Wicked Break

by Jeff Shelby

  The afternoon sun surfaced in the sky and beat down on my face, my skin tightening against the heat.

  “White is right,” I said.

  She turned to me, surprised. “Yes. That’s their slogan. So you have heard of them?”

  I had.

  Twenty-three

  I thanked Marie Pluto for her time after we exchanged phone numbers and she wrote me a check to retain my services. I told her I would keep her informed and headed off to find Wellton, my mind buzzing.

  Linc had put himself in a horrendously dangerous position. I’d already figured out that he was selling the skinheads’ guns to the gang members. I wondered about the extent of his involvement with National Nation, though. I had a hard time believing that someone devoted to purifying the white race would have any dealings with African-Americans, even if there was money involved. Just like everyone else, bigots had their limits.

  And above everything else, what would be worth putting yourself in such a dangerous spot?

  I found Wellton in his cramped office. I slid into the chair across from him.

  “Anything?” he asked, pushing back from the desk.

  “No,” I said. “But I need to come clean with something.”

  “Oh, shit,” Wellton said, rolling his eyes. “Here we go.”

  “There are guns in Linc Pluto’s apartment,” I said, knowing I couldn’t keep it from him any longer. “I didn’t tell you at first because I didn’t think it was related to Rachel’s shooting.”

  “‘Didn’t think’ is the key phrase there,” Wellton said, irritated.

  “Whatever. I’m still not sure it’s tied to Rachel. But I think they are tied to Linc’s disappearing act and Peter’s death not to mention the beating I took.”

  Wellton gritted his teeth. “Why in the fuck would you not tell me that before?”

  “When Peter came to me, he knew Linc was in trouble. He was trying to find his brother and keep him from making a mistake. I was doing as my client asked,” I said. “And like I said, I’m still not sure it’s relevant to the shooting at the apartments.”

  “Would’ve been nice to know there was a room full of guns next door to the vic’s apartment,” Wellton grumbled.

  “Hey. There could be guns on the other side of that apartment, too. You saw the place.”

  Wellton stared at me. “Are the guns still there?”

  “Should be.”

  Wellton exhaled and it sounded like a hiss. “Dazzle me with why you think the guns are tied to Pluto’s death.”

  I laid out Linc’s involvement with both groups and what Mike Berkley and Marie Pluto told me about his involvement with National Nation.

  He tapped his finger on his chin. “I hate to say it, but that makes sense. Of course, if I’d known what you knew when you knew it, I might’ve put that together, too.”

  I didn’t say anything.

  Wellton leaned back in his chair and brought his feet up on his desk. “Okay. Let’s say you’re right. He’s a member of this group and he’s dealing guns to the bangers.”

  “I don’t see anything else that fits.”

  “You think either side knew what he was doing?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t see how. No way skinheads would be cool doing business with a black gang, and I’m pretty sure the gang would feel the same way.”

  “So he was freelancing.”

  “Have to think so. I just don’t get why.”

  “Pretty dangerous work,” Wellton said, rubbing his chin. “And pretty fucking stupid. Either side finds out, he’s a corpse in a hurry.”

  “Maybe one side found out,” I said.

  “Maybe.”

  We sat there in silence.

  Wellton pulled his feet off the desk. “You gonna keep chasing this kid?”

  “I told the aunt I would,” I said.

  “Plus you got a little score to settle,” he said.

  “Maybe.”

  “Maybe my ass.” He looked at me. “You know much about hate groups?”

  “Not really. Just what I’ve read.”

  He grabbed a Rolodex from the corner of his desk and thumbed through it. “Sick fuckers. Poorly organized, but funded enough to keep doing their thing.”

  “They have big numbers here in San Diego?” I asked.

  “Fair amount,” he said, flipping through his Rolodex. “Not as much as some cities, but enough to make trouble.” He copied something off the card onto a notepad, then stared at the piece of paper. “Can’t believe I’m about to ask this.”

  I stayed silent, not wanting to ruin the moment.

  “If you’re gonna keep looking, I could use your help.” He spoke deliberately, as if he weren’t sure of the words. He gestured at a two-foot-high stack of folders on the desk. “I’m buried here. And I got no end in sight. If you wanna share what you get, I’ll do the same.”

  “You want me to get involved?” I asked.

  “You already are.”

  “But I have your permission to poke around and stir things up?”

  “Just around this Linc kid,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Share what you find. Like, say, an apartment full of guns. You find shit like that, I wanna know.”

  “You wanna deputize me, make it official? Maybe we could hug or something?”

  “I am not the cure for your jungle fever.” He tore the sheet from the pad and handed it to me. “Talk to this guy.”

  The name Gerald Famazio and a phone number were on the paper. “Who’s this?”

  “Professor at USD. Sociology, but he specializes in hate groups. He can probably give you a few names, let you know where to find some folks.”

  I nodded and stood. I folded the slip of paper and dropped it in my pocket. “Liz in her office?”

