Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 21

"That Kersey's a good kidder," said Big Daddy.

"Kersey doesn't tell lies." Deon eyed Kersey, who was teeing off out of earshot.

Big Daddy looked to his chorus for support. "Why, all kinds of folk benefit from the charity foundation. The museum for instance."

"I thought it was for playgrounds for poor kids, homeless families, registering people to vote, AIDS mothers and babies."

"AIDS?" cried Big Daddy. "We got nothing to do with dangerous lifestyle choices."

The whole NBAa"not to mention the entire athletic department back at South Carolinaa"had its suspicions that Deon was a f.a.g. But Big Daddy Callahan and Jimmy Herman refused to believe it and couldn't be convinced if they saw Deon taking it up the b.u.t.t in a sling hanging from the back room of an Amsterdam leather bar. "Them d.a.m.n rumors were started by Clemson folks who'll be forever p.i.s.sed you didn't win them the NCAA," Big Daddy used to say.

"So you don't help mothers with AIDS place their kids with loving families?" asked Deon. "Your secretary told me that years ago. You yourself told me...." he broke off.

"Son, don't fret. Those little inner city tykes who wors.h.i.+p you get some of the trickle down. You got my word." Big Daddy glanced toward the tee. "You're up, D.A."

In a state of shock, Deon took his turn, slicing the ball for a second time, a rarity for him. He then decided he couldn't stand to be within ten feet of the good ol' boys for another second. He limped away from the tee, grabbing at his right leg. "The knee felt weird on that one," he lied. "Game over for me."

They tried to help, even asked if they could drive him back to the clubhouse, but he waved them off without looking back. "Kersey, you go on and play through," he said, needing solitude. "I'll wait in the car." With that, he took off in one of the golf carts, vowing to never again lay eyes on the likes of Big Daddy Callahan.

For the next thirty minutes, he sat in the rented Ranger Rover in the mostly empty parking lot of the country club, staring straight ahead, trying to think of nothing but game seven. He didn't even hear Kersey approaching until he opened the pa.s.senger door and plopped down on the seat next to Deon.

"Some friends of yours I must say, Deon, my man," Kersey said.

"Those aren't my friends," Deon said coldly, keeping his eyes on the hood.

"Glad to hear that. After you left, they had a good old time laughing at the prospect of them helping AIDS victims. I was going to say something, but most of it was out of my circle of conversation."

"What'd they say?"

Kersey paused, as if to edit his thoughts. "Well, one thing I overheard was them badmouthing some male cheerleader from South Carolina. I guess the guy died of AIDS while he was in school."

"Jerome Briscoe?"

"They didn't say his name, but they dogged him pretty good. They actually had the guy kicked out of school right before he could graduate."

Deon went numb, couldn't move a muscle. He'd probably known it all along, just didn't want to admit it. He wanted to close his eyes and shut the world out. He also wanted to be alone. He started the car and left the country club.

When they reached the twelve-story gla.s.s tower that was the team hotel, he pulled into the turnaround out front instead of the parking lot.

"You coming up?" asked Kersey.

"Later."

As soon as Kersey was safe on the curb, the Ranger Rover speed off, burning rubber as it swerved back onto the highway. He sped up to sixty-five, then seventy-five, holding tight to the wheel and barely taking his eyes off the road. He stayed that way for most of the next two hours, heading south on Interstate 77, past rolling hills, one-stoplight towns and stretches of just plain nothing. He only stopped twice, once for gas, the other time to relieve himself. The rest of the time, he held to a steady pace of seventy-five, not making a sound, just racing down the highway until North Carolina turned into South. Once inside his home state, he kept going, bypa.s.sing the junction for his hometown Calhoun Falls and not going as far as Columbia, site of his alma mater. There was only one place he wanted to see, and that meant veering off the main highway seventy-five miles into his journey and traveling east on secondary roads until he came to a little town called Plainview.

The cemetery was a small one, maybe the size of a basketball court. It was surrounded by swampland and mourners had to climb a steep hill to reach it. Blacks who'd never lived to see the end of segregation were buried there, and because he wouldn't live to see the end of the AIDS crisis, J-Boy had asked his family to make this his final resting place. They had to squeeze in his plot next to a dying oak tree. That was how Deon knew where to find it when J-Boy's family called Deon to say J-Boy was dead and buried. It took Deon five months to get away from basketball to get to his grave back then. Today, more than a decade later, was only the second visit.

He found the oak tree, dying as it had been all those years ago, and the modest headstone that read: JEROME BRISCOE, JR., CHEERLEADER, USC. Once he was above the grave, he sank to his knees and cried for the next hour.

THE CHARLOTTE COLISEUM crowd was delirious, counting down the seconds starting with ten. Bugsy Webb, the five-six dynamo, was dribbling the ball amongst the giants who only halfheartedly attempted to guard him. Chicago was down by twelve and the Hornets were heading to the NBA finals for the first time ever.

