Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 3

"Ain't n.o.body's business."

"It's your business when some of those same kids commit suicide because they feel evil for wanting to take a big d.i.c.k up the a.s.s."

"You can't tell me how to live my life," yelled Deon.

"I'm not trying to!" Oth.e.l.lo shook his fists out of frustration. He took a few deep breaths. The room grew still. "Look, I'm not saying come out. h.e.l.l, I'd rather cut off my right arm than do that." His voice quivered at the mere thought of going public, especially now that he had the virus. "I'm just saying: there are gays out there fighting and dying every day, and the three of us, with our big bad powerful selves, we could make such a difference. We could make the difference. We could run the war."

"Why us?" asked Jasper.

"Because," Oth.e.l.lo said impatiently, "because between each of us, we have all it takes."

"To what?"

"To let the whole world know not to f.u.c.k with gays anymore. To do whatever we want to do." To put a hole the size of a melon in Jimmy Herman's head, he wanted to add; but that would have been getting way ahead of himself and he wasn't sure if they were ready for his ultimate goal. He wasn't even sure if he was ready for his ultimate goal. "For example, Jasper, you've got the power of the press right at your fingertips. CNC decides what's on America's conscience as much as anybody. It's your toy. Even without coming out, you alone can make gay rights an issue as big as anything."

"Hmmmph," Jasper mumbled skeptically. "And just what do you have to offer to this war? Our pop star turned political genius."

"I can be the link to the foot soldiers in the streets. The group ACTNOW, I trust you've heard of them."

"Yeah, yeah, sure," said Jasper.

"I haven't," said Deon, causing Jasper and Oth.e.l.lo to regard each other, then Deon. "Don't look at me like that," said Deon. "Guys is just who I go to bed with. It's got nothing to do with who or what I am. I ain't never been in no gay bar or been around a whole group of gay people or wanted to live a gay life or nothing like that. It's just who I go to bed with."

Oth.e.l.lo glanced at Jasper, who also seemed leery of the star athlete's stance. "We could debate that one all night," Oth.e.l.lo said, "but ACTNOW, Deon, is a gay activist group. Action Coalition To Unleash National Organized Warfare. Of course the 'u' is silent, so to speak, more of a jab toward ACT UP whom they splintered off from. Anyway, think of them as modern day minutemen, if you remember history."

"And you've got this so-called link to them?" asked Jasper.

"To the top," said Oth.e.l.lo. "I already give them a ton of money on the sly. They're good men. And women. They're fighting for all of us. They don't quit and they believe in violence if it comes to it, just like those rebels called Colonists a couple of hundred years ago. But they need resources, money, coverage, access to places and things."

"What about me?" asked Deon. "Why'd you drag me into this?"

"Because, my friend." Oth.e.l.lo stood over him. "You have the inside track to Senator Evil himself."

"Jimmy Herman?" Jasper asked, to which Oth.e.l.lo nodded.

"I barely know the guy," said Deon.

"Yes, but you do know him." Oth.e.l.lo's voice changed to that of a Southern belle's. "You're both down-home, South Carolina boys, go to the same charity events back home. Why, he was one of yo' biggest fans in college, weren't he, that man?"

"Man, get outta here."

"It's true." Oth.e.l.lo went back to his own voice. "And that, Mr. D.A., is crucial. That man has done more harm to gay rights than everyone else combined. We need you, Deon, as a connection to the senator, his inside moves, his plans, neat little things we'll need to know about him and the rest of his posse."

"I never see the old b.u.g.g.e.r," said Deon. "This is crazy."

"Not as crazy as the lengths we all go through to hide our personal lives."

Abruptly Jasper stood up. "I don't need to hear this. I make up my own rules."

"Some rules," said Oth.e.l.lo. "We can't even love who the h.e.l.l we want in the light of day. You feel like a total human being? Well, I don't and I'm gonna do something about it." He paused, his tone softening. "Your frustration can't be that far off from mine: all the money in the world, people to wipe your a.s.s if you tell them to, but then again, politicians, religious freaks, hatemongers and everybody who's got an opinion has more of an influence on gay rights than we do. s.h.i.+t, guys, doesn't it make you angry enough to just wanna, wanna...take charge of all the madness? Well, we can do it, fellas, us, the three of us, like n.o.body can. Come on, men, whaddaya say?"

He fell silent and waited. Both Jasper and Deon looked away, deep in their own thoughts. Oth.e.l.lo knew he had gotten to them, but how much?

