"No. It's what the Democrats call the Republican way."
"Darn. You're right. I'm still thinking like a Democrat. I gotta cure these tendencies." Barry Black closed his eyes. "Ommmmm. Ommmmm.''
"You okay, Barry?"
"I'm meditating on Republicanism."
"Let me know if you see Lincoln," sighed his campaign manager.
Barry Black still hadn't arrived at a response to the Esperanza challenge when his limo pulled up before the storefront campaign headquarters.
He got out of the car, adjusting his Republican tie. He straightened his Republican coat and, his Republican shoes clicking on the sidewalk confidently, strode to the door.
Came a screeching of tires around a corner. Barry Black turned instinctively. He saw an unusual sight, even for San Francisco.
A wide red convertible screeched around the corner. There was a brown-skinned man behind the wheel.
Squatting in the open backseat, like a machine-gunner in the rear of a jeep, was another brown-skinned man hanging off a fifty-caliber machine gun, which swayed on a pedestal mount.
The convertible straightened. The man at the machine gun got the perforated barrel pointed where he wanted it to point.
He wanted it to point in the general direction of Barry Black, Junior. Then he wanted it to open fire on Barry Black, Junior, because with a percussive stutter, it did.
Fifty-caliber bullets recognize few obstacles. These chopped through the campaign car, chewed up a fire plug, and reduced the Barry Black for Governor campaign headquarters to a ruin of chipped brick, broken glass, and shattered, bleeding bodies.
The convertible zoomed past, leaving Barry Black, Junior spread-eagled on the sidewalk.
The candidate for governor lay face-up, eyes staring skyward, in a welter of plate glass.
After the sound of the convertible's roar had died away in the distance, Barry Black's lips quirked. His eyes seemed to acquire focus.
Then a low, mournful sound escaped his lips.
"Ommm! Ommm! Ommm!"
Chapter 17
Cheeta Ching was the first news person to arrive on the scene of what the next day's San Francisco Examiner would call "The Nob Hill Massacre."
The police had cordoned off the block. They no sooner had their yellow-plastic guard tape up than the FBI counterterrorist team descended on the scene and tore it all down. They made the police stand off to one side, handling reduced to crowd control.
They were putting up their own guard tape when Cheeta Ching swooped in, like a harpy on wheels.
"I'm Cheeta Ching!" she called, dragging her cameraman by his collar.
She was pointedly ignored.
"I said, I'm Cheeta Ching, you racists!"
"Stay behind the lines, ma'am," an FBI agent cautioned.
"Where's the candidate? I demand to see the candidate."
A hand was raised. It was attached to a long, lean body that lay just outside the guard tape. Cheeta rushed up to the man.
"You have a statement?"
The hand formed a finger. It wobbled unsteadily.
A low moan escaped his lips.
"He's trying to communicate!" Cheeta said breathlessly. "He's trying to point out the candidate for us. Keep trying, you brave person."
"Cheeta . . ." the cameraman said.
"Quiet! I can't hear his moans!"
"Cheeta . . ."
"What!"
"I think that is the candidate."
"Oh my God!" Cheeta said, dropping to her knees.
"Are you hurt? Where are you hurt? America wants to see your wounds!"
"Not . . . hurt . . ." moaned Barry Black, Junior.
Cheeta leaped to her feet. "Then you can wait. I need some wet footage. Somebody find me a bleeding casualty."
They were still carrying out bodies from the demolished campaign headquarters.
Cheeta turned on her cameraman. "You get in there and get some 'If it bleeds, it leads' footage."
"Anyone stepping over the guard tape," a cold voice called, "will be arrested!"
The cameraman looked from the FBI agent to the cold face of Cheeta Ching. Calmly, he stepped over the guard tape, laid down his minicam, and lifted his hands in surrender.
An FBI agent stormed up. "What did I tell you?"
"I work with Cheeta Ching. What's the worst you're going to do to me?"
"I see your point," the agent said. He waved for a cop, saying, "Place this man in protective custody. For his own good."
As he was being led away in handcuffs, the cameraman said sheepishly to Cheeta Ching in passing, "I tried."