“Must be the tribal outfit.”
“I’m sure there’s a connection. And regarding your appearance, what do you say we have Paddy—Sergeant Lafferty—drive us to a small restaurant I often frequent when I don’t care to run into inquisitive acquaintances.”
“Hold it, Commander Pinkus. What about Sam here? He’s had a rough day in the field and an army travels on its stomach, you know.”
“Our young friend is extremely adept where room service is concerned, General. His expense vouchers confirm his expertise.… However, at the moment he appears impervious to hunger.”
Mouth gaping and eyes wide, Devereaux leaned forward over the initial pages of the brief, a pencil gripped in his hand, poised over a yellow legal pad. He dropped the pencil, and as it clattered on the desk, he whispered, “None of us will survive. They can’t afford to let us live.”
• • •
Over three thousand miles due west and slightly north of Boston, Massachusetts, is the venerable city of San Francisco, California, and it is no surprise to learn that statistics indicate that the majority of East Coast migrants to the Bay City are former residents of Boston. Some demographers claim it is the glorious harbor, so reminiscent of the home of the Tall Ships, that has drawn these refugees from New England; others say it is the highly charged academic atmosphere represented by the numerous university campuses and the proliferation of debate-prone cafés indigenous to the Massachusetts capital; still others insist the magnet lies in the progressive and often obsessive tolerance of differing life-styles that appeals to the contrariness of the Boston mentality, for with what delightful frequency have the voters of Boston gone against the national tide? Regardless—or perhaps, via the dicta of numerous television and radio talk-show hosts, one should say irregardless—this statistic has little to do with our story except that the individual we are about to meet, as one Samuel Lansing Devereaux, was a graduate of the Harvard Law School.
Actually, she might have met Devereaux, a number of years ago, as the firm of Aaron Pinkus Associates was intensely interested in her and actively sought her interest in them. Fortunately or unfortunately, she sought other environs, as she was thoroughly fed up with her status as a member of a minority that basically bewildered the Boston professionals and academic poseurs alike. She was neither black nor Jewish, neither Oriental nor Hispanic, had neither roots in the Mediterranean nor forebears in lands of the Bengal or the Arabian Sea—and these presumably comprised the legitimate minorities within Boston’s American melting pot. There were no clubs, no societies, no panels founded to espouse the cause of her particular minority because … well, nobody actually thought about them as a group concerned with upward mobility, which was, of course, the key to public expression. They were just there, doing their thing, whatever it was.
She was an American Indian.
Her name was Jennifer Redwing, the “Jennifer” having supplanted “Sunrise,” which, according to her uncle, Chief Eagle Eyes, was given to her as she emerged from her mother’s womb with the first rays of the morning sun at Omaha’s Midlands Community Hospital. During her formative years, it became apparent that she, and then later her younger brother, were among the Wopotami tribe’s more gifted offspring, so the Council of Elders raised the necessary funds to ensure educational opportunities. And once she had taken advantage of those gifts to the fullest extent of her talents, she could not wait to head back west—as far west as possible—to where people did not expect Indians to wear saris and have little red dots on their foreheads.
However, her migration to San Francisco was more of an accident than a plan. She had returned to Omaha, passed the Nebraska bar, and was employed by a prestigious law firm when the accident happened. A client of the firm who was a noted wildlife photographer had been commissioned by National Geographic to roam a modern Indian reservation and do a photographic essay on its contemporary fauna. His pictures would be juxtaposed with prints of the past, the obvious point being to show the decimation of the life-sustaining animal kingdom once known by the country’s original inhabitants. The photographer was a seasoned if somewhat libidinous professional, and he knew a downer assignment when it was presented to him; who the hell wanted to look at a dying world of wildlife next to romanticized etchings of fertile plains and forests, a hunter’s paradise? On the other hand, perhaps with a little imagination, things could be turned around—say with an authentic Indian guide in all the pictures … say with a zaftig female guide in various casual shots, bending this way and that.… say with “Red” Redwing, that stunner of a lawyer who had the office next to his own attorney, and for whom the photographer had a definite letch.
“Say, Red,” began the lensman one morning, poking his head into the lady-lawyer’s office and using the nickname her coworkers used, derived naturally from her surname and not her shining dark hair. “How’d you like to pick up a couple of hundred bucks?”
“If you’re suggesting what I think, I suggest you go down to Doogies,” was the ice-cold reply.
“Hey, momma, you’ve got me wrong.”
“Not from the circumstantial hearsay that abounds around this office.”
“On my honor—”
“Strike one.”
“No, honest, it’s a legit assignment from the Geographic.”
“They show naked Africans but I don’t recall seeing any naked white women, and I’ve had regular medical and dental checkups, so I’m familiar with the publication.”
“You’re off-base, lady. I’m merely looking for a pictorial guide in an essay that zeros in on some pretty rough circumstances about reservations. A Harvard-trained lawyer who just happens to be a member of an Indian tribe could make the difference between attention being paid and flipping over the pages.”
“Oh?”
