Читать книгу Drake's Treasure - charles berrard - Страница 4

Ozay had had his fill of other people’s agendas. Having eked out a degree in electronic engineering and given the tech world a whirl that was less than fruitful, he now chose self-employment. His public school experience had at one point encouraged him to aspire to a secure government job, but it was a path he did not pursue. At the same time, he realized that unless your parents owned a business, entrepreneurial support just didn’t happen. In the mid-sixties, Ozay had moved to Berkeley from LA to get away from big-city congestion, sprawl, and smog and southern California conservative politics. Berkeley was caught in the middle of the East Bay’s development surge, particularly evident in Contra Costa County and southward in San Leandro and Hayward in Alameda County. A few trips to the Marin coast whetted Ozay’s appetite for open space, where the wilderness defined communities, not the other way around. On one visit he found the quiet ocean community of Bolinas; it was not only a tolerant place, but the rustic beauty of this farming and artist’s town made it a place he felt he could live permanently.

Unexpectedly, while packing, Ozay received a call from his Los Angeles past. Though more than ten years had passed, Marina James’s British accent still sounded familiar through his Pacific Bell handset, a line that would soon be disconnected. Marina and Ozay had had a secret affair—secret because she was married—that ended on friendly terms, so her call wasn’t out of the ordinary. Except for the hiatus, her reason for calling was.

“Lenny is missing, Ozay! At least that’s the way it appears,” Marina said, still with a British flair in her voice—even after more than ten years in the US—and with a decided urgency.

“Marina, it’s good to hear from you, but what do you mean, missing?” Ozay asked.

“Lenny’s gone with no indication as to where. No note! Nothing!”

“Aren’t you two divorced?”

“Yes, but the separation was amicable. As you probably remember, I always did most of the paperwork for his various businesses. So, I continued to do a little work for him, if it interested me. In fact, I had just finished some research on American Indian land grant treaties, and I was supposed to drop a packet off at his house two nights ago. I drove by to deliver the work, and I found the door wide open, no Lenny, no sign of struggle, and nothing touched or stolen. It seemed as if he’d stepped out for a while and accidentally left the door open. Ozay…”

“Marina, did you call—.”

Marina continued, cutting in, “I think he may have been kidnapped.”

“Now, wait a minute! Did I miss something? Motive, maybe? Why would someone—?”

“Lenny may have had dealings with some shady people lately. He was pretty broken up over the assassinations of the Kennedys and Martin Luther King. I don’t know if you know it, but he was no more than two feet away from Bobby when he was shot, and afterward he almost lost it, emotionally. He was in a state of shock for days. And then came the anger. He wanted to…well, he really wanted to do some harm, damage to some one. It took him months to get back to some kind of normality.

“Things between us had been pretty shaky for a long time and within a year of King’s death we settled our divorce. Sharin Lamond and I saw a lot of each other afterward. You remember Sharin?”

“Well, of course. How could I forget Sharin? Black, beautiful and sexy. But let’s not go into that now.” Ozay recalled a one-night stand he and Sharin had.

“OK, but I remember her friendship kept me afloat at that time. You probably recall how I can get a little crazy under stress.”

“I know. But what’s the ‘shady people’ bit about?”

“I talked to Sharin’s old man, Jarvis Lamond.”

“Jarvis!” Ozay exclaimed. “He could have been the first black mayor of Los Angeles, but he blew it.”

“Yeah, they say that as city attorney, he crossed the line when he sidestepped some procedures, misused funds. Even if it was benign, in politics, just the perception of wrongdoing can ruin you. Sorry. Back to Lenny. Jarvis had tried to act as mediator during our difficulties, with little success, and had gotten close enough to Lenny to retrieve a bit of info that might help.

“At some point he and Lenny started talked about the state of the black struggle and about some east coast groups: the Black Liberation Army and the Weather Underground. According to Jarvis, Lenny felt a new level of struggle was necessary. Lenny wasn’t a warrior type, but he had money. Not that he was asking Jarvis to do anything illegal. On the contrary, he just let Jarvis know, specifically, that he was contributing to the Black Panthers’ educational programs for children in black communities.”

“So, he wanted Jarvis to write a check?”

“Jarvis felt he was being asked, indirectly, for his financial help. He refused and felt uneasy when Lenny talked about groups engaged in urban guerilla warfare. Jarvis still had political aspirations, so some things he was very careful about, like getting involved with Panther Party community programs. Jarvis didn’t want to be in any way connected with a radical group.”

“Are you saying that Lenny may have confessed more to Jarvis than he planned?” Ozay asked.

“I don’t know,” Marina said. “It looks like he may have left his place in a big hurry. For one thing, Lenny was a very careful and meticulous person, so he wouldn’t have forgotten to lock the door. So, that takes us back to either the kidnapping or the flight theory.”

“Flight? Leaving in a big hurry you mean?”

“Correct.”

“OK, now I understand why it would be too complicated to bring in the police. If Lenny is thought to be involved with criminals or criminal activity, he could go to jail.”

“And giving money to violent groups…well, my god! What am I to do, Ozay? The last thing I would want to happen is that some harm would come to Lenny. And to see him go to jail would be just too awful.”

“Marina… listen. I’ll do whatever I can to help. I have friends who might be of some help in tracking Lenny down. I’ll get on it right away.”

“Ozay, potentially, this may take time and could be dangerous.”

“Whatever it takes,” Ozay said, acquiescing, still feeling some guilt for their previous affair. “I think I should get down to L. so we can get started.”

