Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 6

Oth.e.l.lo tried to hold his alarm in check, taking longer to chew in order to stall. "What do you know about the lady I work for?"

"Just that she's a f.a.g hag and she donates money to the group through you." Raider noted the nervous dance in Joe's eyes.

"And how did you come about this information?"

"Freedom told me. At that meeting where you and I met."

Oth.e.l.lo tried to laugh it off. "You can't believe everything The Zealot tells you, everybody knows that. He probably told you he runs things, too."

"Yeah," Raider admitted sheepishly, suspecting that even if Freedom were stretching the truth, ol' Joe was hiding something.

"The woman I work for couldn't care less about what I do with ACTNOW." Oth.e.l.lo took another bite of hot dog and averted his gaze to a young black woman in the distance. She was picnicking on the gra.s.s with her wheelchair-bound daughter. "Anyway," he began, trying to deflect attention away from himself. "What kind of guys do you like, Raider?"

"All kinds really." His motto with girls: it's all pink on the inside. Then, he saw a way to let the old man down easy. "No offense, Joe, but usually I like 'em around my own age, give or take a few."

Deliberately, Oth.e.l.lo took sip of soda, then asked: "How about black guys?"

"Black guys?" He'd always wanted to be with a black chick. "Sure. Black guys are studs." He had an idea. "h.e.l.l, give me some guy like Deion Sanders or Denzel Was.h.i.+ngton any day. That smooth black skin. Or who I really have the hots for is Oth.e.l.lo."

"Oth.e.l.lo?" His head raised, his eyes widened, his heart stopped.

"Sure," said Raider. "That's one black man I'd love to personally train, if you know what I mean." Una.s.sumingly, he took a long gulp of his soda while Oth.e.l.lo tried to catch his breath and keep from shouting something, anything.

This must be what it feels like to be dest.i.tute and suddenly win the lottery, he thought. Too good to be true. But it was true and right then and there he could have leaped up and touched the sky while screaming like they used to do at Riverside Baptist, back when he was Li'l O. In the images racing through his mind, he envisioned revealing himself at once to his first, only and last boyfriend and telling him about Hollinquest and Anthony, his funding of ACTNOW and his plans to escalate the movement. He also saw Raider moving into the Big House, becoming the subject of his every love song, being promoted to second-in-command in the war, being there for him whena"ifa"he got sick.

But Oth.e.l.lo also knew he was getting light-years ahead of himself. He still didn't know if they were compatiblea"as if that mattereda"and how the virus would fit into their equation. There was also the background check still in the works; and as Oth.e.l.lo sat there, trembling at his luck, a small sliver of his brain was able to remember that despite the fact that he was falling, hook, line and sinker for this man, if Raider Kincaide wasn't who he said he was, a lot more was at stake than a shattered heart.

But this had to happen. This was going to happen. They were going to happen.

"You know, Raider," he began teasingly, "people tell me I look a bit like Oth.e.l.lo."

Raider scoffed so hard the soda he was gulping down backed up in his nose.

"Really," Oth.e.l.lo said. "I can be just as s.e.xy and romantic and fun and you-name-it as him, honest,"

"I told you, Joe, I'm only attracted to guys my age. I'm flattered and all, buta""

"Raider, I can't tell you how much I enjoy your company," Oth.e.l.lo said eagerly, his voice ripe with possibility.

"Me, too, Joe." Raider stuffed the last half of his last hot dog in his mouth, balled up the wrapping and shot it into the waste basket five feet away. "Two," he said with a fist in the air, then added: "You're all right."

"Oh, I'm gonna make you see I'm more than all right." Oth.e.l.lo rose up and sat next to Raider on the top of the bench.

Raider held his hands in front of him, clearly meaning back off. "Now hold on, my man, Joe."

"My man, Joe, oh, I like the sound of that."

"Now, Joe, don't go ruininga""

"Can't we go somewhere, somewhere private? You won't regret it, guaranteed."

"Listen." Raider scooted away. "We can be friends, okay, nothing more."

Oth.e.l.lo let out a little laugh.

"Now I'm serious, old man." Raider's tone darkened, catching Oth.e.l.lo by surprise.

"I'm sorry, Raider. It's just that you don't understand."

"Understand what?" Raider snapped back, thinking: I understand perfectly what you want.

Oth.e.l.lo glanced around the park. In addition to the mother and child, two young nurses were on a cig break next to the hospital's side entrance. And the Armenian hot dog vendor was still there, not more than fifteen yards away. It was insane to even contemplate removing the gardener getup in such a public place.

