He had to get something non-alcoholic to drink, put something in his belly or he wasn't going to get anywhere. But when he finally reached the top of the hill there was nothing resembling a fast-food place. As he would have known if he'd been thinking, if he'd been able to think. This area – with the view and, normally, the freshening breeze – was prime real estate, full of embassies and private mansions. Shea knew that the mayor lived up here, one of the senators.
It was the wrong place to be if you craved a slurpee.
He stood a minute at the crest, breathing hard, looking north – the million-dollar view from the Pacific to Berkeley. The Golden Gate. The Presidio. Alcatraz. Today none of it gleamed – the air was too bad. The water was the color of lead – poisoned and flat.
A siren wailed nearby and Kevin turned too quickly, bringing on another rush of dizziness. He collapsed into a planter box filled with rosemary, leaning back into the hedge. The patrol car passed, slowly over the hill, gunning it down into…
Were the cops staring at him? He'd forgotten how exposed he was. He forced himself up, walked a block west, then turned south again onto a tree-lined street, blessedly shaded. Under the boughs, and then farther on over the low, dun apartment buildings of the Western Addition, he could see the spires of Saint Ignatius not a half mile away as the crow flew.
But between it and where he stood, several plumes of smoke roiled upward. And directly in front of him, on California, he saw an overturned car and what looked like army troops in some loose formation along the sidewalks.
Then another black-and-white patrol car – or was it the same one? – turned into the street and was coming up toward him. For an instant he thought he'd step out, turn himself in and beg for an isolated cell. They could at least protect him, couldn't they?
Except that even here, already, stuck on one of the trees, was the wanted poster with his own face staring out at him, grimacing with the effort of holding up Arthur Wade. Or – for the first time now he saw it objectively – contorted in what could have been taken for hatred.
The numbers were printed on the bottom. One hundred thousand dollars. But, more chillingly, hand-lettered, the addendum – 'Dead or Alive.'
Hoping that the shadows had camouflaged him, he turned into the nearest walkway, a brick path between a manicured lawn leading to a shingled Victorian with a covered entryway, a front door with a large pane of inset cut-glass. Kevin curled himself back inside the recess.
The patrol car passed again, slowly. He didn't dare look.
A light came on overhead and the door to the house opened. A well-dressed woman in her mid-fifties, the television news droning in the background. 'Can I help… Oh…'
Recognition. She must have been glued to the tube all morning. Backing up a step, she got herself behind the door, putting something between them. She whispered through the crack. 'You're Kevin Shea.' Suddenly she was begging him, terrified. 'Please go away, I don't want any trouble.'
The door slammed. The bolt slammed to.
21
When he wasn't working the streets Philip Mohandas had arranged to base his operations out of a converted two-room storefront in the Bayview District, a mile or so north of Hunter's Point, only blocks from the apartment building Jerohm Reese called home.
Having been out on the barricades from the middle of the night until nearly noon, he was now taking a moment of rest on a low couch in the darkened room in the rear of the storefront. The coat to his business suit hung on the back of a folding chair, and he lay there breathing easily, his tie loosened the half-inch that allowed his prominent Adam's apple to pass unobstructed under his collar when he swallowed. His eyes were closed and a folded damp towel rested on his forehead. On his chest, his hands were together in an attitude suggesting prayer.
Philip Mohandas was not going to sleep very long. He never did, getting by, often for days at a time, on catnaps. He had two personal assistants – Allicey Tobain and Jonas, with the unfortunately phonetic last name of N'doum – who travelled with him at all times, scheduling his time and protecting his privacy. Now they were stationed outside his door on their own folding chairs.
In the outer room, copies of the Kevin Shea poster vied for wall space with several different color posters of Mohandas in mid-speech, invariably with one fisted hand held in the air – his trademark.
The afternoon sun was beginning to stream through the plate-glass windows. Newspapers littered the floor and the wide windowsills. A long, folding table had been set up along one wall, sagging under the weight of African Nation literature and cases of bottled water. Reporters, the occasional minicam crew, professional activists, and concerned citizens all ebbed and flowed through the outer doors, speaking – mostly – in low tones.