“Wonderful. I really think I need your help. Thank you so much. There’s a lot more to tell you, once you get here. And don’t worry about money. You’ll be generously compensated.”

“I didn’t know you still cared.”

“Ozay. I meant, financially.”

The conversation ended and Ozay couldn’t believe what had transpired—not the disappearance of Lenny as much as he, Ozay, jumping headlong into a potentially dangerous, if not life-threatening, situation. Ozay called an old black lawyer friend, Mat Haley. Aside from being a wellspring of information, Mat worked in an Oakland office, and had been a former Panther Party lawyer. The operative word here was ‘former.’ Recovering from Chapter Seven bankruptcy—brought on by defending both Panther Party members and the destitute—Mat still did pro bono work. Ozay and Mat agreed to meet at Emily’s Louisiana Creole restaurant in Oakland.

“Matthew!” Ozay shouted across the potholed parking lot when he saw Mat walkingthrough a long line of monthly check recipients—welfare and payroll checks—waiting to cash that precious sheet of tender at a check cashing enterprise on the corner of the parking lot. Mat flashed a gold-toothed smile, and still had a left leg ghetto bounce as he walked. “Ozay Broussard, my brother man. Good to see you.” They gave each other the customary thumb wrap shake, turning into a regular handshake, the four fingers catching and pulling away, and a hug.

“Say, Homes,” Ozay said, looking Mat up and down. Since they were both from Houston, Ozay called him Homes. “It’s been a long time.” They went inside the small restaurant with its wonderful smell of red beans, BBQ’d pork ribs, and a panoply of seafood dishes: gumbo, étouffée, fried oysters, and shrimp. Samples of sweet potato pie, peach cobbler and lemon meringue pie were on the counter. It was like dying and going to culinary heaven. In typical southern hospitality style, Gracie, the large, busty autumn-tan woman behind the counter, gave them a hearty salutation.

“How y’all doing today?”

“I’m doing fine, Gracie,” Mat answered. “Where’s yer sister Emily?”

“That woman go’n work herself ta death, fa real. I told her ta take the day off and get some rest. She’s gotta learn how ta delegate, chil’. Tell other people what to do and if dey mess up, fire dey sorry you-know-what and get someone else. Excuse me, I know y’all don need ta hear all my gabbing. Ya’ll look hungry. The lunch special today is $3.99. Your choice of shrimp étouffée, jambalaya, or sea food gumbo with two veggies,” she said with a wide smile.

“Yes Ma’am,” was Mat’s reply. “Ozay, what say we get the special?”

“Sounds good to me,” Ozay said, drooling at the sweet potato pie. “Sure, I’ll take the shrimp étouffée with yams and greens, Gracie.”

Mat said, “I’ll have the jambalaya with okra and black-eyed peas.”

Gracie motioned for Mat to come to the end of the counter.

“Lord! Matthew, you just the person I need to talk to.” She leaned over the counter. “My boy’s in the tank again. Don’t know what to do ‘bout that chil’.”

“What the charge, auto theft again?”

“Yeah. Same thing.”

“It’ll be tougher this time.”

“I know.

“I’ll do what I can, Gracie.”

“Thanks, God bless you.”

The meal came and they ate and talked. Mat agreed to keep everything that was said completely confidential, but made sure Ozay understood that once he started making inquiries, it would be tough to keep a lid on it. “I’ll contact some of my old Panther comrades who were my clients. Some of them owe me.”

“The man put a strangle hold on the Party, didn’t they?”

“The FBI fucked us up, Ozay. Their agents infiltrated our leadership—brothers working for the man got inside close and spread rumors, told outright lies to split the leadership. Divide and conquer. The Huey-Cleaver split shit was part of it, the rejection of Elaine Brown’s leadership, the pitting of other black groups against the Party, were all, I think, fostered by the man. A hocus-pocus-trick-bag is what the man put us in.

“The Party grew so fast, got so much funding, and did so much drugs, things got out of hand. I never did like Eldridge. I don’t know how, but I think they got to him, maybe when he was doing time. Too many criminal minds making decisions.” Mat looked down and shook his head. “Hey, that’s not why we’re here. You need a source that knows the score on the BLA. I think I can be of some help there. Give me two days.”

“Great! Look, Mat, I’m making another move—when I get back from LA—to Marin County. It’s not that far, bro’, so, I don’t want to hear that you can’t come out to visit.”

“Hot tubs and peacock feathers? Uuuh-we, brother. You moving into the fast lane. But don’t forget us out here. You know how brothas do. They move in with whitey and leave their ghetto roots behind.”

“Hey! Nobody stays in the ghetto if they can get out, especially if you grew up around junkies, thieves, and gangs. And now, well, I don’t have much more in common with bluppies than with yuppies. When you move, you just have to make sure you don’t move into a den o’ rednecks.”

“I heard that, brotha. Give me a number where I can reach you.”

“I’ll be down in LA for a bit, and when I get a phone in Marin, I’ll call you.” Ozay wrote down his LA motel phone number.

Ozay had one more contact to make after he left Emily’s. He called Paul Ferris, another buddy from his political activist days. Paul was a writer and teacher, although he didn’t teach much since he started writing. If anyone knew about the Weather Underground, Paul was the man. He was writing a book on the subject.

“Paul. Ozay here. I need to see you right away, before I leave town. I’m on the Bay Bridge now heading that way. Can I drop in? I need a favor.”

“Sure Ozay, come on by, I don’t teach today, so I’ll be here writing.”

