Hoary clouds filled the indigo sky, bringing promises of rainfall. The monsoon was in full effect, though it had arrived about a month later than expected and was anything but consistent. June and July had been unusually dry. Pfarrer did not mind the rain for the most part, though most Tucsonans forgot how to drive as soon as the hardball grew even the slightest bit damp. Still, he enjoyed the aroma of ozone that lingered in the air before and after a rainstorm.
Pfarrer finished the inventory and ran a hand through his thick head of dark brown hair. With an exhale, he turned and marched back to the office. It would take a few minutes to lock up, and then he’d be home just in time to tuck in the kids and get in some facetime with the wife. Things had accelerated recently, both with EDTS and his extracurricular activities, and Pfarrer hadn’t seen her much. It would be good to take a break for an evening and enjoy her company.
“Damn,” DJ Simmons said. His partner grunted in inquiry, and Simmons elaborated. “Aretha Franklin died.”
“Hmm.”
Simmons scrolled the screen of his Samsung Galaxy S8+ as he perused the CNN story. “Pancreatic cancer. Damn, dude. I didn’t even know she was sick.”
Jack Bradshaw scratched the stubble on his chin, his eyes focused on the walkway ahead as he waited for the subject of their investigation to materialize. Bradshaw and Simmons had been parked in the lot for well over an hour. According to the profile Bradshaw had developed through open source means, the establishment closed at 17:00 hours and the subject usually stayed behind to do administrative work for another two to three hours after closing. That would be their opportunity to gather the required intelligence.
“That sucks,” Bradshaw said simply.
Simmons’s head snapped and locked onto Bradshaw. “‘That sucks?’ Man, she is the Queen of Soul! This is a big deal! We lost a national treasure today, man!”
If that affects you so much, why didn’t you know she was sick? Bradshaw thought. He would have happily done the job himself. It wouldn’t have been his first singleton surveillance gig, but company policy dictated that all such contracts would be done in buddy teams. The reason for that was threefold: if the job graduated into shiftwork, it ensured that at least one man was up at all times; memos looked better when they were submitted in duplicate, especially if the findings went to court; and if the surveillance was compromised, it was harder to assault two people than one.
Out of all of Bradshaw’s co-workers, Simmons was the most competent, with a rich background in both security and investigations. The large black man possessed an intimidating presence, knew how to fight, was a hell of a photographer, wrote articulate reports, and was a solid shot for somebody who had never worn a uniform. If Simmons knew how to do surveillance work in silence, he would have made a perfect partner.
“I need some happier news,” Simmons said as he closed out the article.
“Tuning out of the news might be your best approach,” Bradshaw said.
“Tried that about three months into the current administration,” Simmons said. “Lasted about a week and a half. I gotta know what’s going on in the world. I just hate that everybody’s fighting instead of trying to understand each other.”
“Yeah.”
“And if it’s not them fighting, then it’s people we grew up on dying,” Simmons continued. “2016 was really bad for that. 2017 was bad, and 2018’s not shaping up well.”
“People die, man,” Bradshaw said flatly.
Simmons glanced at Bradshaw and shook his head slowly. “That’s a real cynical way to look at life.”
“What’s cynical about it?” Bradshaw asked. “It’s a fact.”
“Hmm,” Simmons said as he scrolled. “Here’s something. A full profile on Greg Lambert.”
“Who?” Bradshaw asked.
“He’s a senior adviser to the President,” Simmons said. “This dude came up from nothing. Lived in a Georgia trailer park, had to work in high school to supplement his mom’s income. Rose from that to a six-figure salesman, put himself and his sister through college, and now he’s working in the White House.”
“Good for him,” Bradshaw said unenthusiastically.
“He might be working for a knucklehead, but real recognizes real. I can’t hate a man’s hustle, you know what I’m saying?”
“Sure.” Bradshaw didn’t want a political debate. There were certain areas where the current administration had rubbed Bradshaw the wrong way, but others he supported enthusiastically. In Bradshaw’s estimation, after eight years of coddling terrorists and criminals, it was about time that somebody stood up for the cops and the soldiers, even if that somebody was a loud-mouthed draft dodger. The man wasn’t Bradshaw’s first choice, but it certainly beat the murderous, conniving, partisan hack that the other party had put forth. Progress was still progress, and Simmons wouldn’t understand that.
