Lamar Creed felt weary. Not the kind of weary his great-grandparents had felt as sharecroppers in Atlanta, nor even the sort of weary his grandparents had felt as teachers of a burgeoning post-World War II population in Harlem. Still, he knew that if he allowed it, his mind would wander, and he would drift into a deep, if troubled, slumber. He could not afford to sleep. Not yet anyway.
The dazzling screens in front of him blazed with the day’s crazy. The white folk who had come to protest had nearly broken through, into the lobby. Had they succeeded, they would have stormed up to the 27th floor where Lamar and his assistant Florida Lopez-Sanchez were camped, and...Lynched them? Arrested them? Nailed them to a cross? It was just a matter of time, he supposed.
Lamar started at the shrill of the ringing telephone.
“Corrigan, line 1,” Florida called through the speaker system that connected the outer lounge to his corner office. The walls on this floor were paper thin; had she murmured the words to herself, he likely would have heard them. He knew that she would mull over every word of his conversation with the city’s chief executive, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Deputy Mayor Corrigan ” Larmar cooed, betraying none of the exhaustion he felt.
“Listen Lamar, this shit is getting outta hand. And, that’s Mayor Corrigan now, thanks to you.”
Her rich contra-alto on the line was deliciously sonorous even as she spannt barbs.
“Corrigan, darling, I’ll call you Empress if that’s what you want. Come now, I’m much too busy doing nothing, at present, and I won’t be scammed into working a second without just compensation. Do get to the point.”
“Oh, you’ve got the whole fucking world wasting time, Lamar, but I KNOW you. This game you’re playing----it’s going to get you killed. Your little gang militia which, I might add is illegal on an egregious scale, almost started some shit today and---”
“ First of all my dearest mayor,” Lamar politely interjected, “the people on the sidewalk in front of my building are not in my employ---”
“Oh that’s shit Lamar, and you know----”
“And secondly,” the black tycoon pressed on, “it was your Klansmen that started that mess in the first place!”
“Klansmen? Lamar, don’t you know who your friends are? Those officers downstairs are all that's separating you from certain death at the hands of the fuckers who want to see you bloody over this shit. I’ve held them off long enough, out of friendship and for old times sake, but University was a long time ago, know what I mean? Now I’ve got the Governor and the President up my ass on this, so hear me and hear me good: end this tomorrow, or you will be arrested.”
“On what charge?”
“Inciting riot, illegal militia, fucking treason!”
“Not menace to society?”
The loquacious Mayor was suddenly silent on the line, her breaths coming in audible gasps of frustration.
“I'm warning you Lamar,” she said, her voice an unnatural steely monotone “Call off this strike. End your little military operation. Tell Harlem to stand down. You’ve got 24 hours.”
“Get to work niggers, or I’ll send the whip. Is that it?”
“24 for hours Lamar, I’m dead serious. And Grow up, for fuck’s sake.”
And the line went dead.
Lamar held the phone limp in his hand, and he took a deep breath. Almost against his will, his eyes closed, his exhaustion sinking him into a land of castle spires and lush greens.
University. The endless rah-rah, and the unassuming attitude of a place that was rich beyond one’s wildest imaginations. He and Sarah Corrigan had known each other since freshman week as hallmates in one of the Gothic residential colleges. They’d sung together in one of the coed a cappella groups, taken many an econ class together, and had both conspired to be investment bankers at the end of college. They had hooked up a few times too. The whole black-white-thing just didn’t work though, or at least, that’s what Lamar had said the second time they’d tried to make a relationship of it, out in the bushes behind one of the mansion party houses that the University waspishly calls “clubs.”
“Grow up, for fuck’s sake,” Corrigan had replied when he had ended it, her hazel eyes shimmering with resentful tears.
“LAMAR!”
Lamar Creed blinked several times, and saw the severe mien of Florida in front of him. Her intelligent eyes contrasted comically with her blonde weave, and penciled eyebrows. Her almost copper skin was pocked with black marks from years of scratching at pimples, and she fairly reeked of cheap perfume. Still, Lamar knew her value. She was a soldier.
“I asked, did she accept our demands? Will she agree to any of the terms?”
They both knew that she’d listened in on the call, but the propriety that governs the relationship between an executive and his secretary is one that ought to be upheld, even in end times.