Paul lived in the rent-controlled St. Francis Square Apartments in the Western Addition. When Ozay arrived, Paul immediately started talking about his book on the Weathermen. He talked about the members of SDS (Students for a Democratic Society) who had joined the more radical Weathermen faction at the 1969 Chicago conference, where they took over the leadership of SDS.

“I was almost taken in by the Weathermen’s logic and rhetoric at the conference,” Paul said, as he gesticulated and paced in a courtroom fashion. “But when the wild destructive spree took place afterward—the senseless bomb accident in Greenwich Village and robberies—I came to my senses.”

“Paul,” Ozay cut in, “there’s this guy, Lenny James, a businessman and a good guy. There aren’t many businessmen who are willing to give as generously as he did to good causes. He, like many of us, is pissed off at our government’s domestic and international policies. Well, now he’s disappeared and his ex-wife wants me to help her find him. I need to know if he’s still alive. And if he is, I want to try and get him out of the mess I think he’s in.”

“What do you think he’s up to?”

“So far, I know only bits and pieces. He may be involved with the left underground, the Weathermen or worse. That’s where you may be able to help. Hopefully my trip to LA will provide more clues.”

“You’ve heard of Tony Antonino, haven’t you?”

“Who hasn’t? A real friend of the oppressed.”

“We go back a ways. We worked for the same post-grad firm in the city, years back. He’s a close friend and a valuable resource I can check out,” Paul recalled. “Hey, I’ll do my best to help, but I must warn you Sherlock, without police involvement, things could get rough. You’d better watch your back.”

“What if the police are involved already?”

“Then you may have bitten off more than you can chew, Ozay. I’ll see what I can find out from Antonino and get back to you.”

“Thanks Paul, I’ll owe you.”

“Forget it, it’s pro bono.”

That evening, Ozay confirmed the flight to LA and left the next morning. On the plane, he had a little time to ruminate about Marina. He looked out the window, scanning the south bay communities below getting smaller, and thought of Marina’s story of German Luftwaffe bomber planes flying over London when she was a young girl of ten. Marina had told him that she remembered the bombings, the air raid sirens, the giant searchlight beams sweeping the night skies for bombers, and her family going underground. She remembered the walls and ground shaking to the terrifying noise of the explosions. She recalled being very hungry and coming out of hiding to see rubble and dead horses. At one point she saw two men carrying away what she knew was a dead body. It was the first dead person she had ever seen. She knew, instinctively, by the limpness, the way the body just hung in their arms, that the person was certainly dead. The dead horse images in particular kept replaying in Ozay’s mind, until a stewardess announced that the plane would arrive at LAX in approximately ten minutes, waking Ozay from his short snooze.

By noon he was having lunch with Marina at Pierre’s, a popular restaurant a block or two from LA’s oldest street, the famous Olvera Street. Pierre’s was an old French-style deli with long tables, benches, and stools, and sawdust-covered floors. The place specialized in French dip sandwiches. Because she didn’t have much of an appetite, Marina just ordered a salad, and Ozay ordered one of his favorites, a French dip pork sandwich.

It had been about ten years since their fast and passionate affair had ended. Going to jail together had made a strong bond between them, but the affair ended when both realized that pushing their clandestine relationship any further was too risky. Marina was too comfortable where she was. And when they both looked at the ten-year difference in their ages and their very different lifestyles, the affair fizzled.

Marina, as if dressed for a funeral, was all in black: a black silk scarf tied around her head, fitted with wrap-around sunglasses, her hair black, a black tailored suit coat emphasizing her ample breasts, and a skirt that showed off her dancer legs. A rush of sexual excitement warmed Ozay. Exciting as it was for him to be with an older, attractive, and intelligent woman, Ozay thought it would be best right now to stay cool. Marina’s thoughts, too, unexpectedly flashed back to the passion she had for the younger Ozay. He had changed. No longer a college student, he now sported a growing beard and longer hair. He did wear a sport jacket and jeans, similar to what he wore during the days of protest.

They sat on high wooden stools at a long wood slab table to eat their food.

“Marina, it’s really great to see you again. You look as lovely as the day I met you.”

“You were always charming and loose with flattery, Ozay. So keep it flowing, I love it. If I look good it’s because I started taking good care of myself. Good food, exercise, you know. I must say that I have to return the compliment. You seem to be as fit as ever.”

“Sex, drugs, and funky music,” Ozay smiled. “I too watch what I eat, exercise and dance. But when I eat out, well, you can’t always be a saint.”

“Lots of sex, huh?”

“Remember that ‘premature’ problem I had? Well, I still can’t keep my hands off my parts, but, let’s say I’ve matured a bit.”

“Is that a come-on, Ozay?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just that you look great.”

“I know, you expected a haggard, wrinkled old ‘has-been.’ It’s OK! But now we must get down to business. First, I really don’t know what Lenny was up to. I went through his files searching for clues.”

“Message machine and note pads?”

“Yeah, got a couple of numbers to call, and that’s about it.”

“What about the Indian land grant research?

“I did find a note in a file titled “American Indians” with a phone number, the name Jeremy White Cloud, and the words CALL BY FRIDAY—but no date.”

“It’s a good place to start,” Ozay said.

“One other thing—I found a savings account passbook in one of his drawers with regular deposits and regular withdrawals in cash for the last year, in some cases for thousands.”

“Could be payments to someone or some group,” Ozay speculated.

“I was up most of the night with this stuff, and I’m a bit tired. Maybe if I go get some sleep we could start fresh later.”

