Cujo turned around again to look at the cops.
“Will you stop?” said Zoya. “You’re just giving them a reason.”
“Pigs don’t need a reason,” said Cujo. “They’re pigs.” He and Fahizah giggled. Zoya looked annoyed.
“Just stop looking back there.”
“I smell bacon,” said Cujo, singsong. He raised his nose and sniffed noisily.
Fahizah looked into the rearview, thinking: There is no flight to freedom except that of an armed projectile. She kept the van at a steady forty, the engine quietly speaking to her, fine fine fine you’re doing fine fine fine, the message traveling from the gas pedal to her foot and up through her spinal cord, as she signaled and eased into the right lane to give the pigs a chance to pass them, to disengage. A fighting chance. To the rear, the cruiser shifted along with them. She thought it might take off any second now. She thought she’d read something about that, flying pigmobiles. Pigs with wings. Heh. They would fly overhead to release the death gas on them, cause them to crash their cars. Then take their bodies to the Dissection Center. Display their brains in some pig trophy case that toured Amerikkka to dissuade the People from attempting to challenge fascist power. They would hook the brains up to a pig Mind Control device that would have them spouting pigisms in their own voices. That was probably something to worry about maybe.
“I say if they pull us over that we just kill them, ask questions later,” said Zoya. That suited Fahizah just fine. She patted her personal sidearm, a revolver, snug in its shoulder holster, thinking: The only way to destroy fear is to destroy the makers of fear.
They continued east on Slauson for another half mile or so. Ahead of them, Cinque kept a steady course. Suddenly he signaled left. The van’s brake lights flared as it slowed and turned into a small street leading back into the bungalow maze. Fahizah noted its name as she passed: Ascot. Like a man in a whadayacallit smoking jacket. Like a man in a smoking jacket holding a whadayacallit snifter. Like a man in a smoking jacket holding a snifter taking a cigar from a whadayacallit humidor. Like a man in a smoking jacket holding a snifter taking a cigar from a humidor. Yeah. That’s what it was like.
“Nobody look!” warned Zoya.
Fahizah said, affecting a British accent: “Would you care for a cigar?” Zoya stared.
Why the hell would anyone look, man? Fahizah would feel her way back to her comrades. She had reversed the polarity of the Fascist Government transponder that had been subcutaneously implanted, and now she could home in on her comrades at any distance on Earth as well as Zibiriliax; she’d tested it.
Still, she tried to suppress the desolation of the thought: We’re totally alone.
They drove on, perhaps two miles, until they approached the dry bed of the Los Angeles River and the overpass that crossed the Long Beach Freeway. There the cruiser that shadowed them abruptly turned off to follow a course parallel to the highway. When their pursuers disappeared from sight, Fahizah pulled over, bringing the van to a stop amid the low industrial buildings.
“Now what?” said Cujo.
“We go back and rendezvous,” said Fahizah.
“Where’d those guys turn off?” said Cujo.
As Fahizah opened her mouth, Zoya answered: “Ascot.”
Such a display of diligence should have pleased General Fahizah. It pissed her off instead, as she was forced to add lamely, feeling the weakness of the imprecision, “It was kind of near Central.” Abruptly she opened the door and got out to stretch her legs. She felt drained and let down all of a sudden. Her mind felt flat and ordinary.
The street outside was quiet, with only a faded wash of noise from the nearby freeway. She was tired, and her eyes ached. She stared morosely across the street at the unappealing landscape, considering her last meal, a congenitally nasty farrago of canned spinach, okra, and mackerel. An ember of discomfort burned at the center of her stomach. She wanted a cheeseburger from the Zim’s restaurant on Nineteenth and Taraval, with french fries and an icy glass of Coca-Cola that burned the back of the throat as it went down.
She felt like nothing, a nobody from nowhere.
Inside the van, Cujo was absorbed in picking his nose. Zoya climbed out to stand beside Fahizah.
“That got kind of scary,” she confessed.
“Oh, man. I need, like, a fucking break. That wore me out,” said Fahizah.
“You want me to drive?”
Fahizah nodded. She leaned against the van and put a hand to her face, sensing some stifled impulse behind her eyes, the snots and tears that never came—never! She felt so sorry for herself she decided to fake it, a little, drawing in big gulps of air and shaking with a simulated passion that was totally counter to the crawl-in-a-hole thing she was feeling. Anyway, it was the wrong audience. Zoya just stood and watched. She’d spent the day with crying Gabi, Fahizah remembered. Gabi cried, Yolanda cried, Teko cried, Gelina didn’t cry much but you knew she would if it came down to it. Tania didn’t cry. An interesting thought. She pitied her, stuck somewhere with Teko and Yolanda; what a pair of royal pains in the ass they could be. If anything could make her cry, it would be getting caught with the two of them at a fork in the road; the arguing would go on forever. This made Fahizah smile. She lifted her dry face from her cupped hand and reached up to clap Zoya on the shoulder, then walked around to get in on the passenger side.
