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
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
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