“Fine, I’ve got some catching up to do with my sister. When you’ve rested up, call me.”

“You’re a darling for coming down, and please let me take care of the bill.”

“Chivalry isn’t dead yet,” Ozay joked.

They both chuckled, and Marina paid the bill.

Paul Ferris was meeting Tony Antonino at San Francisco’s Little Joe’s on Broadway. The lack of parking in North Beach made Paul a little late. Tony sat at a corner table next to the window and waved Paul inside.

“God! The traffic! Sorry.”

“Good to see you Paul. Please sit.” Antonino’s office was around the corner next to Chinatown’s Melvin Belli Building, but he loved Italian food. “I won’t make this long. Got a trial to attend in an hour.”

“Have you got anything for me on Lenny James’s disappearance?”

Tony looked down and reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper and gave it to Paul. Lincoln Kennedy was the name on it.

“It was Jason Frank before that,” Tony said.

“Jason Frank of the Weather bombing trial three years ago?” Paul scratched his head in confusion. “I knew him as an undergrad at UC Berkeley. Back then, the rumor was that he was recruited by the CIA.”

“The same one. Strange, though. Apparently he dropped the CIA for the Weather Underground. The charges against him were dropped. I think he was intent on saving his own butt in the Weather trial, so he maintained that he was tricked into the plot by the other Weather people. It was suspected that he gave names. He got off, and I know that after the trial he disappeared. Found out later he surfaced in Humboldt County.

“I have a friend there that does the kind of legal stuff up there that I do down here. Name’s Bates, Joe Bates. Joe tells me there a lot of people hiding out in the boonies. We’ve been working on a land grant case in Humboldt for years that’s really divided the Indian community. Ahem! I don’t want to bore you.”

“No! Go ahead. I’m definitely interested.”

“I’ll make it short. You’ve got the Bureau of Indian Affairs (BIA) don’t-rock-the-boat types vs. the American Indian Movement (AIM) radicals. This land grant battle may mean the return of millions of acres to three tribes. So, the stakes are pretty high. It turns out that Lincoln has been seen with members of AIM on occasion. Check it out, I do think it’s worth a shot.” Antonino had stopped eating his large plate of fettuccine Alfredo and was working on a German beer; Paul had barely touched his meal.

“Thanks a million, Tony. My book on the Weather Underground will be coming out next month. I’ll be sure to send you a copy. You and Maria have to come visit sometime. You know you’re always welcome.”

Ozay drove his rental up a quiet sycamore-lined street to his sister Clari’s bungalow duplex a block from the Exposition Park complex in south central L.A. He hadn’t been there in over a year. While married to Shelly Wright, he would visit with the kids every year. Clari lived with her their maternal grandmother, Rena Broussard.

“I think Granma Rena’s waking up,” Ozay’s sister Clari announced. “I know she would be disappointed if she missed you.”

“It’ll be good to see her too.”

“Granma Rena! Your grandson Ozay is here to see you!”

Granma Rena Broussard was clearly, once, a very beautiful woman. Her long curly grey hair hung down to her breast. And at eighty-two her skin—except for minor wrinkles and a couple of long grey hairs that decorated her chin—was still clear of blemishes. “Christ, Ozay, son! Where on God’s earth you been? Come and give yo grandmamma Rena some sugar.” Rena entered the living room with a cane but didn’t actually use it.

“Hi Granma Rena!” Ozay said, soaking up his grandma’s big hug and having quick flashes of thirty years earlier, hanging onto his grandma’s flowered dress and being lovingly picked up in the air and held. They sat and talked; mostly Rena talked. She spoke with a southern dialect, like poor blacks, but Rena had had some college—she had been a nurse for forty years. Rena glowed with a light that could only come from a life that had been full of love. Ozay decided to see if Rena was in the mood to talk about her long-dead husband, Ozay’s grandfather. When he started asking questions, a deep furrow appeared between Rena’s eyebrows.

“Ozay, I need ta tell ya some things ‘bout ya granpa I never told ya befo’. You know ya named afta Ozay, yo half-Cherokee granpa. I think it was like the Spanish ‘Jose,’ just mispronounced. When I would push him, he’d admit ta not really knowing, ‘cause he was an orphan raised by his aunt an’ his Cherokee uncle, who claim that his mama and papa died in a fire. Clari, would ya bring me some tea? Just heat up the little bit of water left over in the tea pot.”

“The sassafras mint, or the chamomile, Grammy?”

“Sassafras mint, sweetie.” She then resumed her conversation with Ozay. “Uuh, yes, chil’.” Grandma Rena pulled a handkerchief out of her robe pocket and blew her nose. “You see, back in those days life was hard fa country people. The War, the civil that is, left blacks, Indians, and whites struggling ta get by. Most went north, and the ones that stayed did what they did best, farm and bootleg. Yo grandpa found out the merry-wana he and his family had been growing and smoking for generations, Lawd, was in demand as much as the licka in Tulsa, Kansas City, Denver and outside Nawlins. Organized dealers didn’t have a strong grip in these places. And it left it wide open for ya grandpa. Ya just had ta have a fast automobile ta do it. So Grandpa Ozay and his brothers learned how ta build fast cars and they became notorious fa they runs. They never could catch yo grandpa, until…. Ya see, the ‘holler crackers’ got wind of Ozay’s exploits, and wanted in on the spoils.”

“The holler crackers?” Ozay asked.

“Never heard of a holler cracker, have you? Well, in the Arkansas Ozarks, ya got thousands of little wooded river valleys where the Hillbillies would grow their weed and set up their stills—way up stream in the hollers.”