Out in the street, a late-model green Plymouth pulled to the curb and stopped. An attractive, diminutive black woman, from the looks of her maybe forty years old, opened the driver's door, squinted at the bright facade of the storefront, and started to come around her car.
One of the reporters recognized her. 'My God, that's Senator Wager.' In the back, Allicey Tobain knocked once and pushed open the door she'd been guarding.
'What is that woman doing here?' Mohandas swung his feet to the ground, wiped his face quickly with the damp towel, then stood and let Allicey arrange his coat. 'I have got nothing to say to her. She is in the wrong camp.'
His assistant touched his hairline briefly with a comb, correcting it, then without a word handed him two Tic-Tac mouth fresheners.
Mohandas was frowning, apparently trying to find an advantage in this. 'Did she call?'
'No calls.' Allicey pulled an imaginary strand of lint from his coat. 'No word at all. She's making a play.'
'But what for?'
Allicey crossed to the door and flipped the light switch. A tall, big-boned, ebony-skinned woman with an enormous bust, her hair done in corn rows, she was wearing black pants, sandals, and a black, red and yellow dashiki cinched at the waist by a gold thong.
She straightened his coat again and ran a finger over the side of his face. 'Votes,' she said. 'Don't forget that, Philip. Votes.'
'Senator, how are you? What a wonderful surprise! Welcome.'
Mohandas wasn't big but his voice boomed, cutting through all the chatter. Flanked by Allicey and Jonas, he came forward, his arms outstretched. The front-office crowd parted, television cameras rolled, and the two leaders embraced, only to be interrupted by a reporter.
'Senator, what brings you down here? Isn't this an unexpected call?'
'An unexpected pleasure.' Mohandas held onto Loretta's hand, both of them now turned to face the camera.
'I'm here to help,' Loretta said. 'If I can. Any way that I can.'
Mohandas intoned a deep amen.
'This community has suffered not only the tragic loss of one of our brightest stars, not only the insult of the horrible crime itself, but the far deeper and meaningful loss of abandonment by the very power structure that we are struggling, against great odds, to work within.'
Loretta took a moment to include the crowd in her vision, then raised Mohandas's hand halfway in a conscious imitation of his own trademark gesture.
"This is a time, and I think Philip would agree, that we African-Americans, as well as all people of color, must unite – not only in justifiable anger but to create out of this chaos some spirit of hope and renewal, some sense that now, finally, we are going to make changes that will make a difference in the way we live, how we're treated, the voice we have in how things are done!'
A chorus of 'amen' and 'right on,' through which the senator picked her way, with Mohandas, to the back door, flanked again as though by magic by Allicey and Jonas.
Which closed on their passage inside.
'You want to just make noise, Philip, or you want to get somethin' done here?'
All alone with her in the tiny, hot room, Mohandas didn't feel like he needed to listen to a lecture from an Oreo. 'I get things done, Senator. I haven't sold anyone out.' He
jerked his head sideways. 'Those are my people out there. They have heard enough lies, they know who is not lying to them, and that's me, Senator, that's me.'
'I'm not lying to anybody, Philip. I haven't sold anybody out.'
Mohandas showed his teeth briefly, then pulled at his collar. His stock in trade was certainty. He was right and that was the way it was. 'That doesn't seem to be how many of us are reading it.'
'Then you're reading it wrong.' This was the problem she had flown out here to solve. And she wasn't going to succeed facing off against Mohandas, getting into a shouting match. He didn't play on her field, so he couldn't understand. She had more knowledge, and she had to use it. 'Wait. Let's stop.' She stepped closer to him. 'Out there, just now, that was no lie. I came down here to help if I can. And I think I can, Philip. I can help you.'
'I'm listening.'
'Why don't you talk instead. Tell me what you want.'