So the shoot was done, and despite the fact that Red Redwing was an extremely promising young attorney, she was also extremely naïve in the world of professional photography. In her fervent desire to help her people, she acceded to the photographer’s selection of clothes, refusing only to pose in a bikini while holding up a dwarfed river trout, and not thinking to get initialed approval of the photographs aimed for publication. There was one other “only”: she caught the lensman snapping pictures of her bending over the carcass of an electrocuted squirrel, a photograph that surely would show more of her generous breasts beneath the loose peasant’s blouse than a proper attorney should permit, and threw a hefty punch into the man’s mouth. What followed unnerved her to the point that she declared the session over. Lips bleeding, the photographer fell to his knees screaming. “It’s over, babe, but please, please do that again!”
The article appeared, and the subscription department of National Geographic was swamped with a burst of new activity. It also came under the scrutiny of one Daniel Springtree, a part-Navajo senior partner of Springtree, Basl and Karpas, a law firm to be reckoned with in San Francisco. He placed a call to Jennifer “Red” Redwing in Omaha and pleaded his case, a case based on his guilt at not having done enough for his father’s side of the family. The firm’s Rockwell jet was sent to Omaha to bring Redwing to San Francisco for an interview, and the moment Red saw that Springtree was seventy-four years old and still in love with his wife of fifty years, she knew it was time to leave Nebraska. The firm in Omaha was distraught but powerless; since the appearance of the National Geographic article, its client list had tripled.
On this particular morning, junior partner Redwing of Springtree, Basl and Karpas, soon many believed to become Basl, Karpas and Redwing, had legal matters on her mind light-years away from tribal concerns. That was until her intercom buzzed and her secretary announced, “Your brother’s on the line.”
“Charlie?”
“That’s who. He says it’s urgent, and I believe him. He didn’t even take the time to tell me that he knew I was beautiful by the sound of my voice.”
“Good Lord, I haven’t heard from him in weeks—”
“Months, Miss Red. I
like his calls. Level with me, boss. Is he as handsome as you are gorgeous? I mean, is it a family thing?”
“Take an extra half-hour for lunch and let me talk to my brother.” Redwing touched the lighted button on the telephone line. “Charlie, darling, how are you? I haven’t heard from you in … in months.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“The clerking? How’s it going?”
“It’s over. Finished.”
“That’s good.”
“Actually, I’ve been spending some time in Washington.”
“That’s even better,” exclaimed the sister.
“No, it’s not. It’s worse—the worst.”
“Why, Charlie? A good D.C. firm would be terrific for you.… I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but you’ll find out in a day or so. I had a call from an old friend on the Nebraska bar and you not only passed the exam, little Brother, you were in the highest percentile! How about that, you genius you?”
“It doesn’t matter, Sis, nothing matters anymore. When I said it was over and finished, I meant me and all thoughts I ever had of a legal career. I’m destroyed.”
“What are you talking about?… Oh, is it money?”
“No.”
“A girl?”
“No, a guy. A man.”
“Charlie, I never even suspected!”
“Oh, for God’s sake, not that.”
“Then what?”
“We’d better have lunch, Sis.”
“In Washington?”
“No, here. I’m downstairs in the lobby. I didn’t want to come up—the less you have to do with me in public, the better it is for you.… I’ll get to Hawaii first, then work on the ships and maybe reach American Samoa, where, with any luck, they don’t get much news—”
“You stay right where you are, feather head! Big Sister’s on her way down and I might just beat the crap out of you!”
A stunned Jennifer Redwing stared at her brother across the table; she was speechless, so Charlie struggled to break the silence. “Nice weather you have in San Francisco.”
“It’s pouring, you idiot.… Charlie, why didn’t you call me before you got mixed up with this lunatic?”
“I thought about it, Jenny, honest, but I know how busy you are, and in the beginning it seemed like one big joke and we were all having a lot of fun and the joker was spending money and no one was getting hurt—a little broiled now and then but not hurt—then all of a sudden it wasn’t a joke any more and I was in Washington.”
“A litigant before the Supreme Court under false representation, that’s all!” interrupted the older sister.
“It was only for show, Jenny, I didn’t actually do anything … except meet two of the justices—on a very informal basis.”
“You met with—”
“Very casually, Sis, they’d never remember me.”
“How and why not?”
“Hawkins told me to hang around the lobby every once in a while in a tribal jacket and buckskins—I tell you, I felt like a goddamned fool—and one day the big black judge came out and shook my hand and said, ‘I know where you’re coming from, young man,’ and a week later the Italian fellow met me in a hallway and put his arm around my shoulder and said kind of sadly, Those of us who came from across the sea were frequently treated no better than you.’ ”
“Oh my God …!” mumbled Red Redwing.
“It was very crowded, Sis,” added the brother quickly. “Lots of tourists and lawyers—whole crowds.”
“Charlie, I’m an experienced attorney; I’ve argued before the Court, you know that! Why didn’t you pick up a phone and call me?”
