Uprising - The Suspense Thriller Part 4

When Raider bought music, which wasn't regularly, it was usually that of the old rock bands from his college days. But now, as the organ note gave way to a dance beat, he found himself listening to Oth.e.l.lo like never before, becoming engrossed in music that took on a new but as yet undefined meaning. So caught up was Raider that he didn't notice his son had entered the bedroom until they were inches apart.

"Daddy, is this mine? For me? Huh, Dad?" Brian had picked up the CD case and was beside himself.

"Gimme that, son." Raider swiped the case.

"But, Daddy, you got this for me, right?"

Raider knew he'd been nabbed. Oth.e.l.lo's songs were all Brian had been singing since the alb.u.m came out. "Sure," Raider stammered, killing the music.

"Then why can't I have it?" Simple enough question.

"Uh," Raider murmured painfully, then knelt beside his son, searching his innocent blue eyes. To have his own boy listening to Oth.e.l.lo? Now that he knew what he knew? "Son, uh...." He tried to come up with an explanation a kid would understand, but after some rather long agonizing moments, he failed. He wasn't even sure if he understood why his son shouldn't listen to a gay guy's music. No parental group had come down on the alb.u.m for s.e.xual content as far as he knew. His boy was standing patiently, waiting for an answer. "Son," he finally said, "just let me listen to it first, to make sure it's okay for children. And if it is, you'll get it later."

The disappointment is his son's face would eventually wear off, Raider reasoned, and maybe by then he'd be more interested in the latest s.p.a.ce-powered, teenage karate heroes or those Gooseb.u.mp people, whoever they were.

"QUIET, EVERYONE, please!" Travis Little Horse shouted over the uproar, and the thirty men and women gathered for the ACTNOW meeting slowly if not begrudgingly began to settle down. "Meeting's dragging, folks. We voted on this an hour ago. We will continue to have ten people hara.s.s a.s.semblymen Weeks wherever he goes, but we will not stake out his teenage daughter as Freedom suggested." Travis shot a disappointed look to Freedom who was also at the podium, his flaming red hair all over the place after the heated debate. "True, we are not in this for public relations," Travis added, "but little Becky Weeks has not done one thing to hurt us."

There was a general murmur of approval from the other members, including Oth.e.l.lo, who was in the back of the room, dressed as the old man Joe with his geriatric makeup, fake eyebrows, beard and wig, wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, latex beer belly, green fisherman's hat, worn khaki pants and yellow golf jacket over his blue workman's s.h.i.+rt. Up front, Freedom tossed his head back defiantly, the long dangling earring in his right ear s.h.i.+mmering in the bar's overhead lighting.

"These people need to suffer," he said.

"Weeks will get his," Travis said, "but not his daughter and not tonight. I think we've had enough for one day." Most of the members groaned in agreement. "We'll take up the mayor controversy next meeting. Anybody with suggestions can see me before you goa"waita"wait," he called out as everyone began to disperse, "a couple of announcements, especially about the protest at the hospital Sat.u.r.day...."

Raider Kincaide stepped into the boarded-up bar to find the ACTNOW meeting apparently ending. An Indian-looking man with long black hair was speed-reading through some sort of list and half the people in the room were standing up, poised to leave once the list was finished. Raider knew he'd be late, especially after stopping at a 7-Eleven for a six pack of Bud Light and downing half of it in the back alley as a shot to his nerves. From just inside the door, he surveyed the place, digesting the fact that he was now standing in a room full of gay people. Radical gay people at that.

After the last announcement, Oth.e.l.lo rose up, gingerly as an old man might, and cut a clear path to Travis, who was swarmed as usual at meeting's end by a handful of other members. Standing just outside their loosely formed circle, Oth.e.l.lo found himself next to a black-haired man he recognized from the p.o.r.no movies of the mid-to-late '80s. The man was in his late thirties now, with a goatee, his body more trim than muscular as it had been during his video days. At the meetings, they called him Giorgio; but in the movies, he had gone by a name Oth.e.l.lo couldn't remember. Standing three feet apart, they made eye contact and smiled. Wanting to avoid scrutiny, Oth.e.l.lo averted his eyes, wandering if Giorgio had caught the virus working in all those movies, thus providing his motivation for being here. And if that were true, he wondered if Giorgio regretted taking all those dozens of d.i.c.ks of the p.o.r.no stars up his a.s.s.

