Quarry in the Black (11 page)

No way I was going down that receiving line, looking this much like a real college student. More to the point, I didn’t think André had either, or the fake hippies, who might be cops after all, tagging after him to make a drug bust.

If Reverend Lloyd really was funding his efforts by distributing dope via his speaking tours, André seemed the perfect candidate for carrying the ball for him. He had that emaciated druggie look, which I didn’t detect on any of the other staffers.

Oh, many of the Reverend’s young troops were into weed, no doubt—yesterday afternoon, Harold Jackson had given them a loud reminder at headquarters that no “mowing the grass” would be tolerated on this overnight, and that included “behind closed doors—your hotel rooms are on university property!”

He’d even taken me aside, the new kid, to emphasize the same point. “Mr. Blake, you get caught blastin’ a joint, we
all
go down. Remember that, son.”

I hadn’t smoked weed since Vietnam and not much of it at that. A sniper has to have an edge. Mellow is not a good state of mind when you’re killing people.

So I’d assured Big Chief Second-in-Command of my chronic lack of interest…only now I seemed to be about to learn whether the Coalition’s ’48 Greyhound had been transporting more than just politically active young people.

Looking past the lined-up Nixon lovers, however, taking in the parking lot, I didn’t see the bus anywhere. Earlier, the vehicle had let us out at the curb, but apparently had not managed to get itself parked in the big lot, which wasn’t nearly full.

At the lobby’s hotel desk, a kid in a blazer with a
GO HUSKIES
button told me buses sometimes parked around on the west end of the building. His pointing finger led to me more double doors, where I looked out and indeed saw the blue-and-silver bus, parked midway in a lot, well away from a few cars parked near the curb. André stood at the door of the big vehicle, which he appeared to be unlocking. No sign of the Mod Squad.

He went up inside.

Maybe two minutes later, André came down out of the bus and locked the door behind him. The way he walked said something was tucked under his black sports jacket, beneath his left arm. Damn, he seemed to be making a beeline right toward me.

Not that he’d seen me—I was plastered next to the doors, along one side, just peeking out. But he was up to the curb-parked cars now and maybe I should split.

Then—from somewhere off to my right, where they’d sat in a car maybe, or just waited by the building—came the two fake hippies. They approached him quickly.

So it
was
a bust…

…only it wasn’t.

Right there on the sidewalk, so close I could have burst through the doors and jumped them, André carefully withdrew a plump paper sack, its top folded over, about big enough for a couple loaves of bread. But I didn’t figure what he handed the pair was bread.

Speaking of which, they gave André a fat envelope in exchange, which the skinny staffer opened to riffle through two inches of green, not counting, just confirming.

For one dumb moment, I thought,
They’re dirty cops
, but then I realized in a saner second that they weren’t any more cops than they were hippies. André was the mule making a delivery, and they were just picking up the goods.

Flunkies.

Like André.

Whose boss was downstairs, his manner majestic, his words stirring, as he built up the hopes of a bunch of college kids and science-fiction dorks, telling them how they could make the world a better, safer place.

Meanwhile, a fake hippie was sticking a switchblade tip into each of two plastic-wrapped not-bread loaves, coming back with white powder, which he tasted and approved.

After the event, the tired but exhilarated staffers climbed on the bus and were taken to downtown DeKalb and dumped, with rides back scheduled at eleven and midnight. The farm community had a fairly lively main drag, with restaurants, bars, clubs and a movie with a nine o’clock show.

Ruth and I wound up at the Pizza Villa. On a Saturday night, this very old-fashioned red-and-white-checked-tablecloth joint was bustling and we waited half an hour for seating, and another half hour for the pie. We covered a lot of topics along the way.

Waiting on a bench, marinara sauce in our nostrils, “O Sole Mio” (Connie Francis) in our ears, I asked Ruth innocently, “Where does the Reverend get his funding?”

She shrugged. She was still in that zebra-print dress and looked fantastic. “Well, he’s paid for his speaking engagements, in most cases. There are donations, of course, including some from very wealthy people, black and white. He’s written three books that generate considerable royalties. And, of course, most of the staff is unpaid.”

“How do these kids afford that?”