When the clock dwindled to four, all ten players on the court stopped moving and waited for the final buzzer. The crowd's frenzy escalated even more. At center court, Deon watched helplessly, hands on hips, eyes gla.s.sed over, soul beaten. For only the third time in nine years, the Bulls wouldn't be in the finals, due in part to The D.A.'s worst game ever in the playoffs: seven points, six turnovers, five fouls.

As the clock struck zero, Bugsy Webb threw the ball high in the air. The Charlotte players then dropped their cool act and let loose, dancing, hugging, jumping up and down and goading the fans into even more cheering, cheering that echoed like thunder as Deon and the Bulls made their way to the locker room, away from the celebration.

JASPER WAS STANDING at the window in his office, surveying the Manhattan skyline, when Lisa, his young brunette secretary, delivered the note. It was sealed in an envelope marked CONFIDENTIAL. He waited until she was gone to read it. When he did, his face lit up with a billion-dollar smile.

OTh.e.l.lO WAS IN A MEETING with six lawyers and four accountants, a meeting forced on him by Sweeney to deal with some long overdue financial matters. He was at the head of a long conference table in the lawyers' office, taking in their barrage of suggestions, when a cute black male secretary with a huge a.s.s sticking out of his suit pants delivered the note to him. He read it, then, in disbelief, read it a second time. Then he slipped it in the inside pocket of the black suit jacket he was wearing and didn't give a d.a.m.n about anyone noticing the relieved grin wiping across his face.

The note was unsigned, but he knew who it was from.

"Got some time on my hands." It read. "Anybody else for a yes vote?"

FOURTEEN.

JASPER CHECKED AND rechecked the army of k.n.o.bs and levers on the long console, meticulously scrutinizing every nuance of his plan. In one of the leather chairs to his right, Deon was swiveling side to side, consumed with the sound of smooth jazz piping through a ca.s.sette headset. In the back of the room, which resembled a television studio control booth, Oth.e.l.lo sighed and contemplated a cup of coffee from the beverage table. He couldn't remember the last time coffee pa.s.sed his lips, but it was going to be a long day, he figured, crucial but long.

"Go ahead," Jasper said to Deon, nodding toward the console. "Give 'er a whirl."

Removing his headphones, Deon hesitated, then grabbed the flexible metal microphone sticking up in front of him and looked into the one-way mirror on the other side of the console. "So you wanna kill the b.u.m?" he said, changing his voice into that of an old lady's.

"You don't have to sound like your grandmother," Jasper said laughingly. "Speak normal. Your voice will be naturally distorted, somewhere between Darth Vader and Demi Moore." He tinkered with a large black k.n.o.b. "Here, try it again."

"So you wanna kill the b.u.m Herman, eh?" Deon said, this time hearing his voice, which came out sounding low, m.u.f.fled and unidentifiable. "Bad as h.e.l.l," he said like a child learning a new trick.

"All three are set up that way," Jasper informed them. "They'll never know the difference between the Three Wis.e.m.e.n and three little old ladies from Pasadena."

Oth.e.l.lo walked over to the console, sized up the controls and the small room on the other side of the one-way mirror. "I must say, Monsieur Hollinquest, you've done your job quite well."

Not wanting to involve Sweeney, Oth.e.l.lo had consented when Jasper insisted on setting up the day's operation. "I know people," Jasper had informed them in the three-way conference call after Deon's note. "Goons for hire who know how to keep their mouths shut permanently." And so the plan was conceived to grill the members of Level 3 and find out who, if any of them, would be promoted to Level 4, a level consisting of one person and one act, a.s.sa.s.sinating Jimmy Herman.

Four of nine members from Level 3 were already ruled out: Gary, the Asian, who had barely been able to make it through the counter-bas.h.i.+ngs without p.i.s.sing in his pants; Giorgio because Jasper objected to the idea of a former p.o.r.n star pulling the triggera""Clouds the issue when the tabloids eat him alive," he reasoned; Rainey, formerly known as Sparkplug, because he had quit after the last bas.h.i.+ng; and Raider because Oth.e.l.lo refused to even consider it. "He's property of me," Oth.e.l.lo had said, "not some federal penitentiary."

And so it came down to five candidates: ACTNOW's two co-founders, Travis and Freedom, Gus from the Hollywood 500, and the two blacks, Trudy and Darnell, the ones Oth.e.l.lo had called Afro and Rasta. Jasper's rent-a-goons were instructed to bring each candidate to this special room above the Temple. "The old lady wants to meet you," they were informed individually. Then, when they agreed and vowed not to tell a soul, they were to be blindfolded and driven around until they had no idea where they were.

