turned them on.
The first one said, "Hello, nigger lover. I heard you last night on Jimmy Winston, and I heard you trying to say it was a white man instead of letting the nigger fry like he should. Someone ought to shut your mouth for you." I finished reading through my telephone charges, as I always did, with the fond hope that I would catch the bastards in a mistake. There were five more messages on my machine. All concurred in various elegant ways with the first, except one which was a computerized vacation real estate pitch that made me yearn for the racist threats, and one in which a male voice said softly, "Maybe you're right about Red Rose, maybe he's still out there." I stopped looking at my mail and played that one back again. Then I took out the message tape, put in a spare one, and slipped the Red Rose tape in my jacket pocket.
I finished up on the phone bill, opened a note from Rita Fiore, written on lavender paper and smelling of lilac scent. It said she was just checking in to see how I was and maybe we should have lunch. While I was mulling this the door opened into my office and five guys, who clearly did not represent the League of Women Voters, came in one by one and formed a semicircle around my desk. The last guy in shut the door.
"You guys are in the Kerry Drake fan club," I said, "and you've come by to ask me to your next banquet."
The leader was a weight lifter, obviously. The quartet backing him were all good-sized, although none of them would have scared me alone. The weight lifter had on baggy prewashed jeans and black Reebok coaches' shoes and a sleeveless blue muscle shirt that said Universe Gym across the front. Given the weather outside, he must have been freezing, but how else to scare me with his muscles?
He said, "We want to talk with you, nigger lover." I said, "Ah, didn't I just hear you on the phone?" He said, "You're trying to get that nigger off." I said, "Truth, I am truth's servant, and I don't think he did it."
"Yeah, well we do," he said.
"Persuasive," I said.
"We don't like niggers, and we don't like nigger lovers," the weight lifter said.
I felt my frustration slowly catalyze into anger and the anger begin to build. I'd been wrestling with a phantom for weeks now, and here were live bodies, right before me, asking to wrestle. I held on. Five is a lot.
"Could you make a bicep for me?" I said.
The weight lifter actually made a start before he caught himself. I grinned to let him know I'd seen the start.
"Step out around that desk," the weight lifter said.
"Or you'll come around and get me," I said.
He was in the center, slightly forward of the other four. The guy to his right was red-haired and square-shouldered with a swarm of freckles on his face.
The weight lifter grinned slightly at his pals and said, "Yeah."
I got up from my chair and walked around my desk. Without breaking stride I kicked him in the groin. I put a straight left into his pal's face and pulled my gun from under my arm with my right hand. The other three froze in a kind of tableau.
The weight lifter sank to his knees, hands and forearms pressed between his legs. Red had taken maybe two steps back and was rocking back and forth, his hands to his face, the, blood trickling between his fingers.
"You three dopes, up against that wall," I said. "Lean your backs on it. Now walk away."
They did as I said until they were leaning on the wall and would have to move their feet and arms and lunge to stand up.
"You too, Red, and don't bleed on my rug." Red moved over, still holding his nose.
"Now," I said, "you, Muscles. You ready to continue yet?"
He was still on his knees, but he'd raised his head.
"What do you mean?" he said. His voice was strained with discomfort.
"You ready to teach me a lesson in race relations?" I said.
"You didn't have a gun," he said.
"Sure," I said. "If I didn't have a gun I could fight five of you. That seems fair."
"If you hadn't kicked me," he mumbled.
"I'd have punched
The first one said, "Hello, nigger lover. I heard you last night on Jimmy Winston, and I heard you trying to say it was a white man instead of letting the nigger fry like he should. Someone ought to shut your mouth for you." I finished reading through my telephone charges, as I always did, with the fond hope that I would catch the bastards in a mistake. There were five more messages on my machine. All concurred in various elegant ways with the first, except one which was a computerized vacation real estate pitch that made me yearn for the racist threats, and one in which a male voice said softly, "Maybe you're right about Red Rose, maybe he's still out there." I stopped looking at my mail and played that one back again. Then I took out the message tape, put in a spare one, and slipped the Red Rose tape in my jacket pocket.
I finished up on the phone bill, opened a note from Rita Fiore, written on lavender paper and smelling of lilac scent. It said she was just checking in to see how I was and maybe we should have lunch. While I was mulling this the door opened into my office and five guys, who clearly did not represent the League of Women Voters, came in one by one and formed a semicircle around my desk. The last guy in shut the door.
"You guys are in the Kerry Drake fan club," I said, "and you've come by to ask me to your next banquet."
The leader was a weight lifter, obviously. The quartet backing him were all good-sized, although none of them would have scared me alone. The weight lifter had on baggy prewashed jeans and black Reebok coaches' shoes and a sleeveless blue muscle shirt that said Universe Gym across the front. Given the weather outside, he must have been freezing, but how else to scare me with his muscles?
He said, "We want to talk with you, nigger lover." I said, "Ah, didn't I just hear you on the phone?" He said, "You're trying to get that nigger off." I said, "Truth, I am truth's servant, and I don't think he did it."
"Yeah, well we do," he said.
"Persuasive," I said.
"We don't like niggers, and we don't like nigger lovers," the weight lifter said.
I felt my frustration slowly catalyze into anger and the anger begin to build. I'd been wrestling with a phantom for weeks now, and here were live bodies, right before me, asking to wrestle. I held on. Five is a lot.
"Could you make a bicep for me?" I said.
The weight lifter actually made a start before he caught himself. I grinned to let him know I'd seen the start.
"Step out around that desk," the weight lifter said.
"Or you'll come around and get me," I said.
He was in the center, slightly forward of the other four. The guy to his right was red-haired and square-shouldered with a swarm of freckles on his face.
The weight lifter grinned slightly at his pals and said, "Yeah."
I got up from my chair and walked around my desk. Without breaking stride I kicked him in the groin. I put a straight left into his pal's face and pulled my gun from under my arm with my right hand. The other three froze in a kind of tableau.
The weight lifter sank to his knees, hands and forearms pressed between his legs. Red had taken maybe two steps back and was rocking back and forth, his hands to his face, the, blood trickling between his fingers.
"You three dopes, up against that wall," I said. "Lean your backs on it. Now walk away."
They did as I said until they were leaning on the wall and would have to move their feet and arms and lunge to stand up.
"You too, Red, and don't bleed on my rug." Red moved over, still holding his nose.
"Now," I said, "you, Muscles. You ready to continue yet?"
He was still on his knees, but he'd raised his head.
"What do you mean?" he said. His voice was strained with discomfort.
"You ready to teach me a lesson in race relations?" I said.
"You didn't have a gun," he said.
"Sure," I said. "If I didn't have a gun I could fight five of you. That seems fair."
"If you hadn't kicked me," he mumbled.
"I'd have punched
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