“No Florida, she didn’t even mention them. All threats.”
“Well,” sniffed Florida, “It’s what we expected, right?”
With a grim smile, Lamar nodded.
The dazzling screens in front of him blazed with the day’s crazy. The white folk who had come to protest had nearly broken through, into the lobby. Had they succeeded, they would have stormed up to the 27th floor where Lamar and his assistant Florida Lopez-Sanchez were camped, and...Lynched them? Arrested them? Nailed them to a cross? It was just a matter of time, he supposed.
Lamar started at the shrill of the ringing telephone.
“Corrigan, line 1,” Florida called through the speaker system that connected the outer lounge to his corner office. The walls on this floor were paper thin; had she murmured the words to herself, he likely would have heard them. He knew that she would mull over every word of his conversation with the city’s chief executive, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Deputy Mayor Corrigan ” Larmar cooed, betraying none of the exhaustion he felt.
“Listen Lamar, this shit is getting outta hand. And, that’s Mayor Corrigan now, thanks to you.”
Her rich contra-alto on the line was deliciously sonorous even as she spannt barbs.
“Corrigan, darling, I’ll call you Empress if that’s what you want. Come now, I’m much too busy doing nothing, at present, and I won’t be scammed into working a second without just compensation. Do get to the point.”
“Oh, you’ve got the whole fucking world wasting time, Lamar, but I KNOW you. This game you’re playing----it’s going to get you killed. Your little gang militia which, I might add is illegal on an egregious scale, almost started some shit today and---”
“ First of all my dearest mayor,” Lamar politely interjected, “the people on the sidewalk in front of my building are not in my employ---”
“Oh that’s shit Lamar, and you know----”
“And secondly,” the black tycoon pressed on, “it was your Klansmen that started that mess in the first place!”
“Klansmen? Lamar, don’t you know who your friends are? Those officers downstairs are all that's separating you from certain death at the hands of the fuckers who want to see you bloody over this shit. I’ve held them off long enough, out of friendship and for old times sake, but University was a long time ago, know what I mean? Now I’ve got the Governor and the President up my ass on this, so hear me and hear me good: end this tomorrow, or you will be arrested.”
“On what charge?”
“Inciting riot, illegal militia, fucking treason!”
“Not menace to society?”
The loquacious Mayor was suddenly silent on the line, her breaths coming in audible gasps of frustration.
“I'm warning you Lamar,” she said, her voice an unnatural steely monotone “Call off this strike. End your little military operation. Tell Harlem to stand down. You’ve got 24 hours.”
“Get to work niggers, or I’ll send the whip. Is that it?”
“24 for hours Lamar, I’m dead serious. And Grow up, for fuck’s sake.”
And the line went dead.
Lamar held the phone limp in his hand, and he took a deep breath. Almost against his will, his eyes closed, his exhaustion sinking him into a land of castle spires and lush greens.
University. The endless rah-rah, and the unassuming attitude of a place that was rich beyond one’s wildest imaginations. He and Sarah Corrigan had known each other since freshman week as hallmates in one of the Gothic residential colleges. They’d sung together in one of the coed a cappella groups, taken many an econ class together, and had both conspired to be investment bankers at the end of college. They had hooked up a few times too. The whole black-white-thing just didn’t work though, or at least, that’s what Lamar had said the second time they’d tried to make a relationship of it, out in the bushes behind one of the mansion party houses that the University waspishly calls “clubs.”
“Grow up, for fuck’s sake,” Corrigan had replied when he had ended it, her hazel eyes shimmering with resentful tears.
“LAMAR!”
Lamar Creed blinked several times, and saw the severe mien of Florida in front of him. Her intelligent eyes contrasted comically with her blonde weave, and penciled eyebrows. Her almost copper skin was pocked with black marks from years of scratching at pimples, and she fairly reeked of cheap perfume. Still, Lamar knew her value. She was a soldier.
“I asked, did she accept our demands? Will she agree to any of the terms?”
They both knew that she’d listened in on the call, but the propriety that governs the relationship between an executive and his secretary is one that ought to be upheld, even in end times.
“No Florida, she didn’t even mention them. All threats.”
“Well,” sniffed Florida, “It’s what we expected, right?”
With a grim smile, Lamar nodded.