"That Freedom's something else," Giorgio suddenly said to him, to which Oth.e.l.lo nodded but remained mute. "But I see his point. h.e.l.l, I'll try anything."

This time, Oth.e.l.lo barely heard him. His attention had been commandeered by the sight of a tall blond man looking a bit lost near the door. He was a big boy, Oth.e.l.lo noted right away, his body made hard by sport more than a gym. His jeans fit him well, his white T-s.h.i.+rt even better. He seemed close to Oth.e.l.lo's age, but his smooth tanned skin made him appear younger while his full head of hair, which was slightly tousled, added an air of ruggedness to him. He stood there not talking to anyone, eyes darting around the room nervously. There was something about hima"something Oth.e.l.lo couldn't quite put his finger ona"that set him apart from the men streaming past him out the door. Oth.e.l.lo looked at Travis, who was still occupied, and knew he had a choice: wait patiently for Travis to finish or wander in the vicinity of the blond guy. What Oth.e.l.lo would do once he reached him, he didn't know. What he did know was that he had never seen anyone quite like this at ACTNOW and he had to have a closer look.

Instead of making a beeline for him, Oth.e.l.lo headed toward the door like a curve ball gone mad, arcing wide around the perimeter of the room, periodically glancing the blond guy's way to check for eye contact, of which there was none. When he reached the entryway, he found himself behind the man and browsed the table full of literature, his attention more focused on the hulking figure whose broad shoulders and expansive back were but a few feet away. Oth.e.l.lo had never said more than two words to anyone at the meetings other than Travis, but knew he'd never be able to live with himself if he walked away without trying to make contact.

He took the four steps necessary to lodge himself in the man's periphery. It worked. The man glanced at Oth.e.l.lo, but then just as una.s.sumingly, glanced away, his eyes more interested in scanning the room. Of course, Oth.e.l.lo thought sourly. Not attracted to an old black geezer. It was a look, or nonlook, Oth.e.l.lo was used to seeing during his secret junkets, a look that said his kind didn't warrant consideration on the attraction scale. The rebuke didn't work this time. Oth.e.l.lo stepped a little closer so there was no denying his intent to socialize. They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the room. "Ending early tonight," he said in his scratchy senior citizen's voice. "A big brouhaha tapped everybody out."

The blond guy glanced at Oth.e.l.lo ever so briefly and nodded in acknowledgment.

An excruciating lull followed.

"Your first time here?" Oth.e.l.lo finally asked.

"Uh, yeah," the man said after having to think about it.

"What made you decide to come?" Oth.e.l.lo wondered if the man had also just tested positive and decided to become politically active. Talk about having something in common.

"Me? I just, well, I don't know, wanted to check it out." Abruptly, Raider did a double take and took a good look at the old black man, it just now occurring to him the guy might be trying to hit on him. He took a step back and flashed a hesitant half-smile, thinking: this old man can't be gay. "Tell me something," he said. "You work here?" He suppressed adding: you clean up or something?

"n.o.body works here. The bar hasn't been open in years."

"So what brings you here?" It came out unintentionally accusatory.

"Like everybody else," Oth.e.l.lo stammered.

"You mean, you're," Raider paused, his legs dancing in place, "you're one of us?"

"What's the matter, never seen an elderly black gay man before?" Outwardly, Oth.e.l.lo's tone was defensive. Inwardly, he began to panic. Was something wrong with his disguise? Was his face coming apart? Did this guy know something?

"No, it's not that," Raider began apologetically. "Well, sort of. It's just that I didn't know what to expect here." Backpedal, he told himself, not the right first impression. "I mean, I know ACTNOW is militant and I thought that meanta""

"No old fogies?"