Deon was the first to move, rising up and pacing back and forth on his side of the room. Except for his gigantic black and red Nikes squis.h.i.+ng against the cement floor, the Temple felt dead. Then, on his seventh trip up and down the entire length of the table, he stopped and glared at Oth.e.l.lo, who was only two feet away.

Got 'em, Oth.e.l.lo cooed to himself, suppressing a smile. Deon stepped toward him. Oth.e.l.lo readied his right hand to shake. Deon also raised his right hand, but suddenly it formed a fist, a fist which Oth.e.l.lo saw speeding toward the center of his face.

This time, it was the pop star who was out cold.

THREE.

T HE BEDROOM was pitch black, the air stale with the musky scent of s.e.x and sweat from the night before. In the bed, tangled up in the sheets, was a young brunette, out cold until the phone on the far nightstand came alive and jolted the whole room awake. She startled but tried to remain asleep, counting on the man whose condo and phone it was to kill the noise. But the ringing persisted, not even rescued by an answering machine. "Get it already," she moaned, covering her head with a pillow. When she didn't feel stirring on the other half of the bed, she investigated with her arm, which was met only by the flatness of the mattress. Her head popped up; he wasn't even there. Exasperated, she tugged at the curtain over the bed, letting in a sliver of daylight, then reached for the phone herself, mumbling h.e.l.lo and blanching at the indecipherable squawking of some b.i.t.c.hy female on the other end of the line.

In the adjacent living room, Raider Kincaide was huffing and puffing his way through his usual morning ritual of forty-five minutes on the rowing machine. Only wearing a pair of beat-up white sneakers and some old gray sweats from his Dartmouth days, he was rocking back and forth furiously, sweat flying off his thick blond hair and smooth upper body, drenching the apparatus below. Ever since he was eighteen, he'd been six-two, one ninety, his body ripe with athleticism. But now, at twenty-nine, he had to work harder to keep that same toned physique, the physique that helped make him a three-time all-Ivy-Leaguer in lacrosse in his heyday.

He was almost done with the machine, ready for the one hundred pushups, when the girl in the bedroom poked her sleepy head into the living room and asked: "Do you have a wife?"

"Ex-wife, why?"

"The phone," she groaned and disappeared. Reluctantly, Raider leaped up and followed her, picking up the cordless as the girl plopped back into bed and laughing to himself at the thought of wearing her out last night.

"Adele?" He held the receiver away from his ear and braced himself for the onslaught from the other end. After a pause he said: "What do you need to know for? Her name is Sheila."

"Cheryl," came from the bed.

Raider didn't bother to correct himself. Instead, he listened impatiently at his ex-wife's hara.s.sment, offering a "yeah, uh-huh" every few seconds as she rambled on about needing more child support and whether or not he was going to pick up his son after school like he was supposed to for a long overdue visit. All the while, Raider couldn't help thinking of a stupid twenty-one year-old kid who married his girlfriend of seven months just because she was pregnant and he was Catholic. It was a marriage that disintegrated in two years, around the same time he dropped out of law school.

After two minutes of her nagging, he was ready to hang up on her but was saved by call waiting. "Oh, there it is," he said expectantly. "That call from the office, thata"that critical case, gotta go...yes, I know...yes, I'll get the kid, gotta go...bye...yes, bye. Jesus Christ," he said once he clicked her off. There was no critical case at the officea"h.e.l.l, she thought he was a part time paralegal and personal trainer anywaya"but coincidentally, on the other line, was his boss George Dockweiller's secretary.

"Dock wants you in a-sap," she said after his h.e.l.lo. A-sap was her way of saying ASAP. "Got a UC a.s.signment I'm guessing."

"Money," Raider said. It was his word for awesome. "I'm on my way." He hung up, wondering what kind of undercover job Dockweiller had in mind.

"Who's Sheila?" Cheryl asked from the bed. "Last week's?"

"More like night before last," he mumbled to himself, grabbing the white towel draped on the headboard and heading for the shower.

An hour later, he was roaring through DC on one of his Harleys, past the Jefferson Memorial, past Capitol Hill and the Was.h.i.+ngton Monument, then past his personal favorite when it came to the town's tourist traps, Ford's Theater where Lincoln was shot. Soon after, he was at FBI headquarters in the J. Edgar Hoover Building on the northwest side of Was.h.i.+ngton, strolling nonchalantly through the maze of outer office cubicles. When he reached Dockweiller's office, he knocked but entered without waiting for an answera"he was one of only a handful of people who possessed that privilege. Dock was standing up, his tall lanky frame facing the window behind his desk. "Word has it you didn't leave Sally's alone last night," he said, surveying the dome of the Capitol in the distance.