"I gotta be going, Joe." Raider stood up. "No hard feelings, okay?"

Oth.e.l.lo mumbled an okay that was inaudible.

"Later," Raider said and left without waiting for a response. Oth.e.l.lo called out to him three times, the third plea drawing the attention of the nurses and black mother. Opting for caution, Oth.e.l.lo fell silent as Raider crossed the park, his athletic physique becoming smaller and smaller. Oth.e.l.lo thought better than to make matters worse by going after him. There had been something very unsettling about the paranoid look in Raider's eyes. And even though it hurt to watch him disappear, Oth.e.l.lo stayed on the bench until the all-Ivy Leaguer was through a cl.u.s.ter of trees and out of sight.

When he was gone, Oth.e.l.lo headed for the Impala, but not before stopping at a phone booth on the street corner opposite the hospital. "Sweeney," he said once he got an answer. "Did Jasper and Deon get out of the Temple okay? Good. And how about the report from back East? It is? Give it to me." He listened carefully as Sweeney rattled off a plethora of information about Raider, then after ten minutes, hung up the phone.

His last name really was Kincaide, first name truly Brian. And Nantucket, the Dartmouth lacrosse team, the marriage and the kida"it all checked out. He was who he said he was. Now, all Oth.e.l.lo had to do was show the man from Nantucket Old Man Joe's true ident.i.ty.

FIVE.

G AME ONE of the Bulls-Pistons series was the kind of game where Deon Anthony found himself in The Zone, that place on the court where everything he did was unconscious, every move he made instinctively right, nearly every shot he threw up hitting nothing but net. From the opening tip, he took control of the game, kissing a three-point bomb off the gla.s.s to give the Bulls a 3-0 lead. In the second quarter, he sent the 24,000 United Center faithful to its feet with a breakaway slam dunk that made it 36-17, Bulls. Early in the third quarter, he floated high above the rim and gently tipped in one of Piper Adams's patented alley-oop pa.s.ses for a 75-39 advantage. In the fourth quarter, The D.A. stole the ball at halfcourt and drove down the lane past four Detroit players, finis.h.i.+ng it off with a reverse jam in which he changed directions in midair three times before slamming it home, making the score 98-58. His last shot before Coach Dugan spelled him for the night was an off-balance jumper from the baseline where he didn't even see the basket. But you don't have to see the basket when you're Deon Anthony and you're in The Zone. The shot rattled in and Deon finished with fifty-six points. His supporting cast then finished off the Pistons 132-76, and the Bulls took a 1-0 lead in the best-of-five, first-round series.

After the rout, the hallway leading to the locker room was jammed with VIPs important enough to get past security. Moving steadily, Deon waded his way through the sea of heads below him, accepting accolades but more focused on showering, getting through the press conference and resting up for game two. But when he saw who was standing just outside the locker room door, his hopes for a peaceful post game were shattered.

"Deon, ol' boy!" It was Big Daddy Callahan, all six-foot-eight, three hundred pounds of him, his frizzy white hair covered by the white straw cowboy hat that never left his head. "Boy, I tell ya," he bellowed when Deon reached him. "You played one perfect game of ball out there. Reminds me of the old days when you were a Gamec.o.c.k. How are ya, ol' buddy?"

"Fine, Big D." Deon felt his knees give way as he tried to recover from the shock of seeing the University of South Carolina's biggest booster in the Windy City. Like an embarra.s.sed relative, he led Big Daddy a few feet away from the locker room to minimize the scene the old geezer was about to make.

"Told you last summer at the golf tourney I'd get up here to see you play one of these years," said Big Daddy. "You're playing great as ever, boy."

Big Daddy called all the black players at South Carolina "boy" and the white guys "young man." Back when Deon was a freshman, the coaches told him to laugh it off. You didn't cross Big Daddy Callahan. He was the biggest man in Columbia, literally and figuratively. He was also the reason most of the athletes worth anything came to USC. Having Big Daddy on your side meant you got things the regular student body only dreamt about and you also got out of any trouble you found yourself in, as long as the press didn't get there first. These days, Deon only saw Big Daddy at alumni functions and at the annual charity golf tournament the tobacco baron co-sponsored with Jimmy Herman.

"Not a good time, Big Daddy. The press is waiting. League rules say I gotta talk to them." Deon turned away, but Big Daddy stepped with him.

"You get my telegram, D.A., wis.h.i.+ng you good luck?"

"Sure, thanks, see ya down home."

"And how 'bout Senator Herman's? You get his?"