Raider laughed sheepishly. "I'm sorry. I just got here a few days ago from Nantucket, never been to California. Guess I'm seeing all kinds of new things out here. But I like it. Don't get me wrong."

"Yes, well, out here gays come in all kinds of configurations." Oth.e.l.lo began gently feeling his face to make sure it was intact.

"That's why I'm here," Raider said purposefully, folding his arms over his chest.

The tone of this last statement struck Oth.e.l.lo as strange. He didn't quite know how it was meant or how he should take it. Curiously, he eyed the blond man while some instinct in the distant reaches of his mind urged him to slowly back away. But he couldn't just leave, especially now that they were actually conversing. To deflect the momentary bout of anxiety, he looked away and caught a glimpse of Travis, who was across the room, putting on his leather jacket as if to leave. "Could you hold on one tiny second?" he quickly asked. "I've got to talk to Travis before he goes. I'll be right back."

"Well, I'd better bea""

"Don't go away, all right? Promise?" Flas.h.i.+ng wide sensitive eyes, Oth.e.l.lo held out until he received a reluctant nod, then headed straight for Travis, catching him just as he was walking away from the podium.

"Joe," Travis said when he saw the old man.

"We need to talk." Hastily, Oth.e.l.lo led the way to the deejay's booth and waited until Travis closed the door before removing two manila envelopes from his pants pockets. "Here's five grand. Bail money. Plus, there's good news."

"I don't know what could be more good than this." Travis eagerly took the cash.

"How about an end to the group's indecision about how radical to get?"

"That and the money? Sounds too good to be true."

"Boss lady has an idea." As an old man might, he let out a series of hacking coughs, then paused to catch his breath while trying to decide how much to reveal about the possibility of new allies in the war.

When Oth.e.l.lo came to on the Temple floor after being knocked out, Hollinquest and Anthony were standing over him with vengeful smiles. "We should do this more often," Jasper had said. "If nothing else than to see the world's greatest basketball hero punch the daylights out of the world's most delusional rock star."

"Give me another shot at this," Oth.e.l.lo had asked, remaining on the floor and feeling his face for blood, relieved when he hadn't found any.

"Why should we?" Jasper had asked.

"Because I've got all of our best interests at heart," Oth.e.l.lo had said. After an hour of pleading, he'd finally gotten Jasper to agree to a second meeting, this time without Mafia thugs and needles. Then, only after making Oth.e.l.lo grovel some more and receiving an approving nod from Hollinquest, Deon had consented to join them. Still, neither would-be accomplice was remotely close to enlisting.

"The old dame," Oth.e.l.lo said now to Travis, "she's trying to convince some of her rich old widow friends to contribute to the cause, said they've all lost too many gay friends to AIDS."

"Who are these G.o.ddesses?"

"That you'll never know. But we might be in for some major resources, the kind needed to do some of the more out-there things you and Freedom talk about. But they need you to show them what you can do. Forget the people in the group who don't want to escalate. Find out who wants to follow you to the next level, team up with them and give these ladies something to see, say at the hospital rally or with Arnold Weeks."

Show me who's ready for bloodshed, Oth.e.l.lo concluded to himself.

Travis glanced down at the envelopes of cash and let out a laugh that bordered on sinister. "Joe, my friend, tell these little old ladies: it's showtime."

Raider had moved over to the literature table and was feigning interest in the various flyers. In reality though, he was sizing up the few ACTNOW members who were left. Two feminine-acting men were sweeping the floor. Two butch-looking women were moving a podium. Nothing too noteworthy was going on, except, at the opposite end of the room, inside a small gla.s.s booth, the old black guy was talking to the man he called Travis, the Indian who had read the final announcements. Even though they had privacy, they seemed to be speaking in hushed tones. Then the old black guy forked over two manila envelopes and the Indian's face became animated with appreciation.

"Hey," Raider said to the body in his periphery. "Who's that guy Travis is talking to?"

"Travis? Where?" a man's thin voice responded.

