Soon it pulled into a filling station. The chauffeur got out, walked around, unlocked the door and let her "Five minutes," he said.
The air was hot, though it was night. Night! It had been noon when she started.
Make a break for it? No, no use. They still had Danny. Judging from the warmth; she was somewhere in a southern state. Where could she go, with no money? Into the cotton fields?
She finished with the restroom and returned to the limousine. A box lunch awaited her on the seat. She ate slowly, listening to the whine of the tires: high-speed travel, seventy or eighty miles an hour. It was possible to go long way on an interstate in ten hours at that velocity.
On and on. Finally she slept—then woke with a start as the car pulled to a halt. The chauffeur let her out again. "Just walk through this gate," he said, "and up to the door."
Ilunga unlatched the gate and walked down the path. Odd, that the driver hadn't taken her all the way in. The limousine drove off.
She could turn about and walk out; no one was guarding her now. But then Danny...
Resolutely, she went on.
The night was warm and sultry, and there was the smell of the sea in the air. She glanced back, and noted that the wall surrounding the estate was ten feet tall and had broken glass embedded in the top and a strand of barbed wire above that. Electrified; she could tell by the insulators.
Inside, it was huge. The lights near the wall showed that there were small rolling hills covered with verdant grass, and there was the musical sound of a small stream meandering through. The trees were strange: she recognized a many-trunked banyan and a coconut palm, but others were hauntingly unfamiliar.
Something charged through the dark shrubbery. She strained to see, but the light was too dim away from the wall, and the view too obstructed. But it sounded like an animal of some sort, a large one. Perhaps a guard dog, a Great Dane. It had a slow, funny gait—she bad never heard footfalls quite like that before—and a funnier smell.
Well, she had killed obnoxious dogs before.
The thing came closer then slowed to a walk, just out of clear sight. It was a dog, huge and spotted—she thought. "Come on, Bowser. I'm ready for you," she muttered. What better way to relieve her frustrations.
But it only watched, its eyes bright in the night. If only her night vision were better. Before she'd started on Kill-13 she'd had excellent sight.
"All right, I'm coming after you!" she snapped. She was not afraid; the dog did not live who could make her back off. Sometimes she had deballed curs in the park, in lieu of men. This was like a park. She moved toward it, her deadly hands and feet ready. She didn't really need good vision for this; her ears and reflexes sufficed. Though she could use a good sniff of Kill-13. The creature gave a loud, cackling cry and retreated. Startled, she stopped. That was no dog! That was a laughing hyena!
Hyena? Ridiculous! They were African creatures, and Asian. This was America.
Then she realized this estate was like the African veldt at night. That one great, odd shape, like an upside-down beer-bellied tree—an African baobab? The kind of terrain for lions, rhinos—and hyenas. Home of the black man. Home of Blakrev.
"All right, hyena. We'll go see your master," she said.
That man, she would learn in due course, had started as heir to a million dollars, but lost it in the stock market by gambling on cocoa futures. He had excellent connections, both business and political—but broke, he was nothing. So he combined his martial-arts talents with his connections in the Internal Revenue Service, using tax audits to ascertain the worth of vulnerable businessmen, then extorting ten percent. He also knew key Cuban exiles, and Latin American drug contacts. Now he ran Blackrev, using those drugs. And because of his anonymity and his intimacy with highly placed politicians, he seemed to be immune to investigation or prosecution.
No black man himself, but an unscrupulous white renegade and accomplished martial artist.
The Hyena.
Chapter 5
Brainwash
I did not feel easy about Ilunga. She had accepted my referral to Mustapha, and I knew she had followed up on it. But when I called a few days later, Mustapha told me she had taken her brother Danny and gone, he knew not where.
I had the feeling he was lying to me, but I didn't know why. His tone was different than when I had first called him. Was he hiding something?
Perhaps he had had a fight with Ilunga and kicked her out. There was a lot I didn't understand about black relations. I checked her ghetto apartment, but it was empty. Where had she gone?
