Barney furrowed his brow in concentration.
"Can't say I know which black man you're talking about, ma'am," he said.
"You're a bigot, Mr. Daniels." Her eyes flashed. "You don't know anything about the freedom movement, and you don't care."
"I resent that," Barney said, rising. He eased his way toward the bar. "I care about freedom as much as anybody. There is nothing more important to me than freedom. At this very moment, in fact, the prospect of receiving a free drink from your bar is foremost in my mind."
"You get back here. Come back to this couch this second; or I'll order Malcolm to smash every bottle in the house."
"I'm coming, I'm coming." He sat down, his empty glass clutched in his hand.
"You are a backward, white liberal bigot who doesn't understand the freedom movement. So I will explain it to you."
"I was afraid of that," Barney mumbled.
"It's the great spirit rising from the newly emerged nations of Africa. It's written on the wind. The black man is pure. Untrammeled by white corruption, untouched by either communism or capitalism. He is the future."
Barney sensed movement in the tightly wrapped milk-colored stretch pants and the full blouse that tightened at the waist. "What's so pure about him?" he asked, managing to tear his gaze from the sight of the woman's full bouncing breasts.
"He never had a past. The white man robbed him of it."
"Certainly," Barney said, as though seeing for the first time in the light shed by this dizzy daffodil. Nevertheless, surrounding this ripe albino plant was green, green money, all watered by liquor. The black man was pure, yes indeedy. Barney couldn't argue with that. "He's like writing on a clean blackboard," Barney offered.
"Exactly," said the woman, flowering with sudden happiness. "He's been robbed, whipped, raped, castrated, and ciphered as a human being."
Barney nodded knowingly. "That'd make anyone pure," he said.
"Right. Perhaps I was wrong about you, Mr. Daniels. Perhaps you are interested in more than money."
"But of course," Barney said gallantly. "I never would have come here if I didn't believe I would be working for a good cause."
"Ah, wonderful. A man who wants more than money. Good. We're running short of funds now anyhow."
Barney started for the door.
"Stop," the woman called, wedging herself between Barney and the door before he could locate the white doorknob. "We have plenty of money. Millions," she yelled into his face.
"Millions?" Barney asked.
"Millions." She pulled him toward her. He attempted to fight his way free, but his left hand which was reaching for the door drew itself inexplicably around her waist instead. And his right hand somehow began playing brazenly with her jiggling breast and his lips were laboring above, working their independent way from her mouth down her neck to her erect pink nipples, and oh, goodness gracious, her pants were coming off.
"Take me upstairs and make love to me," she whispered hoarsely.
"Yes, yes," Barney obeyed, lifting her off the smooth carpeting and heading directly for the stairwell with only a small detour to the bar to pick up a bottle.
In the round white bed, Barney worked his hands over the woman's silky body. She teased his ear with her teeth.
"You will kill for me," she hissed, fired with passion.
"Yeah," Barney said.
She pulled him on top of her. "You'll spy for me."
"Yeah."
"You'll do anything I say." With agonizing slowness, she opened her legs to him.
"Yeah."
"Anything."
"You name it," Barney said, bringing her to full gallop.
"Anything," she moaned.
With intoxicating relief, Barney spent himself. "Well, almost anything, honey," he said, puffing. "Can't rush into things, you know."
She was mad, but not too mad. About as mad as a satisfied woman can get. "Roll over," she said, tweaking his cheek.
Barney did, and his eye fell on the bottle he had brought up with him. It was bourbon. What the hell, he thought. He would start cultivating a taste for the stuff. It was easier than trekking nude past Malcolm to retrieve the tequila.
"Forgot the glasses."
"Drink from the bottle. Give me a cigarette." She sat up in bed, her firm, sharp breasts peering out above the sheets. Barney handed her a pack of smokes.
He took a swig. It went down hot and good. It was fine bourbon. There was much to be said about the drink.
"How about me?" the woman asked. She extended her hand for the bottle.
Barney examined the hand. It had fine lines. It was a fine hand. If he had another bottle of bourbon, he certainly would have put it into that hand.
"Well, how about me?"
It was a good question. Barney took another swallow, a long one. She had a right as his bed partner to share in the bourbon. An inalienable right. She certainly had that right. And it was her bourbon. Barney swallowed again and moved her hand away.
She settled for a cigarette. They lay back contentedly, she smoking, Barney drinking, and she told him about the Afro-Muslim Brotherhood.
Her name was Gloria X and she was its leader although only a handful of people knew it. It was a secret society aimed at fomenting a sense of outrage among the black people, to make them angry enough to revolt against their white oppressors.
"Enough, enough," Barney said, waving away her prepared speech. "What is it you want me to do? Paint my face with shoe polish and join the Peaches of Mecca?"
"I want you to kill someone."
"Anyone special?"
"A prominent civil rights leader whose middle-of-the-road policy is holding back the cause of black nationalism and the freedom movement."
"How do you know I won't go racing off to the police with this information?"
"Because, Mr. Daniels." She smiled evilly.
"Because what?"
She stared directly into his eyes, her coldness reaching to the pit of Barney's stomach. "Because I know what happened in Puerta del Rey. That's an interesting scar you carry," she said, touching the "CIA" brand on his belly.
Barney turned toward her. He was about to speak. He was about to tell her that he himself did not remember what happened in Hispania that led him through the jungle and into the hut where he had been tied and cut and burned with the glowing poker, that he did not remember the thing buried deep in his brain, the event that caused him not to care when they cut him and beat him and branded him and yet kept him alive in spite of the torture.
He was going to tell her, but she cut him off. "So I know, Mr. Daniels, that you have no love for this government or its agencies or, for that matter, for white men."
So she didn't know. She didn't know any more than he did.
"And besides, Mr. Daniels," she continued, "if you refuse I will have you killed. Now hush up. The news is coming on."
Gloria X flipped a switch at the bed table and a transistorized television set on the opposite wall instantly lit up.
Barney sipped the bourbon, once again trying to remember Hispania but failing, as always. Something had happened there. Something.
The newscast reported on the usual goings on of the planet. A revolution in Chile, a flood in Missouri. A drought threatened in New Jersey, and a civil rights threat in New York.
Gloria X began to emit happy little squeals as the television flashed a picture of a fat black man. Daniels had seen him several times on TV in South
America. He was called a national civil rights leader. He spoke a lot, but was never shown with a following of more than forty persons, most of them white Episcopal ministers.
He was Calder Raisin, national director of the Union of Racial Justice, commonly called URGE, fat, pompous, invariably making wild inaccurate statements calculated to offend whites and at best amuse blacks who paid him no attention anyway.
The affected voice bellowed out of the TV set. "The Block Mon," Raisin shouted, "will not tolerate lily-white hospital staffs. At least one out of every five doctors must be black, in both public and private hospitals." It took Barney a while to understand that "Block Mon" meant "black man." Maybe Raisin's gulping adenoidal pronunciation was a new proof of high culture.