  He grunted. “No clue, loverboy. Go look for yourself.” Then he grinned. “Or you want me to give her a note or something? See if she wants to meet you out behind the gym? Then I can come back and tell you and we can huddle together and figure out what to do next.” He clapped his hands together. “It’ll be fun. All sixth grade and shit.”

  “When you were in sixth grade, were you big enough to sit in your own desk?” I asked. “Or did you have to sit on someone’s lap?”

  “Get out,” he said, the smile disappearing from his face.

  I left and walked down the hall toward Liz’s office. I heard voices coming through her doorway, hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the office.

  Liz was leaning back in her chair, arms folded across her chest, laughing easily. Her hair was pulled back away from her face. Bright red blouse, silver bracelets on each wrist matching the big silver hoops in her ears.

  Across the desk from her, Mike Berkley was laughing, too.

  She looked up at me, surprised. “Hey.”

  Mike turned toward me. He wore an expensive-looking navy suit, light blue collared shirt, and yellow tie. “Noah. What’s going on?”

  Dumb fucking luck.

  “Didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, trying to keep the tension that was running up my spine out of my voice.

  “You’re not,” Liz said quickly, shaking her head for emphasis. “Mike was just leaving.”

  He glanced at his watch and stood up. “I was, in fact. Hey, I read about Peter Pluto in the Union-Tribune. Did you find Linc yet?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Still working on it.”

  He shook his head. “I didn’t mean to get you involved in this crap. I’m really sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’m having the trust records pulled and some other paperwork put together for you,” he said. “Least I can do.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Okay,” he said, then faced Liz. “I’ll call you later.”

  “Fine,” Liz said, looking down at the desk.

  I stepped out of the doorway.

  Mike gave me a friendly punch in the arm as he passed. “I’ll call you when that stuff’s ready.”

  I thought
about punching him back, but was afraid I might knock him off his feet. “Yeah.”

  I watched him walk down the hall, then stepped back into her office.

  “He didn’t have to leave,” I said.

  “Don’t,” she said, pointing a finger at me. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  I leaned against the doorframe. “I didn’t realize when you said to call you, you meant call first so I wouldn’t walk in on you two.”

  “Fuck you, Noah. Seriously. Fuck you.” She shook her head, frowning, then just shrugged. “John told me about last night. Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Did you meet the aunt?”

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  “And I shared the conversation with Wellton.”

  She shifted her eyes away from me, her jaw tightening.

  I couldn’t help it. I had no real reason to be angry with her. Or Mike, for that matter. But I was, and I didn’t care anymore.

  Her eyes came back at me. “Why are you here? Did you just stop by to be a dick?”

  “No.”

  She stood up. “Then why the fuck are you being one?”

  “I didn’t know you two were so serious,” I said, ignoring the question.

  “Like it’s any of your goddamned business what we are.”

  “I didn’t say it was.”

  “No, but you seem really interested, so let me tell you what you wanna hear,” she said. “He’s great in bed. Unfuckingbelievable, really.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever.”

  “Jesus Christ,” she said, her hands coiling into fists at her sides. “Are you nine years old? When do you break out the sticks-and-stones line?”

  I felt the blood rush to my face, a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

  And jealousy.

  “I gotta go,” I said, turning to leave.

  “No. Wait.”

  I turned back around to face her.

  “You can’t keep doing this,” she said. “You can’t keep getting angry with me over this.”

  I stood there silently.

  “I said to call me because I wanted you to,” she said, looking me right in the eye. “I started thinking that maybe I was wrong in bailing out on us last time. But now I’m not so sure. You act one way one minute and another the next. I have no idea what is going on with you and, honestly, it’s getting old.”

  She grabbed a file off her desk and walked toward me. She stopped in the doorway, our faces inches apart. “If you want me back in your life, say it out loud.”

  I swallowed hard, feeling claustrophobic under her gaze. “I want you back in my life.”

  “Then quit acting like such an asshole.”

  She turned and walked out of the office and down the hallway, leaving me to figure out how to do that.

  Twenty-four

  I left before I could embarrass myself any further.

  Liz’s words echoed in my head as I walked to the Jeep. For all the yelling and swearing she’d done, she’d left the door open for something between us. Now I just needed to step through that door without getting it slammed in my face.

  I called the number Wellton had given me for Professor Famazio and got a voice-mail message that told me he held daily office hours from two to three in the afternoon. That gave me just enough time to stop at Filipi’s on India for a slice of pizza and work my way over to USD.

  While San Diego State was large and impersonal, USD was cozy and welcoming. The campus sat atop a bluff looking out over Mission Bay, the Pacific, and Sea World. White stucco Spanish-style buildings dotted the bright green lawns on top of the hill. The center of the Catholic university was the Immaculata, a cavernous church built in the shape of a cross and topped with a pale blue dome. San Diegans referred to the school as Notre Dame West.

  The sociology department was located in Founder’s Hall just past the Immaculata and I found Professor Famazio’s office on the second floor at the end of a long hallway.

  The door was closed halfway. I knocked lightly and a voice beckoned me in.

