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.
Café Mar
Jeffery Tool and Lincoln Kennedy stopped at the Arcata post office where Lincoln picked up his monthly check. The next move was a bank stop for cash, then swing by the Café Mar and bar at the Humboldt docks, have a drink, and score.
The day had its usual overcast until the late afternoon. Before darkness set in, the clouds parted and a band of orange-ish pink spread across the evening’s western horizon, lighting up the nearby sand and water. The Café Mar buzzed with local talk and the usual infusion of tourists. Spotting his connection, Lincoln left Jeff alone at their table and disappeared into the bathroom. He returned with a telling smile.
“Jesus, Link,” Jeff said. “It must have been some good shit, ‘cause you need to wipe your nose.”
“Huh? Yeah. Good shit! Got some blow for a change.”
“Well, amigo, you gonna turn me on too?”
“Not here. Drink up and let’s get going.”
Lincoln finished off his drink and they started for the door.
Ozay and Marina had picked this same restaurant and were entering just as Lincoln and Jeff were leaving. As they passed, Ozay distinctly heard one refer to the other as Lincoln. “Lincoln?” Ozay called out. Startled, Lincoln turned. Though he didn’t recognize Ozay, he quickened his pace, urging Jeff on. He ran toward his pickup truck, thinking his cover had been blown. Ozay turned to Marina and told her to wait, and then broke into a run to try and catch Lincoln. Before he could reach them, Lincoln