Raider grabbed the chair in front of the desk. "Sir, in the five years I've been with the bureau, have you ever known me to leave Sally's Bar and Grill alone?"

Dockweiller let out a hearty laugh. Raider loved fueling his boss's imagination when it came to Raider's s.e.xual exploits, especially since Dockweiller had been married for thirty years and his own legendary tales all came from the sixties.

"I will say she was a wild one," Raider added. Dockweiller turned around and regarded him curiously, as if sizing him up for some task. Awkwardly, Raider stared back at Dockweiller's sunken, weathered face, trying but failing to read the man they called Dock Eastwood back when he was the bureau's top undercover agent.

"Raider, tell me," he said, slowly circ.u.mnavigating the office. "You ever hear of a group called ACTNOW?"

"Don't think so." Raider shrugged. "Waita"I have heard of an ACT UP, a bunch of radical gays."

"These guys are worse. They make ACT UP look like pansiesa"well, I guess they're all pansies." Dockweiller paused to chuckle at his own joke.

"What are they so worked up about?"

"What else? Gay rights, AIDS, anything left of left. They torched a priest's car in San Diego. In Sacramento, they once planted a fake bomb in a politician's home. d.a.m.n near killed the fool with a heart attack."

"To think gay guys would have the guts."

"Oh, yes. The fairies mean business. For some time we've known ACTNOW has been getting an influx of cash for bail money, lawyers and general terrorism from an anonymous wealthy source. Now we think that source may have slipped up. Last week, the group deposited into its bank account a $20,000 check from something called HFR."

"And?"

"We did some of our 'creative' research and found out HFR stands for Hardaway Family of Riverside and it's tied to a place called Papa Daddy's, an ethnic burger joint on the outskirts of LA, near Riverside. Papa Daddy's is owned by Oth.e.l.lo Hardaway, better known as just Oth.e.l.lo."

Raider had been sitting there casually, following along quite una.s.sumingly. It took a beat or two for him to put it all together.

"Oth.e.l.lo?" he gasped, turning around to Dockweiller, who was behind him. "Wait a minute: you're telling me Oth.e.l.lo is gay?"

"That part we've known for years," said Dockweiller.

"The Oth.e.l.lo?" Raider asked, wondering how could his boss could be so calm about this. "I would have never thoughta"I mean, a guy like hima"he can have any girl he wants." Raider pictured Oth.e.l.lo as he'd seen him in videos, a smooth-skinned, studly black man with s.e.x coming out of his pores, a small but ripped body, killer abs, deep mischievous eyes, dances like he's f.u.c.king, always has the hottest chicks in his videos. Of course, he never touched them much. But Oth.e.l.lo a f.a.g? "My kid loves him," Raider said aloud. "I just bought him his latest alb.u.m for...." he trailed off, still digesting it.

"Lots of stars are gay," said Dockweiller. "We still got lists, you know."

"Who?" Raider said too eagerly. Dockweiller thought about it, then started to speak just as the phone rang. As his boss sat down at his desk and took the call, Raider imagined in his mind a new version of Oth.e.l.lo, a man who liked to take it up the a.s.s. Or give it. And probably suck d.i.c.k, too. He couldn't understand why in the world any guy would want to do that to another guy, even all the religious stuff aside; and for a fraction of a second, for the sake of argument, he almost allowed himself to visualize opening his mouth, going down, encompa.s.sing another man'sa"

But then he thought of the time in college, junior year, when he beat the c.r.a.p out of another student who followed him from the library to his moped in the parking lot one night. "Hey, stud, wanna f.u.c.k a sissy?" the guy had said. The f.a.ggot ended up spending two days in the hospital, and because some b.i.t.c.h happened along and summoned campus security, Raider spent the night in jail, only to be released the next morning when his lacrosse buddies "persuaded" the f.a.ggot not to press charges.

When Dockweiller hung up the phone, Raider was dying to ask about the other names on the department's gay list. But when his boss failed to bring up the subject again, he quelled his curiosity so as not to appear too eager to talk about it.

