Margaret Lawrence Brown was rushed to the nearest hospital. She was still alive, but only barely.
Her loyal followers gathered in tight, silent groups. Only those closest to her were allowed inside the hospital, where they waited with as much hope as they could muster. There were no tears; Margaret would have hated that.
Cass Long and Rio Java stood together near the door of the emergency room. A doctor had just announced they were doing a blood transfusion.
Cass was Margaret’s personal assistant and confidante. They had met in college and been best friends ever since. Cass was a short, untidy-looking woman, with cropped brown hair and a cheerful disposition. Right now her regular features were frozen in shock.
Rio Java—Margaret’s most famous supporter, one of her closest friends, and also a staunch and founding member of F.W.N.—was a far more glamorous figure. Undisputed queen of the underground movies, she was a notorious public personality, fashion freak, mother of four children of various colors, and quite outrageous. Over six feet tall, she was starvation-thin, with a long, dramatic face, shaved eyebrows, and exotic makeup. Part Cherokee Indian and part Louisiana hillbilly, she lived her life exactly as she pleased.
‘Where’s Dukey?’ she asked, groping for a cigarette in her oversized purse.
‘He’s on his way,’ Cass replied. ‘And I reached Lara. She’s flying in.’
They watched silently as more doctors appeared and hurried into the emergency room.
‘Can I at least see her?’ Cass pleaded, catching one doctor as he emerged.
‘Are you a relative?’ he asked sympathetically, noting her blood-soaked dress. She had cradled Margaret’s head on her lap until the ambulance arrived and then traveled to the hospital with her.
‘Yes,’ Cass lied.
The doctor drew her aside. ‘It’s not a pretty sight,’ he warned.
She bit her lip. ‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘I brought her in.’
The doctor felt sorry for her. ‘Well, I suppose if you’re a relative,’ he said. ‘It’s against regulations, but—all right, come with me.’
Rio nodded at Cass to go ahead, and she followed the doctor into the emergency room.
A team of professionals were doing everything they could. Two catheters were allowing the first pint of blood to be transfused. A tube was at Margaret’s nose. A doctor worked at massaging her heart.
Cass felt sick. ‘There’s not much hope, is there?’ she asked, choking back tears.
Grimly the doctor shook his head and led her quietly out.
Rio looked at her. They didn’t need words, they both knew.
‘Who did it?’ Cass demanded, rubbing her eyes. She had been asking the same question ever since the fateful moment in the park when Margaret fell. Margaret had so many enemies; a lot of people hated her because of the causes she fought for. And because she led her life exactly as she pleased, and didn’t give a damn about criticism or gossip. The man she was currently living with was Dukey K. Williams, a black soul singer with a dubious past. Cass didn’t like him. She felt he was using Margaret to get publicity for his sagging career.
Rio dragged deeply on her cigarette. ‘Listen—it’s no secret Margaret made enemies. It comes with the territory. She knew it.’
‘I kept on warning her,’ Cass replied mournfully. ‘She never listened. Margaret never thought anything through, she just went for it.’
‘Ah, yes,’ Rio replied. ‘But that’s what makes her so special, isn’t it?’
‘I guess,’ Cass said, thinking about all the hate mail Margaret received. ‘Nigger Lover,’ ‘Commie Bitch,’ and the like. There were also threats to kill her. ‘Lawrence Brown. I saw you on “The Tonight Show.” I hate you. I hope you drop dead. I might kill you myself.’
These letters were almost a daily occurrence, so mundane as to be casually deposited in the lunatic file and forgotten.
The ones that always worried Cass were the telephone threats. Muffled voices warning Margaret to leave certain causes alone. Recently it had been the matter of the prostitutes. So many had been following Margaret, that suddenly the pimps, the madams, and the hoods that controlled it all were getting worried. A dearth of prostitutes—it was becoming an impossible situation, and each time Margaret held one of her open-air rallies, hundreds more vanished overnight, spurred on by the fact that F.W.N. offered them more than words; it offered them a chance of starting afresh. The organization arranged jobs, living accommodations, even money if the need was urgent.
There had been many threats for Margaret to drop the ‘Great Hooker Revolution,’ as New Month magazine called it. They had recently featured her on their cover with a six-page story inside. But Margaret had no intention of dropping anything. Margaret Lawrence Brown was fearless when it came to her causes.
* * *
Dukey K. Williams rushed to the hospital from a recording session. There was a struggle to get inside—the place was swarming with police, press, and television crews.
Dukey, accompanied by his manager and P. R. man, refused any comment as he pushed his way through the mob. At the elevator he was stopped by a security guard who refused to allow him to board.
‘Jesus Christ!’ Dukey screamed his frustration. ‘Get this lowlife outta my way before I fuckin’ cream him.’
The guard glared, his hand twitching nervously near his gun.
‘Calm down, Dukey.’ His manager tried to defuse the situation. ‘They’re only protecting Margaret. Cass must be up there.’
Cass was sent for, and the guard allowed Dukey and his entourage through.
‘Jesus Christ! How did it happen?’ Dukey demanded. ‘Have they caught the son of a bitch who did it? Will she make it? What the fuck is goin’ on?’
Sadly Cass shook her head. ‘They don’t seem to know,’ she replied quietly. ‘It doesn’t look good.’
Rio was at the elevator to meet them. ‘Forget it,’ she said in a flat, toneless voice. ‘Margaret just died.’