  The small office looked larger than it actually was because everything in the room was precisely placed. The books on the pine bookshelves were lined up evenly and the papers on the desk were stacked so that not a single corner stood out. A small window on the far wall showcased a portion of the afternoon sunshine and brightened the already light room even more.

  Professor Gerald Famazio sat in an oversized leather chair behind the desk. He was somewhere in his early forties, and the closely cropped black hair on his head was flecked with gray. Wire-rimmed glasses magnified small, intense brown eyes that matched the color of his skin. The navy polo shirt on his athletic frame and brown corduroy jacket hanging on the back of his chair were standard issue in academia.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, pushing back a little from the desk, his deep voice filling the room.

  “I hope so,” I said, handing him my card. “My name’s Noah Braddock. I’m an investigator. Detective John Wellton gave me your name.”

  He glanced at the card, then back at me. “You work for the police department?”

  I shook my head. “No. I’m private, but Detective Wellton and I are looking at some things that seem to overlap. He said you might be able to help me.”

  He eyed me for a moment, not bothering to hide his apprehension. He set my card on his desk, stood, and offered his hand. “Gerald Famazio.” We shook hands and he gestured at a wooden straight-backed chair next to the desk. “Have a seat.”

  I slid into the chair.

  “John has been generous to me,” he said, lowering himself back into his chair. “Letting me rummage through his files and whatnot, answering numerous questions when I know he had other things to do.” He paused for a moment. “So I’ll repay the favor if I can.”

  “I guess I’m mainly looking for a place to start,” I said. “With something called National Nation.”

  A tight smile formed on his lips. “Unfortunately, then, I’m your man.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “What do you know about the group?”

  I explained to him the basics of my involvement with Linc, Peter, Lonnie, and Mo.

  He raised an eyebrow when I finished. “That’s surprising.”

  “Which part?”

  “That they let you live.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Normally, their assaults result in death.”

  I thought of Peter Pluto lying in the canyon and how close I had probably been to joining him, but said nothing.

  “But maybe you are a novelty for them,” he said. “An opponent who can fight back.”

  “Let’s just say I’m on guard.”

  “A good thing to be with these guys,” he said. “Because they aren’t rational and they are very persistent.”

  “I’m starting to get that impression.”

  He adjusted the glasses on his face. “National Nation is an offshoot of Aryan Nation. They have roots here in San Diego. They became organized and active about ten years ago.” Something flashed through his expression and disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. “So they are still young in terms of their history. Are you familiar with White Aryan Resistance?”

  I nodded. You didn’t grow up in San Diego without having some awareness of the group that had formed in the northern suburb of Fallbrook. A television repairman had started the group in the early eighties and gained some national prominence with his antics. At the time, Fallbrook—a small, rural, almost entirely Caucasian community that wasn’t entirely open to change—had been the perfect place for his base.

  But as the demographics of the county changed, Fallbrook went from rural outpost to a suburb with million-dollar properties amid the avocado groves. The town was now doing the best they could to distance itself from the racist label.

  “This group you’re talking about split from them,” Famazio said.

  “Are they involved in gun trafficking?”

 
; “At some level. But if you’re referring to an organized business operation to make money, then no.” He shook his head. “They don’t have the discipline to put together something of that order. They refuse to commit their time to something that, in a perverse way, would legitimize them.”

  I could hear something in his voice that he was trying to hide. Disdain or disgust, maybe. I assumed that much of what he saw in his work offended him personally.

  “Are they opposed to everything outside of the white race?” I asked.

  “Yes and no, and that’s what distinguishes them right now,” Famazio answered. “They believe that whites are superior and that all other races are inferior. But they believe blacks pose the biggest threat and, as such, work almost exclusively against them.”

  “You said that they refuse to commit their time to something like guns. So what do they do with their time?”

  He adjusted the glasses again and sighed. “Perpetuate violence. If you look at most hate groups, they rarely possess the brain trust to organize into a viable financial operation, which leads to eventual demise.” He waved a hand in the air. “They subsist on donations from extreme right-wing groups and anonymous donors who are too cowardly to show their faces and their own money. They stay alive because the powerful white men that help serve justice in our society—judges, lawyers, even police officers—are sometimes believers and help them avoid consequences under the guise of the law.”

  We let that hang in the air between us.

  “Anyway, the opposite end of the spectrum is, say, organized crime or street gangs,” Famazio continued. “They’ve learned that a solid business structure provides them with not only funding for their activities, but also the power to grow and influence.”

  “So National Nation is content to pass out fliers, graffiti some walls, and beat up black people?”

  “Kill,” he said, staring at me. “They kill black people.”

  His anger radiated across the desk.

  “National Nation is still in its infancy compared to other groups,” he said. “That’s why I’ve had such a difficult time learning names of members and backers for my research. They in no way possess the sophistication, for lack of a better word, of a group like the KKK.” He shook his head. “These…people…like to consume a lot of alcohol, talk about their grand plan for taking over the world, and then go beat some black person to death.” He looked away from me. “It’s what they do and it’s what they enjoy.”