"Probably." Deon feigned uncertainty. If Big Daddy Callahan was the Gamec.o.c.ks' biggest fan, Jimmy Herman was a close runner-up. They were also the best of friends and like Siamese twins when it came to wors.h.i.+pping Deon. They would also sooner join the n.a.z.i party before they believed the rumors about him.

"Say, how's your golf game?" asked Big Daddy. "Jimmy and I can't wait to have you back at the tournament this year. You will be there, won't you?"

"Most likely." Deon shrugged. It was for charity, h.e.l.l, and he never turned down a game of golf.

"Say, I was wondering...."

Here it comes, thought Deon, all too familiar with the voice of someone who wanted something from him.

"Any chance you might get some other athletes to come with you? Say Larry Bird or Brett Favre? Or maybe the white kid on your team from Utah, Kersey Stevens? We figure we need another athlete and we have you to represent the blacka"excuse mea"Afro-American community."

Deon shook his head and glanced at the Lovabull cheerleaders streaming into their dressing room farther down the hall. If it weren't for the little black kids who benefited, Callahan could shove his tournament up his fat white a.s.s.

"Gotta go, Big Daddy," he said, walking to the locker room door and opening it halfway. "Playoff time. That's all that's on my mind."

"But, Deon, boya""

"Let me tell you something, Big Daddy." He looked him squarely in the eye. "If you want me or Kersey or anybody else in the athletic world at your golf tournament ever again, you'll erase the word 'boy' from the microchip in your brain, you hear me? If I ever have a black Gamec.o.c.k recruit ever tell me you or any other alumni called them boy, I'm like this with SC." He ran his finger across his throat as if to slash it, and with that, he flung the locker room door open and left Big Daddy standing there alone, his purpose for visiting Chicago unfulfilled.

HOME, ESPECIALLY AFTER a game, was a peaceful oasis for Deon. From the moment he walked in the door, his muscles began to relax. And by the time he was out of his pinstripe suit, into some well-worn Hanes sweats and plopped down on the couch in the den, dozing to ESPN's SportsCenter, the aches and pains of another night on the court were becoming but a memory.

Few souls penetrated his penthouse on the north side of Chicago. Both Deon's parents were dead, Mom minutes after she gave birth to her only daughter, who was stillborn, and Dad a week after his only son signed his first multi-million dollar contract with the Bulls. Save a few distant aunts, uncles and cousins who were experts at calling him collect and giving him a sob story, he was familyless. Except for his baby.

"Here you go, sugar." Charlie sauntered out of the kitchen carrying a large frosty mug, his green silk kimono flapping in the breeze created by his gait, which was all hips and a.s.s. "A strawberry protein smoothie, just like you like it."

"Ah, yes, with a victory." Deon planted a long kiss on his Charlie's a.s.s as Charlie sat the mug on the gla.s.s coffee table.

"Don't be falling asleep to these highlights now," Charlie warned with his soft but husky voice as he sat down. "You know what I need tonight."

"A slaaaaam dunk," Deon said. Charlie daintily covered his mouth with his hand and made a face as if he were shocked by such cra.s.sness.

Although he was by no means muscular or stocky, Charlie wasn't nearly as small as Deon's last and only other lover. At five-ten, Charlie would have towered over Jerome, but just like J-Boy, Charlie was dark skinned, rail thin, ultra smooth and a bit feminine. Actually, quite a bit feminine. Charlie could act sissified with the best of them, only with Charlie it wasn't acting. It was a way of life. It was also a way of life for Charlie to sometimes become Charlene.

That was what got him kicked out of his house in the projects of Chicago when he was fifteen. That was also how Deon first saw him eight years ago, when basketball's newest millionaire came to town to meet and greet the city. After the festivities, Deon slipped out of his hotel room, hopped in his rented Mercedes and cruised down Madison near the stadiuma"long before the city cleaned up the neighborhood and ran the hookers elsewhere. That night, on a dark corner a few blocks down from where he was about to become one of the biggest sports legends of all time, The D.A. saw what he immediately recognized to be the boy and girl of his dreams peddling his wares. They spent the weekend in Deon's hotel and began living together when Deon moved to Chicago a few months later. Cinderella and Julia Roberts had nothing on Charlie/Charlene Dubois.

J-Boy, Deon's last lover, hadn't been so lucky. Jerome died in the early days of the plague, back when Deon was only a college all-American and didn't have enough money to help with J-Boy's medical bills. That was one thing that was going to be different when Charlie got sick. If Charlie got sick.

"Isn't that what they call traveling?" Charlie asked now, pointing to the TV and a highlight from the Knicks-Magic game.