"I think we have our first customer," Jasper said, sitting down in the middle chair and indicating the room beyond the mirror and the flas.h.i.+ng red light above the entrance. Jasper flipped a switch on the console, his signal to his men, and Travis Little Horse was led through the door by two escorts in dark suits with dark sungla.s.ses. They guided him to the chair in the middle of the room, then exited, closing the door behind them.

"Welcome," said Jasper, looking to his left at Oth.e.l.lo, then to his right to Deon. "You may remove the blindfold."

Travis did so, then rubbed his eyes. "When do I get to meet the G.o.ddess who's been so kind to us?"

"You're meeting me right now," said Oth.e.l.lo, "along with some very important friends of mine." He looked to Jasper and Deon. "This will be the only way you can ever meet me."

"Are you that famous?" asked Travis.

"Never mind that," said Jasper.

"We ask the questions," said Deon.

"This gives you more freedom," said Oth.e.l.lo. "The less you know about us, the more we can do for you, and gays everywhere."

The Wis.e.m.e.n paused, waiting for a response. Travis looked around the room. His hands were behind his waist as if they were tied.

"You object?" asked Jasper.

"No, ma'am. I haven't before and I don't now. I need you. We need you."

All three Wis.e.m.e.n eyed each other, the sense of power running through them like currents of electricity.

"Question," said Oth.e.l.lo, beginning the interrogation. "Do you enjoy what you're doing?"

It was one of the first questions Oth.e.l.lo decided to put to each candidate.

"Immensely," said Travis, "especially when I hear of other groups doing some counter-bas.h.i.+ng of their own."

"f.u.c.kin'-A, man," Freedom said when it was his turn, "best thing that's ever happened to this f.a.g boy from Colorado Springs."

"I can't think of anything more worthwhile," said Gus. He looked more nervous than the others and kept glancing around the room and scratching his beard.

"I enjoy it to a point," said Trudy. "I go back and forth on whether violence is the answer. But when I'm in there smacking those little peanut heads, I get off."

"No, I don't enjoy it," said Darnell, his weathered face looking sullen and resigned the whole afternoon. "But what has to be done has to be done. I don't enjoy blowing up buildings either, but I do what I gotta do."

The Wis.e.m.e.n eyed each other pensively after Darnell's answer.

"If there was a Level 4," Deon asked all five candidates, "what would you have them do?"

"Like I said, bomb f.u.c.king buildings," said Darnell. "Robertson's TV studio, Lou Sheldon's office, Trent Lott's face."

"I want somebody to die like I'm gonna die any month here," said Freedom, "so I can see them in the afterlife and torture the s.h.i.+t out of them for eternity."

"I see Level 4 continuing with the bas.h.i.+ng," said Travis, "but maybe targeting public officials instead of everyday sc.u.m."

"Level 4?" said Gus. "Whatever is asked of me, that's my duty."

"Before we do that," said Trudy, "maybe we ought to ask ourselves: is this really working?"

To this Deon covered his microphone and mouthed the words "no way" to his partners. Jasper nodded his head in agreement.

"What if someone dies during one of the counter-bas.h.i.+ngs?" Jasper asked them. "How would you feel?"

"Evil," said Darnell. "But evil is as evil does."

Gus grew nervous and said: "We shouldn't kill. The Lord doesn't forgive killing."

"I have to get back to you on that one," said Travis.

"How would I feel if a bashee dies?" Freedom shrugged. "Like I've done my job."

As the afternoon wore on, they grew more selective regarding which questions they asked which candidates. The next question Oth.e.l.lo only put to Travis, Freedom and Darnell: "One of my gal pals here thinks somebody ought to put a bullet in Senator Jimmy Herman's head." He followed it with a little laugh just in case he needed to explain it away as a joke. "You agree or disagree with her?"

Darnell thought about it for a second, then shook his head in appreciation. "She's all right, got the right idea."

"You got b.a.l.l.s, lady," said Freedom. "Why don't you come down to the trenches and fight with us?"

"Death to Herman, hmmm," said Travis. "Yes. Yes."

Oth.e.l.lo smiled, secretly hoping Travis would be the one.

"If you could get away with it, would you kill Jimmy Herman?" asked Deon.

"Yes," said Darnell.

"f.u.c.kin'-A," said Freedom.

"Certainly," said Travis.

"If you couldn't get away with it," asked Jasper, "but had the chance to be the gay man who killed Jimmy Herman, would you do it?"

"Sure," said Darnell.

"h.e.l.l, yes," said Freedom.

"h.e.l.l, no," said Travis.

"Why not?" a confused Oth.e.l.lo asked Travis.

"I'm better off out of prison," Travis said, "fighting the rest of the h.o.m.ophobes. There's a lot more bigots who need to be brought down besides Herman. He'll never be worth the sum total of my life and what I can do."

Taken aback, all three Wis.e.m.e.n eyed each other, then became lost in their individual reflections in the one-way mirror....