Clari brought in the tea and Rena continued.

“Most of the hollers were small-time family operations that produced moonshine and one crop of merry-wana a year. I think yo grandpa’s success was his downfall. He never thought he would get caught. He did a run one night and was caught in a roadblock, but it wasn’t the federal agents, it was holler crackers. Ozay was no fool, so he always carried a shotgun. Shots were fired and Ozay got away, leaving two white men dead.” Rema carefully sipped her hot tea. “He was probably the only Indian to get away with it, in those days.”

“Wait a minute! He killed two white men and got away with it?”

“As I live and breathe, chil’! Afterward, we all moved from Cherokee County, Oklahoma, to Cherokee County, east Texas. I suppose the shooting had something to do with it. We got some property, remote, out in the sticks, so the family could continue their operations undisturbed.” She adjusted her dentures with her tongue before continuing. “Your grandpa went to his grave and never told a soul ‘cept me. No suh! Never talked about it to no one. Y’all have ta excuse me, I have a potty call.”

“We need to talk more, Granma Rena. I’m real interested.”

“You know I’ll be here, chil’. My mind’s slipping these days. I been wanting to tell ya, ya got a cousin: ya ant Tillie’s son, ‘bout yo age. Billy…Vas…, a Mexican name. I forget. Heard he lives up near you, somewhere. Lawd, yo ant Tillie tried ta raise Billy by herself, ‘til he run off. She tried ta sing for a living, but ya couldn’t tell her she wasn’t good enough. Po chil’ took ta drugs and hooked up with a black Mexican-Indian…now I remember, Vasquez was his name, he had coal-black long hair he wore in a pony tail.”

“I got a cousin named Billy, somewhere near San Francisco?”

“That what ya ant told me.”

“I’ve been dying to see the girls, Ozay!” Clari broke in. “When are you going to bring them down here? We have plenty of room here for them to stay, you know.”

“I know, Clari, but it all depends on Shelly and her new squeeze. So far he hasn’t been exactly friendly. I think he’d rather I had nothing to do with my kids and Shelly.”

“The prick!”

“Hold on there Sis! It’s just a suspicion. I really don’t know what he’s up to.”

“Is he a honkey?

“He’s white. But give him a break. I haven’t even met the guy yet.”

“OK, I just don’t want anyone messing with my brother.”

“I love you too, Sis. And now I’ve got to take care of business.”

“Have some monkey bread and jam, before you leave. I just made it; it’s Momma’s recipe.”

“I knew there was something smelling awfully good. OK, I give in.”

“I hope you ain’t on a diet, ‘cause it’s rich.”

“Mostly butter and cream, as I recall.”

“The lightest and fluffiest biscuits ever. But after this batch my diet starts.”

“Again?”

“Now, you shut up and eat, Ozay Broussard!”

“You ever hear from Evette Nevelle?”

“Heard she joined the Panthers. Became part of the Party leadership. They sent her to Japan a few years ago.”

“Really? I’m surprised, her parents were Communist Party members—they’re generally opposed to the Panthers.”

“Well, the story is that the ‘pussy power’ stance of the Party got her knocked up. You know that the Panther men expect Party women to give it up, when ever they want it. Well, when she found out that her lover had other kids from other Panther women, she packed her bags.”

“Did she have the baby?” Ozay asked, stuffing another jam-covered piece of monkey bread in his mouth.

“Ran into her at the Fairfax Farmers Market not too long ago, and she had a three-year-old. A little boy. Cutest little thing.”

“So where’s Jared and Mike, out with their dad?”

“I don’t know what it is, Ozay, but lately Raymond has been seeing the boys on a regular basis and taking them to fun places. It must be because of his new job as a truck driver for Raytheon Steel. You know what a job can do for a man’s self-esteem. If he keeps it up, I just might consider taking his po’ ass back.”

Ozay asked his sister if he could use their phone. He checked his motel for calls. There was a call from Paul. Ozay called him, got the information he needed and proceeded to call Marina with the news. Reluctantly, Marina woke and answered the phone.

“Marina, it’s Ozay. Sorry to wake you, but we need to talk and I don’t want to talk on the phone. I’ll be right over, OK?”

“Sure, Ozay, sure! Come on over.”

“Clari, Granma, I hate to say it but something urgent has come up and I gotta jam.”

“You just got here, O.B.”

“Lawd,” Granma Rena bellowed, “you young folks don’t stay still fa nothin’.”

“I swear,” Ozay promised. “I’ll bring the kids next time.”

Ozay cruised parts of Hollywood Boulevard and the Sunset Strip, to see the major changes that accommodated the new music of the sixties and seventies: soul, rock and a flourishing disco scene where black musicians were finally making money outside the ghetto.

Marina liked living well, and still had the house she had when she was married to Lenny. Though he hadn’t been to the Hollywood Hills house in years, the directions were crystal clear in his mind. Winding Laurel Canyon at the top crossed Mulholland Drive where Ozay turned, and in a few blocks he swung down a cul-de-sac driveway—just long enough for two small cars, wide enough for only one. Ozay recognized the distinct, hand-carved seven-by-five foot wooden door—fifties modern, with a low-pitched shed roof, a three-story cliffhanger. He got out of the car. The door, only a step up and two paces away, was open.

A Lester Young saxophone solo greeted his ears as he walked into the softly lit interior and saw Marina’s fit body silhouetted against the last evening light, standing in front of a wall of glass. The view of Hollywood lights below was spectacular with the 300-foot drop off her deck. He remembered that the height used to terrify him. Even now, he deliberately stayed on the other side of the room.