We all have to look out for our own tribes, I suppose.
Simmons locked his phone, set it between his legs, and reached for the lunch bag at his feet. “Well, sure, you can oversimplify life down to living and dying, but that removes the nuance.”
Bradshaw scoffed. “The nuance?”
“Morning coffee with a desert sunrise. Your child’s stick-figure drawing on the fridge.” Simmons gestured to the Tupperware containers in his lap. “A homemade meal from the love of your life. It’s the little things, my man. This…this is life.”
“If you say so, Simmons,” Bradshaw said.
“You’d know that if you got out, shaved that stupid looking mustache, and played the dating pool,” Simmons said with a chuckle as he dropped carne asada in a corn tortilla.
Bradshaw shifted his jaw. “What’s wrong with my mustache?”
“Aside from the fact that you look like a poor man’s Thomas Magnum, nothing.”
He shrugged. “Seemed to work for Tom Selleck.”
“In 1980,” Simmons said. “Your porn ‘stache is 38 years late to the party, man. And it kinda makes you look creepy.”
Bradshaw grunted in response. Simmons chuckled as he poured homemade habanero salsa on his taco. He rolled it and lifted it to his mouth. One bite halved the taco, and Simmons closed his eyes and groaned contentedly. “Mmm.” He swallowed the bite and said, “You need to marry yourself a Latina, man. She gets in her feelings from time to time, but I’ve never had a more passionate lover…and we both know your boy has experience.”
Oh, great, Bradshaw said as he pursed his lips. Here comes another UCLA story.
Simmons surprised Bradshaw by veering from reminiscence. “But yeah, man, Latinas is where it’s at. Passionate, and they know how to cook, man. I thought I knew spicy before I met Gia. Man…I ain’t never sweat as much as I did after I sampled her signature salsa. Then I meet the family in Phoenix and learn that all her sisters cook like that, and her mom gets down in the kitchen. And her father is a hell of a grill man.”
“Nice,” Bradshaw said detachedly.
“But downside is those hot foods coming out the other end, you know what I’m saying?” Simmons chuckled. “Man, I tell you what, the morning after I first had her cooking, my—”
Bradshaw caught movement emerging from the wall that concealed the bank entrance. Saved by the subject, he thought. “There he is,” he said, cutting Simmons off.
Simmons glanced to the pair. The credit union manager’s name was George Vinson. A tall, lean, silver-haired man with a deep tan and ruggedly handsome features, he was given to wearing bespoke suits as a symbol of his status as a lucrative croupier. Walking side by side with him was Katie Castro, a 20-something brunette Tucsonan whose shapely physique was obvious, even in her modest pearl silk blouse and skirt.
“Yep,” Simmons said.
“Lean back,” Bradshaw said as he lifted the Canon Rebel T3i that hung on a lanyard around his neck. “I’ve got this.”
Simmons reclined his chair while Bradshaw lifted the camera. As he started snapping pictures, Vinson gave Castro’s backside a squeeze, which elicit
ed a laugh, a smile, and an admonishing finger wag. They walked to their respective cars—Vinson, a silver Jaguar; and Castro, an older model Jetta—and climbed inside.
As their engines started, Bradshaw handed the camera to Simmons, who had just finished putting up his food. “Check those,” Bradshaw said.
Simmons brought up the images and thumbed through them as Bradshaw watched the vehicles back out of their parking spots. He found the image with the playful squeeze and let out a low whistle.
“That ass grab shot might seal the deal,” Simmons said. “Hand on ass, smile on face.”
“The client wants in the act and that’s what we’ll give them,” Bradshaw said. As the Jaguar and Jetta pulled out and headed south towards Broadway, he ignited the 2010 Kia Optima’s engine. His eyes locked on the cars as they hooked a right. The moment that the Jetta turned, Bradshaw turned on his headlights and shifted into drive.
