‘Or, if you’re correct, who’s behind it.’
‘I’m correct.’ Havanas and rum turned everyone into relaxed sages. Bell blew a particle stream upwards. ‘At this very moment, my Forresters are out there, invisible, committed, exciting the molecules that keep society bonded. Fissures are widening, the leaders are falling through the cracks.’
‘Together with their tribes.’ A pull on the glass.
‘They shouldn’t exist on the surface, weren’t meant to. Niggers? They were blown here. That’s panspermia for you – inferior, alien bacteria carried to earth from outer space, spread by the wind. Slave ships did the rest, aided the migration.’
‘Tidy concept. What about your ice-moon collision?’
‘It brought the superior Aryan spore to the northern hemisphere. It’s where we belong, where we’re gonna fight from, seize victory.’ The stick of ash fell. ‘Black culture? I’ve seen more advanced fuckin’ culture in a petri dish.’
Laughter, a raiding of the cold box, a refilling of glasses. The South African reclined further in his chair, belly seepage creeping over the top of his slacks. ‘Laboratory’s where we used to think we could deal with the kaffirboetis. Poisoning, sterilization – you name it, we considered it. Pretoria told the world there were 28 million South African blacks. There were 45 million.’
‘Hell of a discrepancy.’
‘Gave us slack, scope for higher body counts.’
‘Shit, I’ll raise my glass to that.’ He did so, allowing the Trinidad a natural death on the side of a gilt and bronze ashtray. ‘This is my laboratory – America. I’m testing evolution to the max.’
‘Africa, you won’t find evolution.’ There was slurring in the South African’s speech, an exaggeration of Boer vocal- mutilation, the outward expression of professionalism in collision with alcohol consumption. He jabbed a finger. ‘Listen, man. Round Jo’burg, village children have been killed to make magic potions from body parts. In the Congo, they flay suspected witches to death with heated razor-wire. The Ivorians stone to pulp anyone denounced as magicians and blame them for shrinking men’s penises.’
‘Fuckin’ simians. They oughta just kick back and watch cable.’
‘Point is, they like to party. Voodoo, bayoneting on the beach, slow-roasting kiddies while their parents are forced to clap and sing. It happens.’
‘I believe it. Seen the home crowd at a Lakers game? Rip the goddamn stadium to pieces, even with a win.’
‘See? They don’t change. Out here, they talk about their black nation. They’re greedy. Where I come from, they’ve already screwed an entire continent.’
‘And then some.’ Bell uncapped the Klipdrift and poured a double measure into his guest’s emptied glass. ‘You think they haven’t screwed mine? Mind, if someone made my dick smaller with magic, I’d lose the fucking plot.’
One of the Argentinos rose stiffly and padded off towards a clump of pomegranate. The other yawned, licked its genitals and rolled on its side. Lazy day. The South African stretched an arm, scratched at the back of his neck. ‘I return to Cape Town in two days. I need your word that all eventualities are covered.’
‘You have it. The only eventuality is holocaust. We churned up the asphalt in Alabama, reconfigured the Million Clenched Fists in DC. Conquest of the Planet of the Apes. It’s happening. The real thing, the true Helter Skelter.’
‘The Feds – how do you intend to stop them happening?’
‘Cut ’em off at the knees, or the neck. We’re onto it, on top of it.’ He smiled, a grin of knowledge, of superiority. FBI investigations would run into a cul de sac, then run into his Forresters. A thought pricked in his eyes. ‘Tell you what. I’ll order up the whirlybird, take you on a playground tour.’
‘Ja, fuck Disneyland.’
‘Aerial’s the optimum way to see a battle zone. Think of it as the before shot.’
‘And the after?’
‘Transformed.’ Bell was holding a cellphone to his ear. ‘Might even catch LAPD raiding Château Azania if we’re lucky.’ Or a bullet if they weren’t. Developments on the ground were ugly; low-altitude was equally hazardous.
‘Your men operating?’
‘I’d say they’re engaged in a little fine-tuning.’
That fine-tuning would come later in the day, when three impoverished black families and their Section 8 accommodation vanished in massive simultaneous detonations, when a number of homeless were mown down in drive-by shootings, and vigilantes clubbed to death two black drug dealers in a South Central parking lot. Stoking the flames. The Los Angeles police made preparations to assault Reverend Al Azania’s mansion residence.
* * *
‘As I anticipated.’
Azania eyed the closed-circuit security displays, adjusted the white handkerchief in his breast pocket. Around him, his retinue of Bible-carrying bodyguards, lieutenants, publicists, advisers and activists readied themselves for the political and PR coup of the decade. Onscreen, the blue-clad and boiler-suited figures of police and SWAT ran and dodged their way to tactical positions and fire points. Overkill, easily manipulated. An arrest would be made, the chief – messiah – of black radicalism, survivor of tragedy and murderous attack, taken into custody. It was an affront to public sensibility, to liberty, a fatal blow to harmony and the chance of reconciliation. And at a moment like this. His nation was dying, wracked with unrest, torn by the forces of white supremacy. He was the natural leader, the only leader; so they conspired, sought to bring him low, to silence him and quench the light. But his power would shine, his voice ring out. He was prepared, the schedule set.
A girl dusted his face with a powder-puff, removing the gleam, buffing it for the cameras. He would be statesmanlike amidst the confusion, a centre of media-friendly calm among the frenzy. Gravitational pull. In a news-hungry, image-obsessed world, victims of oppression had to look their best. He was Dr King rallying the faithful; he was Nelson Mandela walking slowly to a new destiny. Perhaps student bars would adopt his name, perhaps busts and statuary would proliferate in municipal arts centres around the globe. A touching thought. He closed his eyes as the make-up sponge dabbed at his lids. Attention to detail was the key, drawing attention the goal. America would not realize its back was broken until too late, when it lay prone and pleading to be put out of its misery. He would minister at the hour of death.
‘You boys in the back ready?’ he called.
‘Waiting on your word, Reverend.’ A bulky torso, the meat-head rammed onto full-beam shoulders and steroid musculature, emerged from a doorway across the hall. Size alone suggested threat. The man was born to dismantle others, hired to do so. Yet there could be permutations to a theme. Studded leather knuckle-protectors wrapped hands sheathed in surgical gloves. They were there to inflict.
‘You applying the local anesthetic?’
‘Reverend, they got faith. They don’ need no anaesthetic.’
Azania nodded, checked his watch. ‘Make it happen.’
The brawn reversed back to his play-area. Within seconds, the sounds came, the thud and crack of punches thrown, blows taken. It was concentrated production-line brutality, its purpose to bruise, draw blood, create further uproar. The aftermath of police action would show casualties live on air – puff-eyed, broken-nosed, limping – testify to the savagery and racist overlay of the operation. A prayer-meeting overrun, a black rights leader captured, the headlines guaranteed. Azania could rely on his volunteers.
Subtle eye-shading was applied. ‘CS distributed?’
‘All around, boss.’
‘I want them initiated on my command. Everyone takes a lungful, everyone goes out weeping and saying prayers.’