Flashes of their past passion here in this same room stormed into his head and between his legs. It was deja vu, and he thought that Marina, standing there silently, might be contemplating the same memories.

“You know Ozay…” Marina said, turning, and slowly walking toward him. “I was mad about you. You were so young, good looking, and naïve. I thought I found that spark—rather, a fire—that I didn’t have any more with Lenny. We couldn’t have kids, and when I got checked out and was found to be capable, Lenny went into denial and refused to see a doctor. I still loved him, but from then on we became sexually distant.” Marina was facing Ozay, looking at him.

Ozay recalled the time fifteen years ago when they were both standing there, drawn together by their passion and their different worlds. He looked into her eyes and he saw sadness and a longing that he knew was not for him.

“Lenny still means a lot to me. The thought of something happening to him…” She began to cry and leaned on Ozay’s chest for support.

For a moment, Ozay’s emotions were confused, but he realized that it was best to give her the support she needed now and quiet his own emerging fire.

“I understand,” Ozay whispered, giving her the time she needed, while stroking her hair. A few moments later Ozay said, “I’ve got a lead on a former Weatherman in Eureka. I asked Paul for one more favor—for him to meet with Jeremy White Cloud, a Union guy. There may be something there we can use.”

“Let’s go,” she replied, in a somewhat shaky voice. “I’ll get ready and get us on a plane.”

By noon the following day they were off, flying from LA to make a connecting flight in SF that would take them to Redding. From there they caught a small propjet to Humboldt County—lumber and salmon country. Ozay and Marina landed in Eureka and took a taxi to the Charter House Bed and Breakfast Hotel. They had to find Joe Bates first, to help them locate Kennedy. Since there was not a large selection of lawyers in Eureka, Bates was easy to find. His law office was in his home, just a few blocks from the Charter House. As they walked up the steps, Ozay and Marina could see inside through a large bay window. “Joe Bates Attorney at Law” was painted across the window, and they could see Bates sitting at his desk, typing and chewing on a small stogie. With graying hair just around his ears and wearing a vest, he looked like an old country lawyer. He had been expecting them.

After introductions they got down to business.

“Lincoln Kennedy came up here a few years ago,” Joe Bates began, “and is living somewhere up the Mad River from Arcata. I see him in town picking up supplies, but not much else. Saw him in a bar once last month with Jeffery Tool, a local Indian radical, but that wasn’t unusual. Jeff is pretty well known in town. He’s pretty active politically around here. Someone else you should go see is Michael Sawtooth Bragg, a gadfly type, got his fingers in everything. He should be at the Eagle Feather Chronicle’s office. He’s the editor. It’s a radical Indian newspaper. They have an office over in Old Town. Sawtooth and his staff have been spearheading the battle to get the California courts to acknowledge their claim to 3.5 million acres in the Siskiyou-Trinity mountains, and particularly the Trinity River headlands, lands that were taken from the Yurok, Hupa, and Karuk over 100 years ago.”

Marina pulled out a photo of Lenny James and asked Joe Bates if he had seen the man.

“Can’t say that I have,” Joe answered, as he handed the photo back.

“He would have a British accent and may be in the company of blacks,” Ozay commented.

“He would have stood out like a sore thumb. There are so few blacks here there would have been talk. Even you two might become the subject of rumor and who knows what.”

Marina and Ozay got directions to the Eagle Feather office, which was close enough to Bates’ office to walk. They found a second-story walk-up with three or four people busy at putting together a paper. On the walls were posters of Wounded Knee, the Alcatraz occupation, and a host of Indian chiefs, a framed photo of Geronimo with a rifle being the most prominent.

In the middle of the room was an old photo-offset printer that started operating as Ozay and Marina entered the room. From underneath crawled an indian-tan-skinned man, wiping black grease off his hands.

“Michael Sawtooth Bragg?” Ozay said, loud enough so he could hear.

“That’s me,” he said. “What can I do for ya, bro?” Ozay gave the wrap around thumb and hammer fist exchange.

“Ozay Broussard’s the name, and this is Marina James.”

“Pleased to meet you. Do you always rhyme?” Sawtooth said in a low smooth voice accompanied by a smile.

“No, I don’t,” said Ozay, giving a big smile back. “Joe Bates thought you might be able to help us.”

“Good man, Joe. He fights our legal battles, sometimes not knowing whether he’ll ever get paid.”

“Lincoln Kennedy? You know where I can find him?”

“Lincoln? Yeah, sure! He’s been working with some of the more radical Indians on the land grant issue. They’re a bit cloak-and-daggerish about their activities. My sources tell me that they’re pushing for some retaliatory act in case of a defeat in the courts.”

“What do you think they have in mind?” Ozay pushed for clarification.

“I wouldn’t venture to speculate on that one, bro,” Sawtooth replied, shaking his head and turning toward a wall map of the greater Eureka area—the Trinity and Klamath River valleys. Michael Sawtooth Bragg pointed at the map. “River valleys! That’s where trade and commerce take place, that’s where people grow their food, market their goods, travel, fish, play, and get their power and water—and the politics of the water is everything up here. Who gets the water, the whites, the Indians, or LA?” Sawtooth said, smiling.

Marina approached Sawtooth with a photo of Lenny. “Have you ever seen this man?” Taking the photo and holding it up for editorial scrutiny, Michael Bragg squinted, trying to focus.