This, she knew, was the crux. If she could get him away from the generalities that marked his agenda. From the rhetoric. 'You know what we want, Senator…'
She smiled at him. 'How about Loretta, Philip? Loretta, not Senator. And I don't know what you want. I don't know the specifics. If you could have anything you want, what would it be? Because listen to me – now's the time you can get it.'
Mohandas stopped pacing the small room, pulled at his collar again, then sat in the folding chair, motioning Loretta to the couch he'd napped on. 'The African Nation platform is clear.'
'Philip, when you say you want a voice, you want representation, the end of oppression, you want the laws applied fairly – who doesn't? But then you go on to say you want your own separate system, and that just don't fly. Can't you see that? The numbers aren't there, and the numbers drive the dollars. You want to take over a state? Move the people back to Africa? You want a black Israel on some sand in Africa? That what you want?'
Mohandas was sweating as the heat built in the room, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. 'We want it here. We can get it here.'
'You tell me how, Philip.'
'I'm talking about equality under the law, I'm talking about our entitlements, our rights.'
Loretta shook her head in frustration, found herself raising her voice. 'I'm talking money, Philip. I'm talking federal funds. Today, here and now. For this good cause. This situation can get it for us, for you…'
Mohandas walked to the closet door, listened through it, then came back in front of where Loretta sat. 'All right, Senator,' he said, 'talk to me about money.'
22
Kevin knew he wasn't going to make his meeting with Wes Farrell at USF.
The realization came to him after he had crossed California Street and came out of the trees. Now there was no cover at all, just apartment houses on both sides of the one street in the Addition that didn't appear to have community problems just at this minute. He was halfway down the block when a police car turned the corner up ahead, coming toward him.
Ducking into another apartment building's paper-strewn entry-way, he looked back where he'd come from. Another police car. Two on the one street, closing in.
The door was locked but there were six mailboxes and he pushed all the buttons beneath them. The front door buzzed and he pushed it open as the cars passed behind him.
'Yes? Who's there?'A raspy male voice from up the stairs.
'Sorry. Wrong place.'
Kevin opened the door again, closed it loudly for effect. But he stayed inside the building in the hallway, thinking now what?
Apartment 3, on the ground floor in the back, had its mailbox stuffed with envelopes. The residents were either very popular or on vacation. Kevin had to hope it was the latter. He tried the old credit-card-in-the-doorjamb and, to his amazement, it worked. For the first time that day, he almost laughed. Maybe his luck was turning, but he thought it still had a hell of a long way to go before it got to good.
He tried Wes's number first. Ten rings, no answering machine. Wes was probably waiting for him less than a mile away. Maybe he should just call the cab and make a run for it. What were the odds that some random cabbie would know who he was? Still, credit card or no, he couldn't bring himself to risk it. This seemed like a time for caution – one hundred thousand dollars was a lot of money for a cab driver or anyone else. He was pacing the apartment, limping a little, trying to decide – footfalls on hardwood.
He froze as he heard a knock on the door, then a voice. 'Dave? Dave, you home? Anybody in there?'
He supposed there had to be places in his body that weren't cramping, but he didn't know where they were. He barely dared breathe.
The shadow of feet under the crack in the door remained. Kevin fought back the adrenaline, the pain, lack of oxygen, fear – he couldn't let himself pass out. He felt on the brink of it.
The neighbor was stubborn. He'd heard something – Kevin pacing? – and wanted to be sure. So he stayed and listened.
Please, Kevin thought, please God, don't let him have a key.
The neighbor was gone. Kevin gave it another five minutes, stretching, trying to get some relief to his burning muscles, then tiptoeing across the room and lowering himself into the thick upholstered chair – the couch was closer to where he 'd frozen but it looked like it might creak. Besides, the phone was on an end-table next to the chair.
With infinite care he raised the receiver and punched some numbers. Maybe Wes had given up on him and gone home.
Nope.
He put his head back and closed his eyes.
23
It was mid-afternoon.
'So what do we have?'