I was busy; the judo team training was taking more and more of my time, as we entered the final weeks. I had the team at my own dojo, but it still pre-empted my regular schedule. I had to let substitutes teach my private morning and afternoon classes. Ideally the U.S. team should work out together anywhere from one to three months before the big event. In Russia, Europe and Japan they do. But in America they are lucky to get more than a week.
Only strenuous effort on my part had gotten most of them together for two to three weeks in advance. But it did consume my time!
I also had to worry about the Hyena. The last thing I needed was to get involved in black politics and drug addiction. But Ilunga's plea just wouldn't let go of me. If she was no longer with Mustapha, I might have failed her. Something was wrong; she should have gotten in touch with me again. I owed her something, and after this judo meet I would be able to follow it up.
But somehow I had the feeling it could not wait that long. Her brother Danny was a dabbler in drugs, she had told me; that was what had gotten him in trouble, for Blakrev evidently used drugs to control its converts. A bad situation—but it meant that if Danny and other youngsters could be freed of their drug dependencies, Blakrev would lose its power over them.
I had worked with a few youths with drug histories. Some had gone straight, preferring judo or karate to the drugs. They had really been searching for purpose and acceptance by their peers, and my martial-arts classes gave that to them. But some were not amenable, and had to be denied further training in my classes. I could not tolerate overt drug addiction in a trained judoka or karateka.
"Say, Andy," I said to my half-blind karate student/instructor. No, it was unkind to call him that, or even to think it. He had been raked across the eyes by Ilunga, back when she was a Demon; that was one of the problems about her. Now he had partial vision in one eye, and in a few months he would have another operation to restore his sight to normal. "Do you know anything about drugs? I mean how to get off them?"
"You don't have a drug problem, sensei!" he laughed. "All you ever take is aspirin, and I don't believe you're addicted."
"A friend asked me for help with her brother. He'd been shot, but it was drugs that led up to it. I wondered—"
"Oh, you mean one of those peer-pressure groups," Andy said, getting serious. "They catch a kid before he's really addicted and run him through the mill. I think we have a judo student here who—"
"Maybe so," I agreed. "I don't know if I can find this kid now, and I don't know whether he'd go. But next time someone like that needs help, I want to know where to send him." Actually, it was more than that; it was an attempt to expiate my failure to proffer real help to Ilunga in her hour of need. Not that she was ever likely to know. The human conscience works like that; at times—too little, too late—but still the motions have to be honored. And in the back of my mind was the half-formed notion that maybe Ilunga had taken her brother to such a place, and that I might locate her that way. Small chance, but as I said, conscience isn't always reasonable. Mine isn't, anyway.
"Try Strate," Andy suggested.
"Straight? Straight where?"
"S-T-R-A-T-E," he spelled. "Sort of a pun on strait, as in being in a bind, like hooked on drugs, and straight as in arrow. Idea is you start out strait and wind up straight. In between, you're 'strate'—part of the stratum. One of the good crowd."
"Oh," I said. "Do they do anything be
sides make puns?"
"See for yourself," he said. "I sat in on one of their meetings, and I'll admit I was impressed. But it's no good telling you, any more than you could train a black belt in karate just by telling him. You have to see."
"Okay. Thanks."
After the training session I drove down to the Strate headquarters. I was hailed at the entrance by two young men. My muscles tightened but I reminded myself that this had nothing to do with either the judo meet or the Hyena—in fact I had no business here at all, really—and relaxed. I explained that I wanted to talk with their front desk. "Okay!" they said cheerfully. "Love you!" Love me? Startled, I drove on in without acknowledging. I parked, noticing that a printed placard in a neighboring car said "STRATE LOVES YOU."
I began to catch on. So love was their motif.
Their office was in a huge garage: obviously not a high-budget operation. Several people were waiting for attention, so I sat down for my turn. The others seemed to be white teenagers and their parents. A small puppy frolicked on the floor. There was no sense of tension; it was more like a bus station.
After twenty minutes nothing had happened. Had I missed my bus? Evidently Strate had more time spare than I did. I finally approached the desk and inquired how one applied for admittance to their meetings.