Zoya drove back to Ascot slightly above the limit. The cops were either after them or they weren’t, they figured. A certain jaunty fatalism seemed called for. They zipped down the dark street, and Cin’s van flashed its lights at them as they passed. Zoya slowed and parked at the corner (next to a fire hydrant, Fahizah noted. But she didn’t say anything) and the three of them walked back for a brief, excitedly whispered reunion with the others.
Cin suggested that now would be as good a time as any to institute the search-and-destroys, so they re-formed their caravan of two and began slowly driving through the neighborhood in search of a welcoming sign. It wasn’t long before they spotted the lights inside the stucco house at 1466 East Fifty-fourth Street.
AWAKENING IN THE 6:30 GRAY, Yolanda asks what time it is. All four of them are lying on the carpeting in the back of the van, and Tania wakes up confused and exhausted. When she opens her eyes, she sees Dan Russell is out from under the blanket and gazing at her, and his smile is a pretty nice how do you do first thing. Her hand reaches for the monkey.
Teko suggests hijacking a car, striding purposefully toward one stopped at a red light and ousting its fucking occupants at gunpoint. Yolanda intimates, though she does not come right out and say, that to allow Dan to return home while nearly simultaneously making their presence known to yet another, almost certainly more hostile party would undo all the hard work of the last twelve hours. She would prefer that she and Tania first pose as attractive hitchhikers (she guarantees that a typical sexist will bumble along) and then, after securing a ride, kidnap their benefactor, who’ll be in no position to alert the pigs. Yolanda’s will prevails, and Tania now hurriedly prepares to commit at least one more capital offense, as well as miscellaneous lesser felonies, adjusting her wig and pulling her shoes on. Yolanda gives her a revolver, which she tucks into her waistband, but Teko tells her that her blouse doesn’t cover it completely. She tries closing her jacket over it, but that leaves a curious bulge. Finally she places it in her waistband at the small of her back, then tries drawing it a couple of times. It appears in her hand smoothly enough, though Yolanda assures her, “I’ll draw first.” They leave.
“Dan,” says Teko, “there’s something I’ve been meaning to mention long as we’re alone for a couple of minutes.”
“Uh, OK.”
“We just want to let you know we think you’re really great. A big help, with the handcuffs and all. And when I think: some people would make a real big stink out of getting abducted. I remember I was a kid, around your age, something interrupted my plans I went apeshit, big time. But you’ve been aces: driving around, lousy fucki
ng night’s sleep, wondering what was gonna happen.”
“Well, you’ve been real great too. All of you.”
“Well, good. Anyway I just was thinking, Yolanda and me and Tania too, that if you wanted to lead a youth unit of the SLA, I think you’d be perfect. You’re just the sort of young person we’re looking for.”
“Well, um. I don’t know what to say except that well, I’m flattered, first, but even though I can see your point?”
“Mmm?”
“Even though I can see your point of view politics really isn’t my thing? You know? No offense.”
“No, no. I understand. Just the same, if you change your mind.”
“Oh, sure.”
“We know where to find you.”
“Oh, sure.”
“We know where you live, OK.” Teko makes a little gun out of his thumb and forefinger and aims it at Dan, bringing down the hammer of his thumb. He grins. Then Yolanda and Tania drive up in a new Lincoln Continental. A man is sitting in the backseat, looking like a frightened bird.
“Well, Dan. You take care, now.”
“You too. Good luck.”
“Need any gas money to get back home?”
“Um, I’m all right.”
“’Kay. Let me have that blanket we used on you, will you? Just wrap the rifles up in it. Yeah. And give us about a half an hour, OK? Count to a million.”
“Jeez,” says Dan, a little affronted, “I won’t tell anybody.”
“I know you won’t. Bye, Dan.”
“Bye!” Dan waves out the window at Tania and Yolanda as Teko gets out of the van, carrying the bundled rifles, shopping bags, and other gear.
“You’re gonna have to scunch down, mister,” says Teko, getting into the backseat. “Hang on a sec. Did you check him out?”
Yolanda shrugs, and Tania shakes her head.
“Christ, for all you know the guy could be a pig.” Teko goes through the man’s pockets, finding a wallet. “Ray Fraley. What’s your line, Ray Fraley?”
“I’m a, I’m a contractor.”
“Like, buildings? Excellent. Useful, productive. Do you build good buildings?”
“I. Yes. I mean. How do you mean?”
Teko shakes his head. “Man, I’m not trying to trip you up with bullshit doublespeak. Do you build good buildings or do you build bad buildings?”
“Yes, they’re good, I’m proud of them.”
“Good. Good. OK, now, I’m hereby expropriating this here two hundred fifty dollars in your wallet in the name of the Symbionese Liberation Army. It will be put to good use. Now, scunch down. We’re going to put this blanket over you for your own protection. Don’t do anything weird or flaky or we’ll shoot you and you’ll be dead and that’s just not gonna be a good thing. OK?”
“OK.”
Teko drops the blanket over the man sprawled uncomfortably across the floor in the back of the car. He notices that the blanket is trembling; his mind articulates the phrase shaking like a leaf, which reminds him, inexplicably, of his mother. He asks the shaking blanket: “Are you OK under there? You don’t have a bad heart or anything, do you?”
