hey!" at the appropriate intervals in the song.

With only 2.2 seconds left in the third overtime and a 110-108 lead, the Charlotte faithful could practically taste what would be the Hornets biggest victory to date, a victory that would give them a 3-2 advantage in the Eastern Conference finals and bring them to within one win of Seattle and the NBA finals, a pinnacle the franchise had yet to reach.

It was well past midnight, the game having been delayed forty-five minutes in the second quarter when Charlotte's big George "Thunder" Hawkins shattered the backboard with a monster dunk. But Hornets fans didn't care. Charlotte was in the midst of its best season ever and The D.A. was having a nightmare of a game, shooting only five for twenty-nine with five fouls and four costly turnovers, the costliest one occurring moments before the time-out, when five-six Hornet guard Bugsy Webb stripped Deon of the ball and dribbled coast-to-coast for the go-ahead lay-up. Meanwhile, Larry Smith, Charlotte's black-as-coal shooting guard, was unstoppable so far with forty-eight points, most of them when Deon was guarding him. Of all days to have a s.h.i.tty game, Deon thought more than once during the course of the night.

Through the chaos, the buzzer rang, signaling the end of the time-out. After some coaxing by the officials, both teams broke their huddles and five Hornets and five Bulls took to the floor. Bulls ball out of bounds underneath their own basket.

From the far sideline, Coach Dugan ran his hands through his graying hair and yelled for the Bulls to watch for the double team. Carl Boatwright, the seven-foot Aussie, took the ball from the ref. Immediately Jeff Malone, Charlotte's white seven-footer, charged toward Boatwright, coming to within inches of him. The ref blew the whistle. Delay-of-game warning, Charlotte. A tactical move by the Hornets that was par for the course in this situation. The defense committed it in hopes of getting a glimpse of the kind of play the offense might be running before the ball was actually thrown in.

The players reset. The ref blew the whistle again and began counting to five, the precious number of seconds Boatwright had to inbound the ball. The other Bulls scrambled to break free, especially Deon, who Dugan wanted to have the ball. Even when's he's having an off night, you still go to your scorer in the clutch.

But Boatwright was having trouble getting the ball in and the crowd was screaming for a five-second violation. With under a second to spare, Deon broke free of Larry Smith at a forty-five degree angle to the basket, just inside the three point arc. Boatwright antic.i.p.ated Deon's move and threw the ball to the spot. Deon got there just in time and caught it. But he wasn't square with the basket. To make matters worse, George "Thunder" Hawkins rushed over for the double-team, blanketing Deon. Deon dribbled once toward the basket, then pulled up. Hawkins went for the fake and stumbled backwards. But Smith recovered in time to helped out his teammate. Deon stepped back so that he was just outside the three point line anda"leaning into Smith to draw a foul, if nothing elsea"launched a twenty-five-foot, off-balance jumper.

Nothing but net.

The Bulls and their smattering of fans went wild. Deon ran toward the top of the key and leaped in the air, punching his fist toward the rafters in vindication. His teammates then mobbed him as the rest of the arena, players and fans included, sank in disbelief. Final score 111-110. The Bulls were now up 3-2 in the best-of-seven series and on their way back to the Chicago and the friendly confines of the United Center for game six.

As the team plane waited on the tarmac at Charlotte Douglas, a stranger wouldn't have been able to tell if the Bulls had won or lost tonight. By the time they'd showered and dressed, talked to the press, then boarded the bus that took them to the plane, the thrill of victory had all but worn off. It was approaching 3:00 a.m. now and they were in the dusk of a season that was lasting over a hundred games. They couldn't afford to get too high about one win. There was still a lot of basketball to be played before capturing another ring.

Champion Air was the luxury liner of team planes with cute young hostesses serving up gourmet dishes in the buffet compartment, enough music, movies and video games to keep the team distracted on cross-country flights, and plush leather seats big enough for giant bodies spread throughout the plane in four-man booths, giving everyone much needed breathing room. Up front, Coach Dugan was alone, reading a book by one of the Zen masters he followed. In the middle compartment, Piper Adams, the pint-sized point guard, was flirting as usual with the full-figured black waitress behind the buffet table, while Jo Jo Taylor and Marcus Kramer, two smooth-skinned rookies, piled their plates with broiled chicken and mashed potatoes. The third compartment was occupied by two of the a.s.sistant coachesa"one black, one white, both former players now in their fortiesa"who were busy setting up the VCR to watch the tape of tonight's triple overtime battle. Time to figure out how to stop Larry Smith in game six in Chicago.

