Cop Out Read Free Page B

and popped it in my mouth.
    “He’s got to have the fix in. The last thing a guy like Cyril wants is to make peace.” Howard’s voice was tight. He should have been lounging happily, still warmed by the afternoon among friends. I glanced over at him; his jaw was set firm, his tense gaze square on the TV screen.
    Bryant Hemming wasn’t precisely smiling but it looked as if he couldn’t keep completely at bay the satisfaction or maybe the triumph he felt. “This dispute seemed insoluble, right? But the wonderful thing with mediation is that there are no views so divergent they can’t be brought together. If the Israelis and the Palestinians can talk peace; if the Irish can sit down with the Brits”—the grin took control of his face—“then well-meaning people even here in Berkeley can come to agreement.”
    The camera panned the audience: tense street vendors sitting with their arms crossed tightly over their ribs and the black-shirted Angels poised to shoot from their chairs. If either group sent good wishes across the aisle, no glance revealed it. All eyes were straight ahead, all lips pressed hard together, all brows sullenly lined.
    The camera moved in close on Bryant Hemming as he lifted his head and smiled again at Kaetz and Cyril. “Ms. Kaetz, Brother Cyril, there are some things you have in common. You’re both concerned about the drug dealers in People’s Park right off Telegraph and the pernicious influence they have on the Avenue, right?”
    It was a moment before each nodded, Kaetz looking confused, Cyril suspicious. Drugs weren’t either of their main complaints. And they, no more than we, expected dealers to be swept off the Avenue for good.
    “And you both want your message, your product, as it were, to reach the shoppers on the Avenue, right?”
    This time the nods came more quickly.
    “So here’s what we’ll do. You’re familiar with Hyde Park Corner in London, their sacred ground of free speech. Why not have a Hyde Park Corner here in Berkeley? We have speakers in Sproul Plaza on campus, but no place set aside in the city itself. And Telegraph’s the primo place.”
    “Aw right!” Whistles and bass cheers from half the audience seemed to startle Hemming. Beside him Brother Cyril’s thin lips curled up into a disbelieving smile. Not much of Serenity Kaetz was on camera, but it was enough to show a fist clamping down hard.
    Hemming held up his hands. “Let me finish. Telegraph Avenue is primo but not perfect. Perfect is the corner of People’s Park, near enough to be seen on Telegraph, and with a speaker system every word can be piped out there.”
    “Hey! What the—” came from the audience.
    Brother Cyril’s thin smile vanished, his narrow features sucked in tightly, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as if desperate to plug the venom about to spew forth. His fingers squeezed into fists. He didn’t speak, and the only thing that revealed his fury was a slight, uncontrollable bobbing of his Adam’s apple. I felt I could see a hard black knot smoldering behind it; he would never be able to swallow without its blocking his windpipe.
    Hemming reached a hand toward the preacher’s shoulder, then seemed to reconsider. “And here’s the added good you’ll be doing, Brother. You’ll fill the park with righteous men, believers. You’ll create the kind of atmosphere drug dealers hate. Your message will be cleaning up People’s Park.”
    Serenity Kaetz’s expression turned to one of amazement.
    But Hemming didn’t see that. His eyes never left Cyril. Perhaps it took the brother a minute to realize how bad he would look refusing the deal. Or perhaps he spotted unintended possibilities in Bryant’s offer.
    “A fair deal, right, Brother Cyril?” Hemming’s voice fluttered.
    Cyril stood stone still for a moment before extending his hand to Serenity Kaetz. By the time she shook it, she was smiling. Cyril’s sucked-in expression never changed. The theme music rose, the camera moved in