“The normal Coalition staff is much smaller—this is a political campaign, remember. How can they afford it? Well, the white ones, frankly, have parents who fund their airy-fairy activities, despite not agreeing with them. Thank God for unconditionally loving parents.”

Not how I’d describe mine.

“What about the others?”

“You mean the black ones? Some are recent grads who haven’t found meaningful paying work yet. You’ll notice many only work half-days, because they have other jobs. Some have taken leaves of absence from work and tap into their savings. We have several substitute teachers among us, and accountants and—”

“Well-educated people.”

“That’s right. We’re fussy about who we take on.”

Not
that
fussy. I was here.

She was saying, “I’m sure you know why the Reverend insists on suits for the men and fairly conservative clothing for the women, at headquarters. We have to put a good face on who and what we are.”

“How many staffers are actually paid?”

“Myself, Raymond’s, uh…the Reverend’s driver, and his two personal assistants—”

“You mean bodyguards.”

She shrugged, nodded. “Yes. Death threats, like I told you. And of course Mr. Jackson, Harold, who is quite a public speaker himself, which is another source of income. There’s Monique, who’s really skilled secretarially…” Her dark eyes saddened. “We used to be such good friends.”

Monique was almost as attractive as Ruth, a short, shapely girl in her twenties who had not gone the Afro route, sticking more with a Ronnie Spector look.

“What happened between you two?” I asked.

“
You
know.”

“The…fling?”

A shrug, a nod. “She hasn’t spoken to me in weeks.”

I wondered if Monique had had her own fling with the boss, but didn’t offer up the possibility for discussion.

“And I’m stuck rooming with her here,” she said with a sigh. “A roommate who stays mute till she goes to sleep, and then her lousy snoring keeps me up half the night.”

“Well, I have a room to myself. There’s a couch.”

“I couldn’t impose.”

“Right, a terrible imposition, sharing a room with a lovely woman like you.”

She tilted her head. Narrowed her eyes. “It would have to be strictly two staffers just sharing a room. Nothing else. Nothing more.”

“You can trust me. The Coalition is very fussy about who they put on staff, you know.”

Her chin raised and she studied me. “Do you snore?”

“No complaints so far.”

“…We’ll see.”

A waiter finally ushered us to a booth. Some piped-in asshole was singing “Funiculi, Funicula.” Come back, Connie, come back.

At least the pizza was good, very crisp, lots of sauce, not too much cheese, some zing to the pepperoni.

“So,” I asked her, “what’s your training?”

“I’m a legal secretary.”

“No wonder they have to pay you. A degree like that takes money.”

“Usually. But I don’t come from money. My father I never met, my mother is on welfare, and my two younger sisters, by another long-gone daddy, are still in high school. I won’t kid you. It’s a struggle.”

“But you went to college?”

She bit off the end of a pizza slice and nodded. Chewed, swallowed, said, “I was always a good student.”

“You must have been some kind of genius.”

“Well…I did get a full-ride scholarship at Washington.”

“What Washington? State, D.C…?”

“Washington University. Back in St. Louis. Lived there all my life.”

“And are still there, I see.”

“Still there.” Another bite. More chewing followed by a swallow. She licked sauce off her upper lip. “And still living with my mom and my sisters.”

“That must be nice. To be able to get them into better circumstances.”

Her smile was saucy, in several senses. “Not really. We still live in Pruitt-Igoe.”

“What’s that?”

Her smile was amazed. “Never heard of it? But then you’re an Idaho boy.”

Actually Ohio, but she wasn’t to know that.

I said, “So it’s some kind of slum?”

A smirk, a nod. “A housing project in the ’50s that just went almost immediately to shit. Crime-ridden, poorer than poor. A war zone. They’re demolishing a lot of the buildings right now.”

“Good thing you’re out of town.”

That made her laugh. “Well, there are…or
were
… something like thirty-three buildings. But there have always been pockets of that nasty place that weren’t so bad. Floors where the tenants knew each other, where there were a limited number of families, who took pride in maintaining their apartments. Who lobbied for playgrounds and gardens. But it’s coming to an end, bad and good. The buildings will all be down before you know it.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll have to find better-paying work than the Coalition can afford, that’s for sure. But not till after the election.”