In the last compartment, Deon sat alone in a booth of four seats. He was slumped down in his chair, ice pack on the shin he banged against Larry Smith's knee. Holding his gray tweed apple cap over his face, he pretended to be asleep, but was distracted when he heard the voice of a female newscaster coming from the a.s.sistant coaches' television on the other side of the part.i.tion: "CNC Overnight has learned there was a beating late last night in Los Angelesa"early this morning Eastern timea"that police are saying looks very similar to the so-called counter-bashings that have taken place in four other cities."

"Check it out," said a gruff voice from the vicinity of the TV. It was Doaky Dawkins, Deon realized, followed by the female anchor again: "Now, we want to stress: the footage you see here is from previous beatings, not tonight."

Three players had gathered around the television suspended on the wall in the a.s.sistant coaches' compartment. Jamaal Johnston, the light-skinned veteran, winced when he saw the night vision shots of a man with long hair taking a baseball bat to the small of his back. "Those f.a.gs come into my neighborhood, they get they a.s.ses whipped."

Junior Watson, the bald-headed big man with a refrigerator size body, scoffed. "Man, anybody come to your neighborhood, they get they a.s.ses whipped."

"Notice they ain't attacked no brothers," said Doaky Dawkins.

"Shiiiiiiit," said Watson, making it sound not only ridiculous but impossible. The three of them broke into a m.u.f.fled laughter until Watson said, "Shh...D.A.," and nodded to the compartment behind them. Silence ensued, followed by the a.s.sistant coaches kicking them out in order to get their work started.

Outwardly, Deon showed no visible reaction except for burying his face deeper into his apple cap and snoring a little to promote the illusion of being asleep. Inwardly, for the duration of the flight, he thought about how many championship rings he had won those guys, guys the media called his supporting cast.

THE INSTANT DEON entered his penthouse on the north side of Chicago, he saw Charlie, sitting in the dark in a chair in the living room where he could see the front door when it opened.

My girl, Deon thought, dropping his garment bag just inside the door.

Charlie rose up and made a beeline for Deon. His tiny frame was all baggy in some of Deon's old Bulls sweats. "Bad day at the office, honey?" he said with his husky voice.

They wrapped themselves around each other without another word, their embrace lasting several minutes and taking them from the foyer to the living room, where Deon sat Charlie on the couch, knelt in front of him and collapsed in his lap in the dark. They stayed that way for twenty minutes, the only sound in the room the m.u.f.fled sniffles and fragmented breaths coming from Deon.

"You saw how I stunk up the court?" he asked eventually.

"I saw how you showed 'em in the end. I know he's proud of youa"same way he is for the counter-bashings and you know it."

"I tried to use him to focusa"get in a zone for hima"but I couldn't, just like I couldn't do anything for him when he was alive. But I'm gonna be there for you, I swear, I promise. I'll never leave you stranded like that."

"Hush your mouth. I ain't ever coming to that," Charlie a.s.sured him, fighting his tears to be the strong one. He knew Deon would have been all torn up even if he hadn't played so poorly. It was the anniversary of J-Boy's death.

"I hate this day," Deon said, "more than any other day in my life."

"I know, baby." Charlie held onto Deon's head and rocked the two of them back and forth, figuring on being there in the living room in that same position well past sunrise.

THE BEDROOM IN THE Manhattan penthouse was dark except for the light flickering from the television set lodged on the wall. On top of the large circular bed, Jasper was fast asleep on his back, still in the day's suit, his reading gla.s.ses teetering on the brink of his nose. He had pa.s.sed out that way an hour ago while going over reports on the millions he was losing on the undeveloped sh.o.r.es of Belize. At the foot of the bed sat Bruce, naked except for his white briefs, eagerly sizing up the job he had his eye on, male anchor for CNC Overnight.

"Jasper, you gotta see this," he said in a hushed voice when they broke in with the story of the Los Angeles beating.

In sleep, Jasper was always ready for panic. His eyes popped open immediately, his throat gurgling with the remnants of his last snore as he s.n.a.t.c.hed off his reading gla.s.ses.

"They did it again," Bruce informed him, "the counter-bashers."

They listened to the phoned-in report from local correspondent Josh Cameron while the screen showed a map of Los Angeles, indicating Silverlake with a red dot.

"That's five now," Bruce said, his voice full of disgust, "if it's them, and I'd bet my life it is."

Jasper said nothing. As the report came to an end, Bruce joined him at the head of the bed, sitting near Jasper's torso with his legs crossed.

"I was gonna surprise you," he began full of enthusiasm, "but I can't keep my mouth shut. I'm working on an expos: just who are these people and why do they think they can speak for the whole gay community? What do you think?"