An older woman looked at me suspiciously. "You wish to admit your child?"
"I have no child," I said. "I just want to attend a meeting."
"Why?"
The question caught me by surprise. Surely they knew why people wanted to attend. But if she wanted me to spell it out, all right. "I was told you have a good drug rehabilitation program here. I want to see it in action."
"You're a professional?"
"If you mean in the drug field, no. I'm just a concerned citizen. I think it's too bad so many kids are getting hooked on drugs today, and I want to know what's being done about it. So I came here, to learn." Actually I had had experience with the worst drug of them all, Kill-13, usually addictive with one sniff. I had had a sniff myself, and only the grace of God had spared me from permanent addiction. But the average kid would not be exposed to Kill-13. Not any more.
The woman scribbled something on a bit of paper and walked away. Shortly, three young people came out, a boy and two girls. "I'm the director," the smallest of them said, a little girl with reddish hair, not well kept. She was not well dressed, either, and looked about fifteen.
Were they fooling me? They seemed serious. "I'm Jason Striker." The girl looked at the paper the woman had given her. "You came to give a lecture?"
Some foul-up! Their bureaucracy was as inefficient as any other.
"As I told the other woman, I came here to learn. I want to attend one of your meetings, talk with your people, to see how your program works."
"Are you bringing in your son or daughter?"
"I have no children." I was getting tired of this. Were they stupid, or merely double-checking? "I just want to see how you operate, in case I have occasion to refer anyone here."
"We don't allow anyone to attend unless he's on drugs or the parent of a person on drugs," she said firmly.
Oh? That wasn't what Andy had said. He had attended, and he was not on drugs. It appeared these people didn't trust me, and that was funny, because I had come with complete candor. All I wanted was information. Why should they be suspicious of strangers? "How do you expect anyone to learn about your program in time to help him—or his children—if you won't let him see until he's actually hooked on drugs?" I asked.
The little girl shrugged inelegantly, oddly sober for her age. It was as though she had been through this many times before. She was not pretty, and I wondered whether she had found a home here at Strate, being accepted as a staffer instead of taking her chances in the outside world. "We can't change our rules."
How often had I heard that, as the refuge of the indefensible in mindless bureaucracy! If the world were likely to end tomorrow, this type of person would not change a rule to save it. Somewhat disturbed by being balked by this youngster half my age I was about to leave. I had wasted my time, and this did not improve my temper.
"We love you!" the three youngsters chorused as I turned my back.
I lacked the grace to respond in kind. Love without trust? My love was more discriminating. I could not love Strate without knowing it better.
"Hey, Mr. Striker!" someone called. I looked around. It was Mario, one of my judo students. He was tall and thin, with a small beard and long hair. Not one of my best, and his tonsure was in technical violation of judo guidelines, but a hardworking, decent sort.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
"I'm on staff," he said with pride. "I've been with Strate three years."
"You were an addict?" I asked, surprised.
"Pot, hash, speed, downs, opium, peyote—the whole route," he said. "I tried them all. It's all on my record. Don't you read those forms you have us fill out for judo?"
"Not well enough," I muttered. "I could have asked you about Strate and saved myself the trouble of coming here."
"That's no good," he said. "You have to attend a meeting, at least, to really appreciate it."
I had been that route. "They won't let me in. I just tried."
He looked at me in disbelief. "Something's fishy."
"I'm not the parent of a drug addict," I said.
"Come on, we'll see about this."
He led me back to the desk. "Georgia, set it up tonight for this man. The works."
The girl stared at me coldly, showing no trace of the love she had expressed a moment ago when she thought she was rid of me. "Mario, you know we don't let strangers watch."
"Strangers!" he cried indignantly. "This is Jason Striker! My judo sensei. He's done more good for more kids—" He continued with a deluge of praise that had my ears burning. I often wish my students could talk about me without exaggerating. Well, without too much exaggeration, maybe. The upshot was that I found myself invited to their evening meeting. I had, it seemed, a connection after all.