“That won’t be long.” Nibbled crust. “You really think McGovern can win?”

Her eyes flashed and so did her smile. “Oh, I
know
he can. The Republicans are underestimating all these new young voters, who fought so hard against Vietnam.”

Who fought so hard against
going
to Vietnam was more like it.

We caught the eleven o’clock bus back and stopped at Ruth’s room, which was on the ninth floor, and picked up her overnight bag and train case. Monique wasn’t back yet, so Ruth left a note.

On the elevator, I asked her, “What did you write to your roomie?”

“Just that I found somewhere else to sleep tonight. She’ll know it’s you. Everybody’s seen we’re friendly.”

“Is that what we are? So what’s the upshot?”

“Upshot is I’ll be called an even bigger slut.” She shrugged one shoulder. “I won’t be with them that long. Most will be gone as soon as the election’s over.”

“Like you.”

“Like me.”

I let her into my room and she had a look around. At the double bed with the floral spread, the couple of campus landscapes on the wall, the dresser, the little table, the drab green carpet, the blah beige walls. Her suitcase stayed in her hand.

“You said you had a couch,” she said. “Where is it?”

“I must have been thinking about my apartment.”

A dark-chocolate eyebrow arched in the milk-chocolate face. “Really? You were just confused?”

“I get that way sometimes. No problem. You can share the bed with me. It’s a double.”

“You mean, they’re all going to say I’m a slut anyway, so what’s the harm?”

“Now that you mention it.”

Amusement wrestled with irritation on her pretty face. Then she willed it blank and set the suitcase down and walked right up to me. Locked eyes with me.

“We’ll share the bed, Jack, but you will stay on your side and I will stay on mine.”

“Absolutely,” I said, and kissed those sticky red lips.

She didn’t seem to mind. In fact, I’d say she cooperated fully. She stepped back, gave me an appraising look, and out of nowhere said, “I’m taking a shower. Alone.”

“I could stay on my side, and you could stay on—”

She reached up with two hands and lifted the Afro off. Fucker was a wig! But initial shock past, I noticed she looked every bit as pretty with her cropped-to-the-skull actual hair, which added to the hoop earrings gave her a more African look.

“You could probably use a shower yourself,” she said, resting the wig on the dresser. She took off the earrings, too. “It’s been a very long day.”

“It has,” I said.

“I won’t use all the towels.”

“Thoughtful you.”

She’d been in the stall five minutes when I joined her in there, naked as she was, and asked for the soap over the noisy spray. She wasn’t mad at all. Didn’t even pretend to be. We washed each other, soaping each other’s backs and fronts, among other things, leaving the faces to their owners but little else. No kissing, no fondling. Just getting squeaky clean.

Without platform shoes, she was a good three inches shorter than me, slender with cupcake breasts riding high on her rib cage, tilted up impertinently, her pubic thatch trimmed back, like the hair on her head. That tight, firm flesh pearled with water might have been a sculptor’s masterpiece left out in the rain.

Gentleman that I am, I let her exit the stall first. We both toweled off. It was all very proper, except for my raging hard-on. After exiting the bathroom, I switched off the overhead light but left the nightstand one on.

Naked, I sat on the edge of the bed. “Okay if I take this side? I have trouble sleeping on the left side for some reason.”

Her response was interesting. What you’d call non-verbal.

She knelt before me and starting sucking me. She was gentle but thorough, taking me to the edge of a cliff where I wanted to jump. Then she looked up at me, no makeup, no lip gloss, and I bent down to kiss her perfect face, her mouth, her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, while my hands glided over supple smoothness.

Then she drew away, rose and walked around the bed, elegantly, like a fashion model on a runway who forgot her frock. She lay down on the bed with her knees up, her legs long and sleek and just slightly spread, a sideways slice of pink peeking out of her close-cropped bush.

“I’ll take this side,” she said.

I was on her and in her in a moment, no talk of rubbers or the pill or was this too risky, just two people who had to make love right now, had to merge into one, moving slowly, and then not so slowly, pumping, thrusting, trying to find my way ever deeper inside of her, as she worked to let me in, building to something outside of time or practical concern.