Glitsky was in a booth with three of his inspectors – Carl Griffin, Ridley Banks and Marcel Lanier. They were having an informal meeting convened by the lieutenant at Lou the Greek's, the cop and DA watering hole across the street from the Hall of Justice. You got to Lou's either through an alley and an unmarked side door or down a stained, carpeted stairway dark enough not to show what was making it smell that way.
Lou's was what it was – they poured a good shot cheaply. The food was usually tasty, hearty, possibly nutritious. Lou's wife was Chinese and Lou, of course, was Greek, and you'd often get a lunch special like avgolemo soup with won-tons or Kung-pao chicken moussaka. They'd had a special for years that they called 'Yeanling Clay Bowl' and no one could say for sure what was in it.
But the main thing about Lou's was that the place was close to the Hall of Justice, you could hang there and not be bothered, there weren't many citizens around, and known reporters and other members of the media didn't seem to get the same personalized service from Lou as law-enforcement personnel did – just one of those hard-to-explain flukes of nature.
'They were all there,' Ridley Banks said.
Glitsky and his men were nearly alone in the place, and the lieutenant was still having a hard time keeping his patience. Of course they – the witnesses they'd interrogated – had all been there. They all admitted that much. But not during the lynching. The inspectors' job was to put them on the street during the violence and it didn't look to Glitsky like that would be happening in the near future.
'I say we just arrest them and put the squeeze on.' Carl Griffin was the least sophisticated homicide inspector on the force, but that didn't mean all his ideas were bad.
'We got a problem with arrests,' Glitsky said.
'Which is…?' Lanier, sardonic, leaning back in his flight jacket, was drinking a glass of red wine.
'Which is enough space upstairs,' Glitsky said. He took a sip of his tea. 'Boles says we're full up and getting worse. He's trying to get Rigby to agree to give citations for everything up to and including armed robbery.'
Griffin raised bloodshot eyes. 'Are you serious?' Humor was lost on Griffin, and Glitsky explained that he was exaggerating but not by much – only about the armed-robbery part.
Ridley Banks spoke up. 'But we are talking 187 here.' Section 187 of the California Penal Code is murder. '… if these guys were in the action,
it was murder.'
Glitsky sucked his teeth. 'Well, that's the other thing. It's why we're down here at Lou's instead of my plush private suite. I don't want to get overheard and misconstrued.' His subordinates waited. 'You might have noticed we've also got a political situation developing.'
Lanier sipped wine, made little swirls out of some vagrant drops with his index finger on the table. 'The Kevin Shea thing.'
Glitsky nodded. 'The official line is that he's the only one who did it.'
Banks, the young red-hot, sat forward. 'But there… I mean, it was a mob…'
'We got any witnesses saying it was?'
'O'Toole. Didn't he?' Banks looked at Lanier, who shook his head no.
'O'Toole never went outside.' Lanier kept his face straight. 'Stayed in the bar. Poured drinks. And the other clowns, Mullen and McKay, they went home before it started, isn't that right, Abe?'
'The facts as we know them.'
Griffin spoke up. 'The photographer, what's his name?' The lieutenant inclined his head a quarter inch. 'Okay, him. One guy. Westberg. Point is, the mob's too unwieldy or something. God's mouth to the chief's ear, boys, they want Shea and only Shea. Symbolism or something like that. The mayor wants him, Rigby's going along, Locke's leading the charge. We get Shea and the whole problem is solved.'
Lanier continued his doodling. 'Okay, so? We bring 'em Shea.'
'We can't find him. Guy's got any brains, he's long gone anyway,' Glitsky said. 'The thing is, if we do come across some hard evidence that any of these yo-yo's – McKay, O'Toole, any of them – were part of it, I'm not much inclined, personally, that is, to just let it slide, and I wanted to convey that message to all of you.' He looked around at his inspectors. 'When things cool down, after things cool down, I don't much cotton to the idea of getting called on the carpet because we didn't pursue our investigations thoroughly. This is the kind of political' – he paused, seeking the right word – 'machination that has a way of coming back to bite at you, and I just wanted to bring it all, up front, out on the table. Okay?'
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