I came, of course. After the scrambling I had had to do to gain admission, I viewed Strate with a certain cynicism, but I still wanted to learn. Maybe they had reason to distrust strangers; maybe drug-using gangs tried to infiltrate their meetings and break them up. So I tried to keep an open mind.
It was impressive. There may have been a thousand people cramming that warehouse, inmates, parents, and selected members of the community, such as myself. If every one of these visitors had worked as hard as I had to get here, they were a determined lot.
We all sat in a mighty circle on the floor, for there were not enough chairs by a factor of a hundred or so, and we sang songs. They sang, anyway; I tried to follow, but music is not my forte, and I didn't know the tune or words. Even so, I could appreciate the skill with which the Strates sang. They did multi-part harmonies, and the beat was exact. When they started, they started precisely together; when they stopped, it was on a dime, with no sour note. There must have been a lot of practice and a lot of discipline to get them that sharp.
Then there was an expectant silence. After a moment a young boy stood up and spoke. "I'm Bill. I'm twelve years old. I've been on pot, hash, peyote, speed, and acid since I was nine. I saw the older kids doing it. I wanted to get in with the crowd. I felt awful guilty, but I didn't really care about myself. My folks didn't know I was skipping school. I stole money to support my habit. When they caught me, I wanted to die. The juvenile court sent me to Strate, and I was really scared. I didn't want to come here. Now I know I was wrong. I hurt my folks. I wouldn't let them help me. I don't want to touch drugs again, ever. Not even a trank. I just want to go home and make it up to my folks. Get a job, make something of myself. Thank you for helping me. I love you."
"I love you!" the Strates in the crowd cried as he sat down. I was amazed. This boy, by his own admission, had been on half a dozen drugs, in and out of juvenile court, and now was confessed and reformed—and he was only tw
elve! Apparently Strate had saved him from a lifetime of addiction and crime, and had set him firmly on the road to good citizenship. What more could anyone ask?
Another person rose—a girl in her late teens, I judged. "I'm Jill. I was hooked on pot, acid, cocaine, hash, alcohol, speed. I wanted to be grown-up. I thought I was smart, that I had things together. But I was really very lonely. I ran away from home when I was fourteen. I tried everything to feel good. Nothing worked. I lost my motivation. Anything that happened, I just said people didn't like me, that was my excuse for everything. I had no purpose in life, no meaning. My friends were just people around. I was easily hurt, but I never showed it. They thought I was strong, but I was weak. I never stood up for what I thought was right. Now I love living, I love my parents. I love you!"
Tears were streaming down her face as she sat down. "I love you!" the others chorused again, comfortingly.
So Strate had the secret of curing addicts! Why hadn't I been aware of this before? The world should know!
Almost immediately another girl stood up. "I'm Millie. I'm seventeen. I was on pot, hash, acid, speed, downs, and horse..." She continued her recitation, but my attention swerved. These confessions—they were too similar to one another. Each person had tried half a dozen addictive drugs at an early age, and gotten in trouble for it, and come here, and now each was overflowing with remorse and love for the group that had cured him or her. It was like a memorized spiel, a litany, and the script was becoming familiar. Effective the first time, but losing authenticity with every repetition.
Perhaps these kids really believed what they were saying but I didn't. Reform is excellent, and so are good intentions and positive attitude. So is love. But not at the price of rote conformity. What was Strate's program? What was happening to these kids behind the scene, to make them speak out in public apology like this?
I remembered something a friend had told me in confidence about a mental hospital where he worked as an aide. "Most of the patients are okay," he said. "They don't want trouble. They have their hang-ups, that's why they're here, but we know about these. Some are incontinent—real mess to clean up that shit! Some have amnesia, some do screwy things like masturbating in the open every hour. But they aren't ornery. A few are real troublemakers, though. Nobody can handle 'em. So we send 'em down to Wing IV. I don't know what happens to 'em there, but when they come back in a few days, they're like lambs. No trouble at all, any more. Not for a long time. 'Course, some never make it back..."