“Hang on,” Bradshaw said as he raced out of the parking lot.
The Pfarrer household was located in Oro Valley. It was a five-bedroom, three-bath, pueblo-style edifice with a garage, a back-patio, and a swimming pool. It had run just under $400,000, and Pfarrer had paid half upfront in order to keep the mortgage low. The neighbors were polite and respectable, and the school district was of a decent quality. Barbecues and pool parties were common all-summer, and it was close to Mount Lemmon, which allowed for family hiking and camping trips.
Bill Pfarrer stood in the doorway of his youngest child’s bedroom. Christopher had been unexpected, but certainly not unwelcome. He would turn five in a few weeks. Pfarrer’s heart swelled with pride. His sparkling blue eyes shielded by his eyelids and his straw blond hair mussed, Christopher was perfection embodied. He was the future which Pfarrer worked hard to protect and promote every day.
With a sigh, Pfarrer quietly closed the door and made his way to the master bedroom. A 70” flat-screen television was mounted to the wall. His wife, Jennifer, lay in bed, wearing a plain gray T-shirt and plaid pajama pants. Her blonde hair was let down, and her reading glasses rested on the bridge of her nose as she completed a crossword puzzle. The television played in the background, just loud enough to provide ambient noise.
Pfarrer closed the door behind him and locked it. Without looking, Jennifer asked, “Did you like dinner, babe?”
“I did,” Pfarrer said with a smile. “Amazing, as always, sweetheart.”
Dinner had consisted of a medium-rare steak, mashed potatoes with sour cream and chives, and steamed asparagus. It had taken longer than expected to get home, so Jennifer had set about putting the kids to bed and preparing for the next day. Clothes were set out, lunches were made, and bags were packed. Jennifer had also set up the coffee maker to start brewing at six on the dot.
Pfarrer had kicked off his shoes when he came home and stored them on the appropriate rack adjacent the front door. He peeled off his jeans, undid the buttons on his shirt, and removed his undershirt and boxers. As he crawled into bed, Jennifer raised an eyebrow, but kept her eyes on the crossword in front of her.
“And just what do you think’s going to happen tonight?” Jennifer asked.
“Well…” Pfarrer said as he leaned in and kissed her favorite spot on her neck. “I think I’m going to keep kissing your neck until you finish your crossword.”
Jennifer took a deep breath and fought to maintain composure. “Oh, really? And then what?”
“Then I’m going to tear those clothes off of you like there’s no tomorrow. And then I’m gonna go down on you.”
Jennifer forced an exhale as she filled in another series of boxes. “Well, you’re half-right.”
“Yeah? What’d I get wrong?”
Jennifer placed her pen inside the crossword, shut the book, and set it on the nightstand. A husky sigh fell from her lips as she said, “I’m not going to finish my crossword.”
* * *
Vinson and Castro hadn’t driven very far. It was a straight shot down Broadway, a right on Alvernon, and then two blocks to La Quinta Inn & Suites. Bradshaw backed into a parking space at the rear of the lot. Vinson had parked behind Castro’s Jetta in the breezeway, and Castro went in to book the room. Bradshaw worked the Canon rapidly, getting shots of Castro entering and exiting the hotel, as well as the pair of cars parked together.
“Smart, and dumb,” Simmons said. “Get the side piece to pay for the room so it doesn’t show up on the charges, but park in plain sight next to the mistress’s whip.”
“Well, he doesn’t know he’s being followed,” Bradshaw said.
“True, that,” Simmons said.
Bradshaw watched as Castro got back in her car, then drove to the north side of the building. He waited a beat, then shifted into drive and rolled to the north end of the lot. It was a risky maneuver: if either Castro or Vinson possessed even a shred of situational awareness, they would notice that the car that was parked at the credit union had followed them to their rendezvous.
He rolled around the corner just in time to see Vinson following Castro to a door marked #114. Vinson held Castro by the hips and pressed up against her. She slid the card into the reader, opened the door, and turned around to grab Vinson and kiss him hard. Before Bradshaw could get a shot, Vinson closed the door behind him.