“I guess part of the reason was that I knew you’d get all upset and ream me out, but the real reason was that I figured I could talk Mac the Clown out of the whole mess. I explained to him that it was a lost cause because of my situation, which would annihilate any conceivable leanings in the brief’s favor, a prospect as improbable as my entering a rodeo. My idea was to immediately file a writ of default based on subsequent discoveries, wiping the slate clean.… I learned this much while wandering those hallowed halls like Minnie Ha Ha’s brain-damaged kid. They’ll drop a case quicker than Uncle Eagle Eyes can belt down a shot on the slightest pretext.”
“What did this Hawkins say to your suggestion?”
“That’s the problem, I never got a chance to spell it out in full. He wouldn’t listen; he only shouted, and when he finally gave me my clothes back, the clothes you sent me the money for while clerking—”
“Your clothes?”
“It’s another story. Anyway, I was so grateful to get ’em and so pissed off, I just ran. Again, I figured I’d call him later, like in the morning and try to reason with him.”
“Did you?”
“He was gone. Split. Johnny Calfnose—you remember Johnny …?”
“He still owes me bail money.”
“Well, Johnny was sort of Mac’s special adjutant for security matters, and he told me that Hawkins left for Boston but made it clear that if there were any calls or mail from Washington, Johnny was to reach him immediately at a number in Weston, Massachusetts—that’s outside of Boston.”
“I know where it is. I spent a few years in Cambridge, remember? So did you call him?”
“I tried to. Four times, in fact, and each time all I got were minor variations of the same woman’s hysterical scream along with incoherent accusations that I think somehow concerned the Pope or a Pope.”
“That’s not unusual. Boston’s predominantly Catholic, and in times of stress its communicants seek solace from their Church. Wasn’t there anything else?”
“No. After the last call, whenever I tried again, all I got was a busy signal, which I took to mean that crazy lady took the phone off the hook.”
“It also means that Hawkins is in Boston.… Do you have the number?”
“I know it by heart.” He recited it and sighed. “I’m sunk.”
“Not yet, Charlie,” said Jennifer, glaring at her sibling. “I have a not-so-minor vested interest in your predicament. I am your sister and I am an attorney, and regardless of what the law states, there’s a hell of a lot of guilt by association in this business. Also, you’re a pretty nice kid and, God help me, I love you.” She signaled a waiter, who came over immediately. “Bring me a phone, will you please, Mario?”
“Certainly, Miss Redwing. I’ll get the one from the next booth.”
“You won’t see me again for years,” her brother began. “Once I get to Honolulu or Fiji, I’ll find work on the ships and—”
“Oh, shut up, Charlie,” Jennifer said as Mario plugged in the telephone and handed it to her. She dialed, and seconds later spoke. “Peggy, it’s me, and you can have two hours for lunch if you’ll take care of a couple of things for me. First, find out the name and address of the person who has this phone; it’s in Weston, Massachusetts.” She recited the number as Charlie wrote it out on a napkin. “Then book me on a late afternoon flight to Boston—yes, I said Boston, and no, I won’t be in tomorrow, and to anticipate your next question, I will not send my brother in to take my place, because you’d corrupt him.… Oh, and Peg, get me a hotel reservation. Try the Four Seasons, I think it’s on Boylston Street—we had our Law Review party there.”
“Jenny, what are you doing?” cried Charlie Redwing as his sister hung up the phone.
“I think it’s pretty obvious. I’m flying to Boston and you’re not going anywhere but to my apartment, where you will behave and stay by the telephone. Your only other option is for me to have you arrested for fraud and nonpayment of outstanding debts—or possibly I could call up a close friend and client to watch over you. Frankly, I think jail’s preferable; my friend plays offensive guard for the Forty-niners.”
“I refuse to dignify terrorist threats, and I repeat: What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going to find this lunatic Hawkins and stop him. Oh, not just for you, Charlie, and parenthetically for
me, but for our people.”
“I know. We’d be the laughingstock of the reservations. I told Mac that.”
“Far worse, little Brother, far worse. Everything you’ve told me boils down to one irreducible catastrophe. Offutt Air Force Base, the global headquarters of the Strategic Air Command, which is smack-dab in the center of this lunatic general’s grand design. No matter how insane it sounds and unquestionably is, do you think those goliaths in Washington will sit still for a minute at even the hint of any interference with SAC?”
“What can they do except laugh it out of court or pay no attention at all and fry me on the side for false representation? I mean, what can they do?”
“Make new laws, Charlie, laws effectively destroying the tribe. They could start by condemning the land we do have and dispersing the inhabitants thereon. Hell, it’s been done for highways—even country roads and backwater bridges by politicians owing a few debts. What are they compared with SAC’s limitless payrolls?”
“Disperse …?” Charlie asked softly.
“Sending our people hither and yon to ratty houses and dinky apartments as far away from one another as possible,” replied Jennifer, nodding. “What we—or they—have now is no Garden of Eden, but it’s theirs. Many of them have lived there all their lives and most of those lives span seventy and eighty years. They’re the human stories behind the cold government statistics that supposedly justify national interests.”
“Could Washington do that?”
“At the blink of an eye on a campaign contribution; it’s legend. Country roads and backwater bridges are only a spit in the taxpayers’ ocean, but the government’s largesse where SAC’s concerned is Lake Superior.”