Raider took his eyes off the exchange in the booth to discover the man he had spoken to was unlike anything he'd ever encountered in person. He was as tall as Raider, but skinnier than skinny, with fire-engine red hair and rings coming out of his ears, nose, upper lip and both eyebrows. Around his neck were pearls like Raider's Aunt Geraldine used to wear and his white tank top said: AIDS, BABY.

"Tha"the booth," Raider stammered.

"Oh. That man? He's some old Geritol-type who shows up sometimes." Freedom gave Raider a once-over, his right eyebrow lifting approvingly. "Just between us girls, he comes here bearing gifts from some rich old f.a.g hag."

"f.a.g hag?" Raider was confused.

"Uh-huh," he said teasingly, trying to impress Raider with his knowledge. But Raider didn't know what a f.a.g hag was and didn't want to let on.

"Is the f.a.g hag black or white?"

Freedom shrugged. "White, I a.s.sume, some old Hollywood has-been we think."

"And what's Travis do again? I forget; I'm new."

"He thinks he's the leader, but I'm the real b.a.l.l.s behind this outfit. My name's Freedom. What do they call you besides a brick s.h.i.+thouse?" Freedom's hand reached for Raider's pecs, immediately causing Raider to flinch and step back just in time to avoid being touched. For an instant, they both froze, like animals of different species in the jungle, eyeing each other for the first time, unsure of the other's prowess.

"Geez," Freedom finally said. "No need to cop a 'tude. Take it as a compliment, whydontcha?" With that, he picked up a stack of flyers, hugged them to his chest and walked off in a huff, leaving Raider shaken by the thought of losing his cool and ready to get the h.e.l.l out of here to regroup.

Oth.e.l.lo came out of the deejay's booth just in time to see the back of the blond man turning for the door, on the verge of vanis.h.i.+ng into the night. "Wait," he mumbled reflexively to himself, then cast caution aside and hurried over to him, reaching him at the threshold. "Not so fast."

Raider halted and swung around, wondering, What now? But it was just the old man, not the freak, and for that he was grateful.

"Leaving without saying good-bye?" Oth.e.l.lo asked. A feeble line, but it was all he could think of.

"Meeting's over," Raider said in a friendly tone.

Oth.e.l.lo cleared his throat, paused, then said nervously: "There's a great coffeehouse down the block. We could go. I could tell you all about ACTNOW."

Raider laughed. "I'm sure you could."

"I'll even throw in a tour of West Hollywood if you want. A special one for people fresh off the boat from Nantucket."

"I don't think that's such a gooda""

"And you can tell me all the Nantucket jokes you know."

Raider let out an all out guffaw, for being hit on by two guys already and for the old man's persistence. But since he had taken this joba"and since the old man had something to do with Travisa"maybe it wouldn't be such a bad idea to befriend the guy while not doing anything to make him think he could fondle Raider like the weirdo flamer. "Look, I do have to go," he began politely, then indicated a yellow flyer on the table. "See you at the hospital rally on Sat.u.r.day?"

Oth.e.l.lo brightened, then just as quickly fell sullen. "Can't make it," he said. It wasn't even the issue of being unmasked. Sat.u.r.day was the second meeting with Jasper Hollinquest and Deon Anthony.

"Well, I'm sure I'll see you around." Raider turned to leave, having had more than enough for his first foray into the gay world.

"You'll be going to all the rallies from now on?" Oth.e.l.lo asked.

"Looks that way," Raider sighed, leaning out the door.

"Wait," said Oth.e.l.lo. "Your name."

"Raider."

"Raider, I'm...Joe."

Raider nodded, paused a beat, then said, "See you around, Joe," before finally making his exit. For a moment, Oth.e.l.lo stood in shock from the swiftly moving current of events. Then, something inside told him that Raider wasn't the type of person who'd come to an ACTNOW function. And what that meant to Oth.e.l.lo at that instant was that Raider would probably never come back, even though he said he would, which meant that Oth.e.l.lo might never see Raider again.

