The actions are incoherent, like punctuating their rambling argument against the system with inarticulate screeches. A partial catalog of them is gnomic, imperspicuous:
GMC, San Jose
Pillar Point Air Force Radar Station
Vulcan Foundry, Oakland
KRON-TV, San Francisco
PG&E transmission towers, Oakland
PG&E substation, San Jose
PG&E installation, Sacramento
California DOC parole office, Sacramento
PG&E office building, Berkeley
Prison Guards’ Rifle Range, San Quentin
Bureau of Indian Affairs, Alameda
SFPD Mission Station
SFPD Taraval Station
Emeryville Police Station
Marin County Civic Center
They cram the bombings in amid continuing quarrels over strategy, philosophy, politics, over ever-keener edges of extremism that need to be explored, rejected, studied. The most persistent arguments have to do with revolutionary violence — i.e., “armed propaganda” versus murder, assassination, etc. — and black leadership, that enduring problem. Teko insists that they are mere stewards of the Black Revolution.
“And you’re the stewardess, right?” Joan asks Yolanda.
Yolanda lectures her. “You need to take this more seriously, Joan. You’re the one who’s refusing the moral responsibility of assuming minority leadership. You.”
The new development in the evolution of Teko’s revolutionary thought? He’s decided that only the members of a certain enlightened class of white — such as, say, himself — may participate in the class struggle. Other whites are worse than useless. Teko would simply put them up against the courtyard wall. Anyone exhibiting counterrevolutionary tendencies at any time would be eligible for such therapy.
“These aren’t terms you can present,” says Susan.
“I just presented them.”
“You can’t win this way. Nothing’ll change.”
“It’s got to be this way.”
“Teko, you’re not black.”
“I feel like, in many respects, I am black.”
“‘Woman is the nigger of the world,’” adds Yolanda.
Joan takes Tania aside. “Now’s the time, hon.”
Tania’s eyes widen; a smile spreads across her face. “Boston?”
“One step at a time. Out of here, for sure. This is final craziness. This is some sort of political puritism, not revolution.”
“I didn’t think you cared about revolution,” says Tania.
Joan gestures dismissively. “It’s all crap. The point is if Teko’s only interested in offing white people, then what’s left but dying? I mean serious martyr stuff. Even on the farm I was like screw that. But we’re here now, not out in some boondock. Pigs all around. Now I can understand what happened in L.A. That Cin-Q must have been some sweet talker, because I really think they died on his say-so. It dawns on me now that this fight to the death idea is the plan. No revolution, only suicide.”
“THE GIRL HAS SHOULDER-LENGTH blond hair.”
“Yes?” Rose Rorvik held a plastic laundry basket under her left arm and drew on the cigarette in her right hand.
“Lives in the Bay Area, with her boyfriend. Works as a waitress.”
“Ah?”
“Tell me if this sounds familiar: ‘Brings to the cloistered Nell a sort of irascible verve, making of her senile ramblings at Nagg lucid poetic sense.’”
That, she had no idea what he was talking about.
“Does any of this remind you of anyone you know?”
The two men stood on the porch, sweating beneath their suits in the August heat.
“Yes.”
“How about this? Does this sound like something you might have heard before? ‘Keep fighting! I’m with you! We’re with you!’” The man tried to restrain a malicious smile as he raised his right fist, a decidedly stunted little flourish, like a Nixon wave. His jacket was dark with sweat at the armpit.
“Yes, it does.”
“Tell me, has anyone told you not to talk to Agent Toomes or myself?”
“Who would’ve told me that?”
“This person we’re discussing.”
Rose drew on the cigarette and flicked the ash before it got too long and fell into her clean wash. She’d been going to hang it up outside when these two men drove up. She liked the smell of clothes that had dried on a line.
“You’d better wait for my husband.”
“Oh, your husband knows the story.”
“She doesn’t know the story.”
“The husband knows.”
“A girl who talks to her father, Manhardt. But not her mother.”
“Very, very odd, Toomes.”
“In my experience the girls talk to their mothers.”
“Not in mine,” said Rose, as breezily as she could manage.
Howard’s car pulled into the driveway then and Rose set the basket of laundry on the porch and went down the steps and up the walk to meet him. He looked curiously at the men but seemed unperturbed as he went around to open the trunk and remove a bag of golf clubs from it. It didn’t help that he was dressed like an idiot, in a lemon chiffon shirt, buff and orange plaid slacks, and white patent leather shoes.
“They’re from the FBI,” she told him.
His face just hung there, drained of anything but its own blank astonishment, like the moon in a play for children.
“They’re asking about Susan,” she said in a low tone. “But they won’t say anything.”
“OK.” He hoisted the bag of clubs onto his shoulder and began down the walk. “Howard Rorvik.” He extended a hand toward the nearest man, Toomes. Toomes glanced briefly at Manhardt, then took it.
“We’d like to talk to you, Mr. Rorvik.”
“About my daughter, yes. Come inside.”
“That’s the subject, is it?”
“So my wife tells me, yes.”
“Is that right?” Toomes smiled.
It was cool and dim inside the house. Rose offered the FBI men something to drink and was thankful when they declined.
“I’ll get to the point, Mr. Rorvik. We’re looking for your daughter. In fact, we’re trying to find both your daughter and your nephew.”
“How can that be? They’re right there.”
“Right where, Mr. Rorvik?”
“Why, living together. They all live together along with Susan’s boyfriend and God knows who else up in San Francisco. You know how things are these days.”
“If you say so. And exactly where would that be?”
“Someplace downtown. Let me double-check.” He got up and went into the den, where in one of the cubbies of an old secretary he found a letter. He came out wagging it.
“Let me guess,” said Manhardt. “Six Two Five Post Street.”
“So you do know where she is.”
“I know where Industrial Photo Products, Inc. is. That’s what’s at Six Two Five Post.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No one lives at Six Two Five Post. Here’s something else I’ll bet you didn’t know. Your daughter has been working under an assumed name. Susan Anger.”
“Fiery!” said Toomes, smirking.
“Now tell me,” continued Manhardt. “Why would perfectly nice, law-abiding kids start lying to their folks, assuming fake names, using mail drops, and suddenly disappearing?”