Hush Money

“Robinson is a decent man, but he… he has no place on a university faculty. He is not… how to say this… he is not consistent with the current best thinking on racial matters.”

“How is he at teaching English?” I said.

“That’s a fallacy. A university faculty is not simply about teaching, it is about creating and passing on culture. The university is a place where the best minds must be allowed freedom to contemplate the most basic human issues. A university faculty is the progenitor and propagator of culture.”

I was certainly glad I had said “by whom” a while ago.

“Would you say Robinson is out of step with current racial thinking in the sense that he does not see it as genocidal to teach dead white men in his classes?”

“That’s part of it, though of course you would put it in a way that makes it sound puerile.”

“So you felt obligated to lie about him to the tenure committee because he was not the right kind of black guy,” I said.

“Again you have demeaned my point,” she said.

“Someone ought to,” I said. “I’m glad I could be the one.”

“I did what I thought best in the larger context.”

“Let me get one thing clear,” I said. “This bastion of civility you’ve been speaking of, is Amir Abdullah a tenured member of it?”

“Yes.”

“I refute it thus,” I said.

She came out of her abstraction trance enough to look puzzled.

“Is that a quote?” she said.

I couldn’t stand her anymore. I stood.

“Samuel Johnson,” I said. “Look it up.”

I left.

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Unless I am under actual attack, I always read the paper in the morning while I drink coffee. If I’m away I read whatever morning paper is local. When I’m home I read the Boston Globe. So when Henry dropped off the literature from Last Stand Systems on his way to work on Tuesday morning, I put it aside until I had drunk my third cup of coffee and finished the comic section. Then I folded the paper back up and put it aside in case I wanted to consult it later. Sometimes “Doonesbury” was too hard for me the first time through and I had to reread it later.

The stuff from Last Stand Systems was obviously computer-generated, though it was pretty professional- looking with colors and right-justified margins and typefaces that someone had thought about. It was also dreck. The centerpiece of their promotional literature was a newsletter titled Alert! which warned against the encroaching mongrelization of the white race, the feminization of the American male, the homosexual assault on marriage, the debasement of American Christianity, and the arrival of the Antichrist. There was a thoughtful discussion, complete with footnotes and bibliography, of a secret plot which festered deep within the power centers of the federal government, abetted by Zionism, whereby this country would be handed over to the One Worlders at the UN. The author signed himself Octavio Smith, Ph.D. The writing was grammatical and wooden.

I put Alert! down and picked up the other stuff. There was a letter from the CEO, Milo Quant, explaining that Last Stand’s mission was to restore the America our fathers had founded. There was also an application for membership, and a calendar of upcoming Last Stand events. I filed the application which required a $100 fee and looked at the calendar. It was mostly a list of Quant’s public appearances. The closest one was at the state college in Fitchburg, Mass., Friday night, sponsored by a student group. A don’t-miss opportunity.

Last Stand Systems, Inc., seemed the most unlikely organization to be flying a black homosexual radical activist named Amir Abdullah up to Maine for the weekend. But they had, and there was no plausible explanation that I was able to come up with. It was also possible that they had sent out a squad of well-scrubbed shooters to chase us away from him. Again I couldn’t think why. Maybe they were using him as a recruiting ploy. Enough exposure to Amir Abdullah would make anyone a racist homophobe.

My office door opened. It was Susan. She had a small bag of Key lime cookies she’d bought somewhere and wanted to share them with me over coffee. Sharing meant Susan ate most of one cookie, and I ate all the rest in about the same amount of time. I had no problem with that.

“There’s a fund-raiser at the ART Friday night,” Susan said. “I’d like us to go.”

She had put the cookies out on a little paper plate and was making coffee.

“Oh darn,” I said. “I have to drive out to Fitchburg State and listen to a speech by a racist homophobe.”

“Well,” Susan said, “I couldn’t ask you to give that up. Decaf all right?”

“Sure,” I said. “Want to can the ART and go with me?”

I watched her as she spooned the coffee into the filter. She always made it too weak.

“Yes,” she said, “but I can’t. I’m on the board, you know. I just hate to go alone.”

“Bring Hawk,” I said. “He’s got a good sense of humor.”

“Oh my,” Susan said.

We were silent for a moment, both of us thinking about Hawk at the fund-raiser.