“You know, when you aren’t looking for someone, your mind takes in the information but doesn’t place any special value on it. I’ve seen this man, but my mind didn’t place much value on it at the time. I think I’ve seen him with that Lincoln guy, but I want to be sure. Can I have this photo? It’ll come back to me. Where can I reach you while you’re here?”

“Yes, you can have the photograph. As to where you can reach us, we’re at the Charter House.”

As they walked toward the door, Ozay had to ask: “Where’s the name Sawtooth come from? You hardly seem as sinister as your name.”

“I was told it had to do with the way I ate. Now I find it appropriate for the work I do: investigative reporting. Which reminds me, I did a background check on this Kennedy guy, and turned up a blank—as if he didn’t exist.”

“That’s ‘cause he changed his name,”Ozay revealed. “His real name, or the one he had before Lincoln Kennedy, is Jason Frank, and he may be a police informant.” Then turning to Marina he added, “My friend Paul Ferris knew this guy years back when he was chasing a degree. He was the kind of guy who had some progressive ideas, but would never act on them. So it was rather surprising that later he got arrested with Weather people in a bomb plot and then mysteriously got off with no time served.”

“How could he manage to convince other radicals, who I’m sure read the papers, that he didn’t make a deal with the D.A.?” Marina asked.

“Good question,” said Sawtooth.

“He convinced the D.A.’s office enough to get himself off,” Ozay said.

The phone rang. “Ozay Broussard? It’s for you.” Sawtooth handed Ozay the phone. Marina and Michael started sharing a cigarette. Marina, feeling a little guilty, said, “I stopped years ago but now the circumstances are compelling. Besides they’re filtered.” She mistakenly inhaled too much smoke, violently coughing it out. Sawtooth had a chuckle.

Ozay hung up the phone. “That was Bates on the line. My friend Paul called him and he confirmed my suspicions about Lincoln—or should I say Jason Frank. Paul talked to White Cloud, who’s a union organizer and has taken a special interest in the Weather Underground. White Cloud says his sources know for sure that Kennedy is a police informant. He got recruited with COINTELPRO funds in the mid-sixties. He had some drug priors, and that’s their hook on him. He sold his butt to the Man to feed a drug addiction.”

Jeffery Tool, Robert Bearclaw, Lincoln Kennedy—alias Jason Frank—and now Lenny James all lived in an old two-story house about ten miles east of Arcata on a piece of Mad River property that belonged to Jeffery Tool and his elder brother Christian, who wasn’t there at the moment. Because of his British passport and import business, it was easy for Lenny to get across the Canadian border. As a chemical supplier to various American firms, he had no problem buying and then importing explosives, ostensibly for construction projects. Lenny had arranged to have the explosives delivered to a temporary business address in Eureka. When the shipment arrived, he and Robert picked up the load and brought it back to the house.

“They’re not going to give the land back,” Jeff said to Lenny. “You know it and I know it! Everything is here, so why don’t we just let loose on a couple of stations now?”

Lincoln was using coke as a lure, so Jeff was already starting to mouth Lincoln’s position. Lincoln wanted the group to act before the land grant case was settled. They had been toying with a retaliation plan for about two years. This was ’76 and COINTELPRO funds for this kind of operation were tight under President Carter. From the Bureau’s point of view, Lincoln’s operation showed little progress, and they threatened to terminate the operation unless there was some serious movement. Initially, Lincoln had convinced everyone that he was an ex-Weatherman and got them discussing a plan to attack a power station. As the lawsuit progressed, the toying turned to serious consideration. Agents were known to set up an operation, provide funds if necessary, then bust everyone just before the scheduled action.

“Right on, Jeffery,” Lincoln said in support. “Are we so timid that we can’t seize the time and be part of what’s happening all over the country? Now’s the time, brothers! If we wait, we’ll just find excuses not to act.”

“Jesus!” Robert said, aggravated. “What a bunch of hotheads! Lenny and I, and I hope your brother Christian, are committed to the original plan.”

“This is war!” Jeffery jumped up, seeing himself, like many other young Indian warriors before him, as an instrument of a calling or a compulsion. “Commitment, hell! Our commitment is to our people and our ancestors who had this land stolen from them! From the very first European who set foot on these shores, ‘til now, it’s been a war against our people for our land. Let’s be real! If they were ever going to return our land, there wouldn’t be a lawsuit! And the longer we keep the explosives on our hands, the greater the danger is to us!”

Lenny’s thoughts drifted to Marina—how such a good thing had faded and left him with a gaping void that had yet to be filled. Lenny was a moderately successful small businessman. He and Marina liked most bourgeoisie comforts and had lived well. Now he lived in a room in a remote forest, waiting to commit a felony. He thought things had gotten very serious. He didn’t even have a social life any more. He heard everything Jeffery said. Lenny didn’t need to yell; his voice, low in volume yet clear, made others listen. “A year ago I never would have dreamed that I would be involved on this level of the struggle. Shit, from non-violence back in the early sixties to now, I’ve bloody gone 180 degrees. You lads know of my commitment, but I have to agree with Robert about waiting.”

Robert thought deeply about most things. “You forget that we’ve arranged for our brothers in the BLA to have a corresponding attack in Detroit and Atlanta. Right? If we allow ourselves the luxury of impetuousness, we’re screwed. We’re just radicals trying to make a statement, not revolutionaries or whatever we call ourselves. A coordinated, well thought out, patient approach is what’s going to get everyone what they want, and make a powerful statement.”

