Going Nuclear. Stephen Hart
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He told me to stop crying and act like a normal boy. He said he wanted me to grow up to be a soldier, not a girl.”
“So your father killed some rabbits. I hate to tell you this, but rabbits get killed every day. Are you saying that made you tough?” Joshua took a last hit from the joint.
“I was only five. But there’s more. That night I went out to find the rabbits, to see if any of them had lived and needed some help. I found them in a burlap bag, all dead. I tried to put an ear back on one, but it wasn’t any use. And then a weird thing happened. I started laughing and couldn’t stop. It was like everything was funny: my dad, the rabbits, the ear, everything. And from then on, nothing like that bothered me.”
“Nothing like that bothered you? I don’t know. Sounds a little strange, more than anything else. But tell me, if watching your father shoot the rabbits made you so thick-skinned, why are you still talking about it now?”
“I was just giving you an example of what it was like growing up,” Arthur replied, frowning.
“Okay. Okay,” Joshua said, waving an open hand at Arthur.” It just sounds to me like your father’s view of life is a little different than yours, that’s all.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, the way people see things is usually based on the way they want to see things. Your dad wants to see himself as an officer, practical and tough, not overly sensitive, which is not all that different from a lot of black guys I know, by the way. But you don’t want to see things that way because you don’t have any interest in being in the military, and for you, being sensitive about something that you care about is just an honest emotional reaction.”
“I don’t know, maybe. So do you think of yourself as tough and practical?”
“Sure, I have to be.”
“Why?”
“Look at what I’m up against. Nixon and his crowd play for keeps.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take the election last year. Look at how close it was. Then ask yourself, who would have won if Bobby Kennedy hadn’t been assassinated.”
“You think Nixon had something to do with his assassination?”
“I think it’s possible. Very possible. Can’t you just hear Nixon telling someone that there is no way in hell he’s going to lose to another fucking Kennedy? And Nixon has been in bed with the CIA and the FBI for years, two undercover organizations that hated Bobby Kennedy and Martin Luther King as well.”
“I don’t know. It’s easy to speculate. But nobody’s actually after you, are they?”
“Not that I know of, but with this government, I wouldn’t be surprised.”
“Why would you think the government might be after you?”
“Well, for one thing, I’m working with some very serious people now who want to take things to the next level.”
“The next level?”
“Yeah. The nonviolent approach just doesn’t work, so we’re going to have to start playing the game on the government’s terms.”
“More like the Panthers?”
“No, this is bigger than the Panthers, a lot bigger. But I can’t say any more about it. Someone could be listening.”
“You think your office might be bugged?”
“Could be. I mean, after all, I am black and politically active.”
“You really think race is that much of a factor?”
“Oh, hell yes, man, race is everything, especially with all the white bigots lurking around every corner.”
“Yeah . . . Why do you think there is so much white racism?
“Because many whites believe deeply that they are superior, and even a suggestion that they may not be drives them crazy. I think it’s encoded in their brains, part of some survival instinct. Their brains tell them that they must pass on their superior genes, pure white genes, to the next generation, and anything that might interfere with that passage must be crushed. So yeah, I think the roots of white racism run deep.”
“But not all whites are racist.”
“More than you think. Do you want to know how I can tell if a white person is racist? And this includes many so-called white liberals.”
“How?”
“I walk down the street with a white girl on my arm. It drives them crazy. I know. I’ve done it.”
“How did you know you were getting to them?”
“The looks I got. They wanted to kill me. Not that long ago they would have killed me, would have lynched me.”
“So you have a white girlfriend?”
“Not exactly. I had a thing going with a white chick for a while, but then my regular girlfriend found out, and I had to cool it. I still see the white girl quite a bit, but it has more to do with trying to stop the war than anything else.”
“So she’s an activist, too?”
“Yeah.”
“Does the idea that you’re not supposed to be with a white girl make it more of a turn-on for you?”
“Sometimes. That and her tight little white ass.” Joshua laughed.
“So this girl works on demonstrations with you?”
“Yeah, some. But I’m kind of losing my interest in demonstrations.”
“Why?” Arthur looked at Joshua closely.
“I don’t think demonstrations accomplish that much. They’re an opportunity to stir things up a little, maybe vent a little, but that’s about all you can say. I mean, take that demonstration today. You don’t think anything will come out of that, do you? I mean, the war isn’t going to end or anything.”
“Probably not.”
After a pause, Joshua stood up, opened the office door, and carefully looked down the hall both ways. “I think we can go now,” he said.
As they opened the front door of the building, Joshua and Arthur looked to both sides, but the policeman was nowhere in sight. Feeling fairly stoned, Arthur flashed the peace sign at Joshua, who only shrugged.
The two young men then went their separate ways.
Chapter Three
The following week, at the Federal Building in Chicago, Vic Torkis, a balding FBI agent, scooted his chair back and got up from his desk. The time had come to meet with his new supervisor, Frank Bono. Another day, another test, he thought as he walked by his desk and glanced at his mug, still half-filled with the coffee that he had not had time to finish. Fifty years old and still being jerked around by some clown in the corner office. He paused momentarily and closed his eyes. My cases start really coming together, and someone new has to step in and fix the situation. Jesus. The door to Bono’s office was open, but Vic knocked before entering.
“Is it nine o’clock already?” Bono asked, looking up from his desk. His voice was irritatingly low and resonant. “Come in. Come in. Have a seat.” He stood and extended his hand. “Sorry we haven’t met before this, but I’m still learning the lay of the land.”
Vic nodded and walked in, noticing with a slight sense of exasperation that Bono appeared to be younger and much thinner than he was. “I guess things are a little different here than in Washington,” Vic said as they shook hands.
“Oh, yeah, yeah. Have a seat. So, what do you think about the big change? Covert operations, quite a move. I think you saw the memo yesterday.