The blanket shakes some more.
“I mean, we really don’t want you to get sick on us or anything. I’m asking are you OK?”
“I’m OK.”
“That’s good. ’Cause you’re just shit out of luck if you have a heart attack. I just need you to know that.”
1466 East Fifty-fourth Street
Sheila Mears wanted the lights down low while they sat quiet and listened to music in the front room, but she didn’t want Charles Gates getting the wrong idea. She could tell from the look on his face all night that he figured he was the wolf in the chicken coop with them all, and when the card game stopped and the wine kept coming she just knew, she read in his face that taking your pick look she’s seen before. And she didn’t feel like it, she knew Lillian didn’t if what she said was to be believed (which it wasn’t always), and she didn’t either think it was correct for a girl of Crystal’s age of seventeen years, not that she was all that innocent, but you know. And her own kids would be getting up pretty soon now for school; she didn’t want all that going on while they trying to get to the cornflakes.
She’d gotten up to go into the kitchen to get another nerve pill when there was a knock at the door. This wasn’t that unusual. People knew Sheila and Lillian liked to stay up and have company. Nothing duller than a quiet house. Her mother kept a quiet house. But four in the morning: kind of late. Other hand, here come the cavalry is how you want to look at it in regards to Charles Gates and his wolf-looking face. She opened the door. Lillian joined her at the entryway. Outside a good-looking stranger was standing at ease on the porch like the most natural thing.
“Hello, sisters,” he said. “My name is Cinque.”
“Sin Q?” repeated Lillian, giggling.
“Yes, sister. I need your help. I saw your lights. The police are looking for my friends and I, and we need a place to stay for several hours.”
He spoke formally; he was reaching. Sheila was impressed and amused at the same time.
“Why I’d want to hide you from the police?”
Cinque smiled. He was a fine-looking man. “We’re the SLA. Freedom fighters fighting on behalf of all the People. Maybe,” he added, “you’ve heard of us.”
“What’s going on out there?” yelled Crystal, who’d been left alone with Charles Gates in the front room.
“Well, I don’t know,” said Sheila.
“There’ll be no trouble, I promise you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out five twenties, which he fanned out so that Sheila and Lillian could see them all. They looked real. Sheila and Lillian put their heads together for a little chat.
“What we got in here,” said Lillian, phrasing the decisive argument, “they could take worth a hundred dollars?”
Charles Gates was drafted to help tote in supplies. Soon Sheila was surprised to see all manner of arms and ammunition coming in the front door and being carried through the house to the kitchen, along with suitcases, footlockers, and cardboard cartons. Plus white people. Sheila never had a white person in her house before. They come to the door to sell her Jesus. They read her meters and delivered her mail. But never inside. She kept waiting for another black face, as four white women and a white man came through the door, all partly hidden behind whatever they carried.
“Thank you, sister. You are helping the cause of freedom.” The fact that Cinque uttered this while holding a sloshing gasoline can put a vague fear in Sheila’s insides. The others followed suit as if cued, mechanically thanking Sheila.
“What about me?” said Lillian, jokingly.
They all dutifuly extended thanks to Lillian, who burst out laughing, breaking the tiniest of holes in the white ice. Cinque then explained that they needed to hide the vans somewhere. Charles Gates knew just the place. He said he’d take Cinque.
Outside, Charles Gates said, “You the ones took Alice Galton.”
“We have liberated her mind of fascist oppression,” said Cinque, still grandiloquent.
“Where she at?”
“She is with a combat unit, brother, on special assignment. And that is all I’m at liberty to say at present.”
The sky began to grow light. Darkness would never touch this home again. Lillian, Sheila, and Crystal remained in the front room while their guests occupied themselves in the kitchen.
“You see all that? What you get us into?”
“Me? You the one said let’s take the hundred dollars.”
“Damn, I didn’t know they was a whole army and shit.”
The front door opened, and Charles Gates and Cinque entered.
“Cinque say they need a place to stay about two weeks,” reported Charles Gates.
Sheila snapped her fingers; there was a place for rent around the corner, on Compton. Oh yeah, said Charles Gates, lightly striking himself in the forehead. And we was right there, too. They we
nt out again.
“Hi.” It was two of the white girls, the teensy one and the pretty one. They didn’t know what to say but wanted to say something. This was white gratitude toward blacks: the idea was you were supposed to divine it from their sheer dumb presence. Lillian asked them why they were on the move.
“Long story short, pigs foun’ us,” said the teensy one. “Dey lucky we all left fo’ dey got there.”
Sheila wrinkled up her nose as if she had smelled a mouse lying dead behind the baseboard.
“I believe it,” said Lillian amiably. “You look like you ready for them.”
Gradually the kitchen emptied, and the hall filled with milling SLA members again, peering in at their black benefactors with that mutely abject appreciation. Sheila felt uncomfortable. And she wanted to see what was going on in her kitchen.
“Why don’t you all sit down and I will see what is going on in my kitchen,” she said. She prided herself on being a very direct person. The SLA obediently traded places with the black women.
Trance Page 7