Christian had arrived and had been standing outside the front door. “Seems to be a tie vote.” Christian’s voice startled everyone. “ I guess I’ll have to break it. Jeffery, you were always the ‘Tool’ that flew off the handle. Just a little humor, guys,” Christian said, finally giving up a smile. “Lenny and Robert are right. We need to wait. You got a problem with that, Jeff? ‘Cause I don’t mind kicking my baby brother’s butt to make a point.”

Jeffery squirmed and tried not to show his discomfort with his brother’s threat. Simultaneously, Lincoln grabbed a beer from the fridge, brows knit with frustration. Lincoln was feeling the stress of the whole operation, and his daily drug use, other than weed, was increasing. He was doing a host of psycho-therapeutics and coke. Lincoln was a dual-diagnostic junkie; he was strung-out on coke, anti-depressants, as well as barbiturates—which he tried to keep secret from the rest. For the others, beer and weed were the staples. The Bureau kept Lincoln on a retainer for his work, which was just enough to sustain him, and they had promised him a bonus if this project was successful. To account for his monthly mail pick-up of cashier’s checks, he had told the others that he was a trust-fund baby.

CBS evening news was on the TV, and Lenny seemed to be the only one interested. Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan, who both had won their party’s nominations for president, were headline news.

“You think the old ‘nut farmer’ can whip an actor for president?” asked Christian, motioning his beer can over toward Lenny.

“Everybody! Come see this! Quick!” Lenny yelled. As the group gathered in front of the tube, the screen was depicting a stopped auto on the Jersey turnpike with two bloody black bodies being put into an ambulance.

“… the Sergeant of the New Jersey police department has described the occupants of the car as possible members of a revolutionary Marxist organization called the Black Liberation Army, allegedly responsible for a series of bank robberies and police shootings in the last two years. The male occupant is dead, and the female is in critical condition. The names will…” the reporter was explaining.

“Damn!” Expressions of extreme disappointment went around.

The anchorwoman began interviewing an FBI agent.

“How much of a threat are they?” The anchorwoman finished her question.

“Can’t say that there is much of a threat anymore. The core members and leaders have been incarcerated in a number of major cities, mainly on the east and west coast, thanks to the bureau’s agents operating on the inside.” Lincoln flinched at the agent’s last remark.

“Is there any evidence that the BLA is connected with the Weather Underground?” the announcer asked an on-camera agent.

“My sources tell me that there isn’t any.” The agent replied. “The difference between the two groups is that the BLA has been a deadly force, targeting police and politicians, whereas the Weather Underground appears to make an effort to avoid deaths. This certainly doesn’t mean they are less of a threat. ”

“This is the group that we’re supposed to be collaborating with?” Jeffery scowled.

“I think our black comrades have become a liability,” Lincoln quickly intervened. “Now, don’t you think we should reconsider my plan for an early strike?”

Christian remained firm. “This doesn’t change a thing! If anything it reinforces my position that we should take our time and be cautious. It seems that the BLA has been neutralized by inside informants. And the killings? Well, they’re not our style. We need to be clear about our goals. Do we want a victimless strike or do we want a body count?”

Lincoln was already frayed emotionally, and with the growing impasse between him and Christian he snapped. “This is war! So, face it, it’s time to break a few eggs, Christian. You really think we’re gonna win this lawsuit?”

Robert, the one Hupa in the group (Jeff and Christian being Yurok), couldn’t pass up this opportunity. “What do you mean we, white man? You know, it’s never been clear to me-why you never served any time for the Weather Underground bombing three years ago.”

For a moment there was a thick silence.

Lincoln, now aware of his white skin, said, “I thought I made it clear that the State didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute me? And what the hell is this?”

“And I know you’ve been putting shit in your body, like drugs were going out of style, and that has to be fucking up your decision making. And you’ve had bogus excuses for missing the last three sweat lodges. That’s OK, but it indicates to me that something’s going on.”

“Look, I’m cool. I know the sweats are a good thing, and I’ll be at the next one. Really! I gotta go check my mail in town. Jeff, you wanna tag along?”

“Trust-fund baby, hell!” Robert muttered.

“What did you say?” Lincoln demanded.

“Go on, get your drugs!” Robert said disparagingly.

“Hey, fuck off, Robert. I’m leaving. You think you’re so pure with your weed. You think that’s better.”

“You damn right, ‘kemosabe!’” Robert said with a big smile, as he took a hit off his joint and blew the smoke at the exiting Lincoln.

It had been two days since Lenny James fled LA. He thought he’d better let Marina know what was going on. Lincoln had unexpectedly showed up at Lenny’s apartment that Friday morning, warning Lenny that the FBI was on its way, that they had evidence that he and the BLA were involved in money laundering, and that they had a warrant for his arrest. Lincoln convinced him to go to Eureka, where he would be safe with his Indian partners. Lenny had meet Lincoln at a Black Panther fundraiser for a community school in Oakland. Lincoln was there raising funds for the Indian Land Grant lawsuit. He found that Lenny James was not only a source of funding, but was also a Canadian/American businessman. Their relationship, consisting of a couple of lunches together, was long enough for Lenny to believe the FBI story. In exchange for Lincoln hiding him, Lenny agreed to use his export/import business to bring explosives into the US from Canada. But at this point Lenny was in a frightful dilemma. He wanted to contact Marina, but now he reconsidered. Contact might not only jeopardize the operations, but it might also put her in danger. So, calling her now wasn’t a good idea. Not yet. But when? The case could take months to decide. He would have to find a safe way to let her know.