Morgan was late. He came bustling out at 0955, glanced up at the lowering sky, then across the square at the facade of off-white office buildings and sickly palm-trees. “Ready?”
“As we’ll ever be.” Lessing slipped an arm about Jameela’s waist In India she would have pulled away, but they weren’t in Lucknow now. She moved closer to touch her thigh to his.
Morgan eyed her. “Are you coming, then?” He clearly wanted her along.
“Alan can’t argue me out of it.”
Lessing still had misgivings. Their escort, a score of trainees from Ponape, wore black Cadre uniforms. They would attract attention and flaunt the Parly’s presence in the faces of its foes. He said as much to Morgan.
The other shrugged. “Mulder’s idea: a show of unity and discipline. The Khalifa’s ‘brothers’ will be the same, only in pretty, green camo dress… black berets with silver crescents on ‘em… more chains and junk than a Banger concert queen. Wait and see.”
Their transport arrived promptly at 1000 hours: an armored limousine, two rumbling, khaki-painted personnel carriers, and a little jeep-like AVW-23 scout car. The route led south along U.S. 1 10, then turned west into Inglewood. Except for military vehicles they encountered little traffic: recent events had put an awful crimp in California’s business, as well as in its weather.
Off Manchester lay the ruins of the Forum, still unrebuilt after the great quake of 2008. Their caravan drew up in an empty lot near Hollywood Park, as close to their meeting site as they could get. The Park still offered horse racing, but it looked as though this district had seen neither a paint brush nor a garbage truck for half a century. Why did population patterns always seem to change for the worse?
They disembarked and followed a Cadre guide along the dilapidated streets, across lawns where grass no longer grew, and past buildings that showed no signs of life, yet, Lessing sensed, were filled with eyes.
“Y’oughta see Watts.” Ensley, their driver, jerked a thumb toward the northeast. “Even Black cops don’t go in there no more. What the locals call ‘home rule.’”
“Here they come,” Morgan announced tersely.
A dozen Black men wearing green camouflage uniforms had emerged from a side-street and were advancing toward them across the cracked and buckled asphalt. Six carried Israeli stitch-guns, two had heavier automatics, and the rest were armed with rifles and handguns. Lessing’s attention was on the nearby rooftops. One rocket launcher up there could turn them all into dog food. Mor-gan — or more probably one of Lessing’s brighter pupils — had anticipated this contingency, however: a black-clad Cadre man waved at them from the top of a heap of concrete slabs. Next to him lounged one of the Khalifa’s troopers. The truce was apparently on.
“It’s green light, sir.” Ensley pointed. “That square building there’s a police station… to keep the gangs out of the Forum ruins. The Blacks ‘n’ the Chicanos come here to fight their whangoes… um, battles. Nobody mannin’ the station now. Governor’s got all the cops ‘n’ National Guard out patrollin’ the aqueducts against Starak-droppers. We’re pretty safe. We’ve had a rec-team lookin’ this site over since Tuesday.”
“Who gave that order?” Lessing asked.
“Mr. Morgan.” Ensley grinned self-consciously. “Wrench… um, Mr. Wren… said you was too busy to be bothered.”
This bypassed what Lessing understood was to be the chain of military command: missions that involved tactical planning were supposed to go through him. It seemed that jockeying for power — as old as the caves — was already in full swing within the fledgling Party of Humankind. He’d have to see to Morgan later.
The Khalifa’s escort halted. Lessing gestured one of his men forward, a veteran of the Central American bush wars named Chester something. A green-clad Black Muslim moved out, spoke in tones too low for them to hear, then indicated the police station. Lessing examined the ruined walls and buildings in visible weapons range. It might be uncool to look, but meres who worried about too much machismo sometimes came home in boxes. Lessing felt the hairs rising on the nape of his neck. Might as well get this over. He grunted a command, and his people tramped forward in a fair semblance of order. He wished he hadn’t let Morgan con him into bringing Jameela along!
They negotiated the torn remains of a chain-link fence, picked their way over shards of broken glass, and entered the building through a steel door that looked as though it had been blown open with a grenade. The neighborhood kids played rough!
The salient thing about the interior decor was the variety, richness, and utter grossness of the graffiti. The totality of human depravity was depicted in Bril-Glo spray colors on every available surface: walls, ceilings, floors, desk tops, cabinets, and lockers: whatever had not been moved out, ripped off, or smashed. Most of the words eluded Lessing, who had little recent experience with Black slang or Bangerese, but the illustrations were graphic enough. Behind him, Jameela uttered an involuntary giggle. He suppressed a puritanical urge to order her outside.
Seven Blacks, three in green camouflage and four in suits or sport shirts and slacks, stood ranged behind the long table in the center of the room. An eighth man occupied — overflowed was more like it — a rickety office chair facing them. Two identical chairs stood empty on their side. The seated man pointed, and one of the uniformed youths brought up a third chair.
Khalifa Abdullah Sultani was a huge, billowing, opulent, middle-aged man. He had either been a boxer in his youth, or regularly had the crap kicked out of him. A permanently puffed cheek pulled his broad features askew, and his nose had been broken several times with enthusiasm. His skin was a rich chocolate, not blue-black like some Angolans Lessing had seen, but darker than was fashionable in the American Black community.
“Samuel Elwin Morgan? Charles Hanson Wren?” He looked a question at Jameela.
Sam said, “I’m Morgan. This is Alan Lessing. Wren stayed home. The lady is Miss Jameela Husaini.”
The Khalifa smiled, slowly and warmly, an “ivory sunrise,” as Wrench had once described a certain TV host. His green-clad beegees did not echo his warmth, nor did Lessing ‘s own Cadre men.
Morgan took the central chair, flanked by Lessing on one side and Jameela on the other. The Black leader’s eyes travelled curiously over the Indian girl, but he made no further comment.
“You called this meeting,” Morgan broke the silence. “Your nickel.”
“Nickel don’ buy nothin,’” muttered one of the Khalifa’s aides. “Mint don’ even make ’em no more.” Nobody laughed.
Khalifa Abdullah Sultani folded thick fingers across his swelling paunch. He wore a loose, floor-length robe of emerald velvet, a costume that resembled the traditional Egyptian galabaiyeh. His bald, white-fringed skull was bare. Neither he nor his followers sported a single chain, although a few silver rings and earrings were visible — so much for Morgan’s prediction! Lessing remembered that male Muslims were forbidden by Islamic law from wearing gold jewelry, and the Community of Allah Almighty was as orthodox as they came.
“We share certain goals,” the Khalifa announced His voice reminded Lessing of Jonas Outram’s, only in a darker, minor key, like smooth cream.
One of the Cadre men snorted, and Lessing motioned for silence.
Morgan asked politely, “What might those be?”
“Your Party of Humankind seeks a ‘Whites only’ America, does it not? No Blacks, no Orientals…” he blinked at Jameela “…no Jews, no Chicanos, nobody but you Hogboes… ‘White’ folks… all alone, by yourselves, stewing in your own pale juice.”
Morgan caressed his sleek, mouse-brown hair. “Let’s cut out the insults, if we’re going to talk.”