“Damn,” Bradshaw grumbled.
“Yeah,” Simmons said.
Bradshaw backed the Optima into a parking spot facing the door. It was illegal to record somebody on private property without the consent of at least one party. Photographing what they did in plain view was entirely legal, but if Bradshaw and Simmons were to slip a snake camera under the door to catch the subjects in the act, Vinson’s lawyer would immediately push to strip them of their licenses and lock them up.
The only way to get as close to incontrovertible proof as possible would be to photograph them walking out together, and that meant more of what occupied the majority of a private investigator’s time: waiting.
They had worn each other out. Jennifer had passed out a few moments after they’d finished, but Pfarrer’s mind buzzed with activity. After a half-hour of failing to sleep, he quietly slipped out of bed and found his jeans. Once his nether regions were covered, he silently made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Pfarrer grabbed an ice-cold Hacker-Pschorr Oktoberfest Märzen, popped the cap with a bottle opener, and took a swig before he returned to the bedroom.
Pfarrer made his way to the balcony. The rain had finally begun to fall, though it was only a light drizzle. It was still warm enough to sit outside shirtless, and the hour guaranteed that any of his neighbors still awake wouldn’t see much. While he doubted they would take issue with the eagle, globe, and anchor ink on his right shoulder, he did not know his neighbors well enough to show them the Celtic Cross between his shoulder blades. While the cross itself could be innocently explained as ethnic pride, the “14” above it and the “88” beneath it could not.
Pfarrer stared out in the distance as he sipped on the German beer. He had discovered it while on leave during his stint in the Corps. Pfarrer had taken a tour through Europe, marveling at what the greatest civilization to ever grace the earth had managed to build. He had also seen the rot that had set in as a result of most European nations adopting socialist and multiculturalist policies, and that had redoubled his efforts to prevent the same from happening in his homeland.
The recent election had been a solid step in protecting the nation—and the white race—from that same sort of decay. While the current President was a little too friendly with Jews for Pfarrer’s liking, the fact that he had openly stated the same concerns that individuals like him had held for years made him the best President in recent years. Not even the Gipper had been as remotely racially conscious as the incumbent.
Pfarrer thought of his children. Trevor, Arielle, and Christopher were the embodiment of the Fourteen Words: we must secure the existence of our people and a future for white children. That existence had been threatened for decades, particularly under the pas
t eight years under the mixed-breed Kenyan imposter. The decay was stunted for the moment, but that was not enough.
The socialist response to the rightful and legitimate election had been vociferous and constant. Bureaucratic elements embedded within the system threatened to undo that progress on behalf of the Zionists. One look at any reputable news source demonstrated the violence to which a white person who wandered into the mongrel den was subjected. It had grown readily apparent to socially cognizant whites that peaceful, segregated coexistence was impossible.
Pfarrer had known for years that the race war was imminent, and now it was upon them.
He smiled knowing that he would fire the opening salvo on behalf of his people.
Bradshaw stared unblinkingly at the front door through the Canon’s peephole. Around the 30-minute mark, Simmons had shaken his head slowly and pursed his lips.
“Goddamn,” he had said. “Old boy must have popped Viagra and a Red Bull. Surprised she hasn’t worn his old ass out.”
To better support his posture, Bradshaw had reclined his seat, scooted back until he could prop his left foot on the cushion, and rested his tricep on his knee. Simmons had given Bradshaw a look but decided to say nothing. Instead, he broke out his food and finished his dinner, though to his credit, he never took his eyes off the door. That had been an hour and a half earlier.
“C’mon, motherfucker,” Bradshaw breathed through clenched teeth. His breathing was controlled, and his pulse slowed. He had tuned out the sounds of Simmons’s chewing and rain drops hitting the roof and windshield. All there was were his heartbeat and the hotel room door. The upside was that the lights had flicked on when they entered, and a week of surveillance had revealed that Vinson was energy-conscious, always turning off lights when he left rooms or buildings.
“I bet if we’d bugged that room and uploaded the video to PornHub, we’d have a half-mil hits by the end of the day,” Simmons said.
Fault Lines Page 8