"Nooooo," Deon said laughingly.

"Well, what's traveling then? Oh, never mind," he said with a flip of his wrist. "I'll never understand this or any other game you sweaty grown men play."

"That's 'cause you don't want to." Deon leaned over and kissed his neck just as the phone rang. Charlie was the closer of the two and lunged for the cordless on the coffee table, then handed it to the owner of the house.

"Deon Anthony," said the voice on the other end. "It's Jasper."

"How'd you get my number?"

"CNC has everybody's number." There was a pause while Jasper waited for a laugh, which wasn't forthcoming. "Anyway, just calling to wish you good luck in the playoffs, nothing more."

"You sure?" asked Deon.

"Absolutely. Tell me: you think you're going to go all the way this year?"

"Why should this year be any different?" Deon said jokingly and waited for Jasper's laughter, which wasn't forthcoming.

"No." Jasper paused. "I want to know if you really and truly think you're going to go all the way this year. All the way."

Suddenly Deon realized Jasper wasn't talking about the playoffs, but the Temple and Oth.e.l.lo. "I don't know," he stammered, feeling Charlie's eyes resting on him. "I can't say. Because I don't know."

"Well, good luck, anyway. Of course, I'm rooting for the Knicks."

"Think you'll go all way?"

"Unsure, very unsure." There was a long pause as both of them waited for something more from the other end of the line. "Well, good luck."

"You, too," said Deon.

Jasper hung up the phone and settled back in the plush leather chair in the smoking room of his penthouse atop Hollinquest Towers, once again feeling relaxation envelop his feet as Bruce gently ma.s.saged them while sitting on the carpet.

"I didn't know you knew him, but I guess I should have figured," Bruce said, more consumed in his task than his comment.

"Just calling him to schmooze," Jasper said, arching his head back and closing his eyes.

"Think Senator Herman will fall for it?" Bruce asked absently. Taken aback, Jasper slowly reared his head to glare at Bruce, but all he saw was a thick ma.s.s of dirty blond hair falling downward.

"Fall for what?" Jasper asked cautiously.

The seriousness of Jasper's voice caused Bruce to look up and shrug. "I a.s.sumed you might be trying to get Deon Anthony to use his influence with Herman because Herman is head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. You know, from one good ol' Carolina boy to another, approve of Amba.s.sador-elect Middleton, help my friend Jasper with his cash cow."

Jasper eyed Bruce suspiciously, studying his una.s.suming baby face, a face that would earn him the label pretty boy long past twenty-five. Then, after a prolonged pause, a Ches.h.i.+re cat grin wiped across Jasper's face.

"Don't ever let them say I didn't hire you for your brains," said Jasper, prompting Bruce to smile as he continued his foot ma.s.sage. The kid's all right, Jasper thought, remembering that unathletic but toned eighteen-year-old who came to spend a month with him at his Maui ranch.

Back then, Bruce was just one of several young men he kept around the world, no more or less special than the boys in Martinique, Mykinos or the villa in Cannes. But Bruce had ambition. He was on his way to the University of Missouri for journalism and wasn't afraid to talk politics and business with Jasper. "I'm gonna be the male Barbara Walters," he kept telling Jasper in between moonlit romps in the Pacific surf. Now, seven years later, he was Jasper's most steady boy and a fledging reporter for CNC, a job he received only because he was truly qualified.

"So you think it will work?" Bruce asked, moving behind his boss and ma.s.saging his shoulders. "Does The D.A. have that much influence?"

Jasper sighed. "It's a long shot. I don't expect anything from it."

Bruce only understood part of the link. In truth, Jasper didn't need Deon to talk to Jimmy Herman. What he needed was for Herman to stop holding up the president's amba.s.sadorial appointments in an effort to promote the senator's ultra-Christian, right-wing agenda. Months ago, Herman had vowed that, unless the White House and Capitol Hill pa.s.sed tougher abortion laws and drastically decreased AIDS funding, the long-time chair of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee would block all appointments by grinding committee business to a halt. Thirty amba.s.sadorial nominees were still awaiting confirmation and Herman wasn't budging. Fifteen percent of the country's emba.s.sies were without amba.s.sadors.

There was one country in particular that Jasper cared about: Belize and its dozens of miles of tropical beaches owned by Hollinquest, Inc. The current regime in the fledging Central American paradise was fighting his development plans, which stood to make Jasper billions. Which is why his old pal Arnie Middleton was soon to be Amba.s.sador Middleton. As soon as Herman stopped playing games with the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.