Quickly, Oth.e.l.lo bolted out the door. Santa Monica Boulevard was alive with cars on the street and bodies on the sidewalk. Frantically looking in both directions, he saw no build that resembled Raider's. Then, with a second look to his left, he caught a glimpse of a broad-shouldered man slipping from the crowd and ducking into the darkness of a side street. Time stopped; fear swelled in his stomach. He was at a crossroads, he knew: follow and pursue or perhaps regret it for the rest of his life.

To keep in character, he limped to the corner. When he reached the side street, he saw that the disappearing body had indeed been Raider, but he was already half a block away and in quite a hurry. The street was empty and residential. Oth.e.l.lo shed the old man gait and sprint-walked down the sidewalk, unsure whether to call out Raider's name or be ready to duck behind a parked car if he turned around. But Raider was moving much too fast to care about what was behind him, and when he was near the end of the block, he darted into an alleyway on the right.

Oth.e.l.lo ran to the alley only to find it empty. He went down it anyway, determined not to let this man walk in and out of his life in the span of a few short breaths. Halfway down the alley, next to a Spanish style house, there was an opening to the left, a driveway extending to the front of the property. Oth.e.l.lo charged down it. When he reached the point where the driveway met the street, he ducked behind a parked car. Across the street, Raider was heading up the stairs to a large modern apartment building. In a matter of seconds, he slipped a key into the double-gla.s.s doors and was gone.

Oth.e.l.lo stood up but stayed behind the car, knowing this was as far as he should go tonight. He was out of breath from the chase, but also relieved to find out that Raider, Last Name Unknown, formerly of Nantucket, Ma.s.s., lived in an apartment on Havenhurst Drive in the heart of West Hollywood. Because even with just these few facts, Oth.e.l.lo could have his manager Sweeney check up on this man, this, oh, so wonderful, gorgeous man.

FOUR.

O N THE thirty-five-inch monitor suspended from the ceiling, dozens of gays and lesbians jammed the gra.s.sy knoll separating Mercy Hospital from an adjacent thoroughfare, their anger channeled into one rancorous chant: "Mercy has no mercy! Mercy has no mercy!"

"Gentlemen," Oth.e.l.lo began, circling Jasper and Deon, who were both seated around the mahogany conference table, "I give you Mercy Hospital, the sick bay in East LA with the absolute worst reputation in all of Southern California for caring for AIDS patients. They have doctors who don't give a d.a.m.n, or worse, don't know enough about the disease. They have health care workers who still freak out at the sight of PWAs. And, as icing on the cake, they have Justin Piatkowski, Mercy's top administrator who is also a former member of the arch-conservative John Birch Society." He brightened at what he saw next on the monitor. "Oh, this is good."

Hours ago, at daybreak, before the meeting at the Temple, twenty of ACTNOW's most hard-core soldiers had chained themselves inside ten of the hospital's empty rooms, vowing to stay there until Piatkowski resigned. Now, the LAPD was carrying them out by their limbs and hoisting them into a black and white police bus. The sight sent the ralliers into a frenzy, forcing the remaining cops to form a wall sequestering the protesters on the knoll to prevent them from interfering with the arrests.

"The ones going to jail have the most b.a.l.l.s." Oth.e.l.lo moved closer to the screen for a better look. "Our Green Berets. Our Navy SEALS. Our Dirty Dozen types." He paused to take note of each ACTNOW soldier being carried through the hospital's gla.s.s doors. Some of them were whisked away too fast to recognize. Others were twisting and turning in defiance and he couldn't see their faces. He did, however, notice Giorgio, the former p.o.r.no star, and Travis, who had a mischievous smile on his face. And, of course, there was Freedom, shouting obscenities and struggling with the two officers holding him. Oth.e.l.lo also saw the two butch lesbians who always held hands at the meetings, both of them with plump bodies and short hair, and the guy who was always talking about setting fire to right wing buildings. He was black, slightly heavyset and wore dreadlocks.

"How we getting this on TV?" asked Deon. He was slouched down in his chair as if he were a bored high school student.

"Closed circuit satellite," Oth.e.l.lo said, scanning the screen. "But rest a.s.sured: the camera crew has no idea who they're beaming this back to."