"I'll cut to the chase, Kincaide," said Dockweiller. "We need someone to infiltrate this ACTNOW, ascertain how dangerous they intend to be, and most of all, we want to know how involved Oth.e.l.lo is in their operation." Dockweiller leaned back in his chair. "Of course, this means two things: going to Los Angeles where they're holed up and becoming an insider, as if you were one of them. Gay."

"Why me?" was the first thing out of Raider. "You know I'm not gay, sir."

"Of course not, Kincaide. You're like the kind of son I would have wanted if my wife hadn't had five daughters."

"What, then you're saying I act gay?" Raider was almost out of his seat.

"Far from it. I knew you'da""

"Why not just go straight to Oth.e.l.lo himself?" Raider asked, trying to lift the burden suddenly dropped in his lap.

Dockweiller laughed. "And while we're at it, maybe he'll do an interview with 20/20 on why he's pumping teenage America's hard-earned dough into a group of radical gay feygelehs."

"But why me?" Raider bolted up and walked to the window. "What about McKenzie or...or Goose? He's always prancing around imitating 'em anyway."

"You don't have to be a limp wrist to be gay, Raider." Dockweiller indicated a thick file on his desk. "Oth.e.l.lo's got a thing for blonds, big muscly blonds. And let's face it: they don't come much more big, muscly and blond than you."

"Why don't they get someone from the LA bureau?"

"Harbinger, my old buddy therea"he called me and asked for you. Guess I've been talking you up to him so much over the years, bragging about you. He thought you'd be ideal for this, said any man who could bust the Martelli cocaine connection could take out these guys in their sleep."

Raider glared out the window. "None of the Martelli gang tried to hit on me."

"No, they just cut their enemies into a thousand tiny pieces. But you nailed their b.u.t.ts. And you busted those militia sickos who were targeting Atlanta. You're the best, Kincaide. That's why I'm asking you. And you know that's all I'm doing. I can't make you do this. It's your decision, company policy."

Like a petulant son, Raider's stare remained fixed on the world outside. "If I say yes, what's my cover? Flamingo dancer? Hairdresser? Figure skater?"

"Don't worry, we won't give you a whole gay background to remember. You'll still be Raider Kincaide, hetero Dartmouth lacrosse legend. We think Oth.e.l.lo will go for the jock bit. Plus, if he's smart enough to have you checked out, you'll be legit. Only fictional thing will be: instead of joining the FBI after quitting law school, you puddled around your real life hometown, Nantucket, working at your father's motel. That's where you lived until you moved to West Hollywood to come out and be what you always knew you were, gay." Dockweiller rose up and stood a foot away from Raider's back. "This is the kind of a.s.signment I would have killed for in my time."

"You became a legend nailing hard-nosed Mafia types, not radical gays torching priests' cars."

"You know I wouldn't ask you if I didn't believe in you a hundred percent and know that someday you're going to be just as much a legend around here as I am."

Raider stared out the window as if the only way out were to jump. But it was up to him. No agent could be forced to do undercover work. He rested his head on the window pane, breathed a shallow sigh and closed his eyes, shutting out the world outside for as long as he could.

"Think about it, Kincaide," Dockweiller finally said. "You can inform me of your decision first thing tomorrow morning."

BRIAN, JR., BURST through the front door first, barely waiting for Raider to turn the key. "Careful now," Raider said laughingly, but his son ignored him and ran for the couch, diving on it and making the sound of an exploding bomb. Raider smiled. His boy was just like him at eight, whitish blond hair that would darken eventually and full of enough energy for six boys.

"We've secured the living room, Dad, I mean, Sergeant."

"Sergeant? Boy, never let your ol' man be anything less than a five-star general."

"I'm the general," Brian protested.

"Just for tonight then," Raider said as he checked the mail. "Why don't you put your overnight bag in your bedroom and call your mother, General."

When his son was out of sight, Raider ducked into his own bedroom and retrieved the plastic shopping bag on the dresser, fis.h.i.+ng from it the unopened CD. Oth.e.l.lo. One Nation. A present for Brian to make up for not seeing him for a month. Trying to buy the kid's love, he realized, but whatever worked. This morning's meeting in Dock's office still fresh in his mind, Raider tore open the package and placed the disk in the CD player on the dresser, making sure to keep the sound low. The first thing he heard was a sustained organ note, eventually accompanied by Oth.e.l.lo speaking somberly: You've got one life.

We've got one world.

I've got one wish, and that's for one nation.