Recipe for Hate

by Warren Kinsella

  To offset the December cold, X and I had rented some cheap portable heaters, powered by two big generators out behind Coyle Street’s garage, where they were less likely to be heard. The PA and the amps were powered by the generators, too. As a fallback, me and Danny Hate had connected a series of long extension cords and quietly plugged them in to untended electrical outlets found on the neighbors’ properties. No one noticed.

  Without any advertising, I had worried that few would come. But by word of mouth alone — no posters, no ads, no PSAs on WMPG — more than three hundred punks showed up, some coming from as far as Boston and Montreal, to show support. The Modern Minds, led by their resident genius, Moe, brought more than thirty Ontario punks with them alone.

  As Sam, Luke, and Eddie stepped through Coyle Street’s big front doors, X and me and the Upchuck sisters hustled over to greet them. “Thanks for coming, brothers,” I said, shaking their hands, as Patti and Sister Betty hugged the three remaining Nasties. “We’re going to have a good night.”

  And we did. The Mild Chaps took to the makeshift stage first, and all the young punks moved closer, clapping and whistling. The band’s lead singer, a funny guy known as Conan, shook his wild head of red curls and hollered into the microphone. “Welcome to Coyle Street, motherfuckers! Tonight we make history!” He looked up to the manor’s cracked ceiling and shook his fist. “Tonight is for Jimmy and Marky — we love you, boys!” And the band launched into their first number, a noisy punk rock version of the Monkees’ “I’m A Believer.”

  At a Portland punk show, in the early days, some did the pogo, like British punks, jumping up and down like salmon swimming upstream to spawn. But, mostly, the local punks preferred slam dancing — which, like the name suggests, involved slamming into each other in a swirling, sweaty pit at the foot of the stage. Halfway through the Mild Chaps’ set, it had gotten hot enough that the guys stripped off their black shirts and hoodies and danced shirtless. By night’s end, some of the girls had even stripped down to just their bras, or nothing at all.

  As the night went on, the bands played with total intensity and commitment — playing better than any of them had ever played before, I think. The walls of Coyle Street were shiny with sweat and condensation, as if they were alive. The floors heaved, too, almost at the breaking point, as dancing, slamming punks disappeared into their music, their friends, their moment.

  Beside me on the stairs, X was surveying the scene, and I caught him with a bit of a smile on his face as he watched punks careening off the walls, off the mattresses — or off the tops of amps and onto the uplifted hands of their friends.

  “Man oh man,” he said quietly. “I love this world.”

  The draw at the door, with punks contributing whatever they could afford, was way better than we expected. Later on, during the Modern Minds set, Moe asked that some baseball caps be passed around. The hats were full of grimy, crumpled singles in no time.

  Mike the bouncer showed up late with two of his unaffiliated biker friends, but they weren’t really needed for security during the bands’ performances. The punks wanted to avoid trouble, and everyone there wanted to avoid anyone getting hurt. It was that kind of a night: it was awesome. So Mike and his pals loitered by the door, keeping an eye out for the cops and knocking back a couple cases of Bud that X had brought for them. Once or twice, I saw Mike tapping a booted toe to some of the Virgins’ set.

  Around midnight, all of the bands crowded around the stage. There weren’t enough amps to plug into, but it didn’t matter. As the Modern Minds, the Virgins, the Mild Chaps, the Sturgeons, Animal Kingdom, and the Social Blemishes crowded around me and my battered Fender, I turned to the crowd. I was soaked with sweat and felt happier than I had been in a long time.

  “The generators are almost out of gas, and everyone’s broken too many fucking strings, so we’d better make this one count,” I hollered, my voice hoarse. And, at that point, Sam, Luke, and Eddie stepped forward, and the assembled punks erupted in a single roar of what could only be described as joy. I handed Sam my guitar, Eddie pulled up two milk crates beside Danny Hate’s drum kit, and Luke joined me at the microphone.

  “This one is for Jimmy and Marky! We love you, boys!” Luke yelled, and started the count-in to the three chords of “The Invasion of the Tribbles.” At that point, Coyle Street went wild. The room was a sea of writhing, slamming, dancing punks, screaming the song’s “oh yeah” chant louder than any of the guitars. I glanced up at X, still on the staircase, at one point. It looked like maybe, just maybe, he might actually get emotional.

  As I watched, he turned and headed downstairs and over to the front door, past Mike and his friends. Mike, completely wasted, slapped him on the shoulder. The door opened, then quickly closed behind him.

  That’s when it happened.

  C H A P T E R 19

  “You die tonight.”

  After he heard those words, and after the bat came down, X didn’t remember much of anything. He would be left with a concussion, bruises over most of his body, cracked ribs, and two-dozen stitches to his scalp. The bat didn’t kill him, but the three neo-Nazis did their best.

  After X fell to the ground, the skins started kicking him with their steel-toed Docs, cracking the three ribs in the process. The bat fell repeatedly on his back and legs, producing what X called a wet cracking sound each time. He tried to shield his head with his arms and heard one of the skins yelling “Die, Jew” every time he delivered a kick.

  With the final song over inside, a group of female punks stepped out of Coyle Street to share a joint and saw what was happening. They started screaming at the skinheads to stop. Their screams almost immediately brought Mike the bouncer and his two friends flying out the door. Right behind them, about thirty of us came pouring out of the house. Later on, I filled X in about what happened next.

  “The skins were outnumbered, so the one with the bat and one of the others took off toward their car, which was a street over, down the train tracks. The third guy decided to stay and deliver a few more kicks to your back,” I said. “That was a big mistake.” Within seconds, Mike and his friends had tackled the skinhead and thrown him to the ground. “They were just wailing on him,” I said. “It was awesome. Then, about ten minutes later, there were cops, ambulance guys, and about a million super-pissed-off punks everywhere. We figure a neighbor must have had heard the girls screaming and called the cops.”

  The area around Coyle Street was total chaos. The pumped-up punks wanted to exact revenge on the skinhead, now handcuffed and bleeding in the back seat of a police cruiser. “The cops told us they wanted to avoid a riot and get you both out of there. They promised us that you’d be taken care of, and that the skin would be heading to jail. So we moved back, and the ambulance took off for the Mercy. Patti was with you the whole time. Detective Murphy, too, later on.”

  “I don’t remember them being there,” X said.

  “Yeah, they were,” I said. “Patti was with you all night, with your folks. She was a mess.”

  X closed his eyes. “My head is throbbing,” he said. The drugs were wearing off. “So who was the skinhead?”

  “He won’t tell the cops his name. Says he’s John Smith, believe it or not, and says he lives at 88 Main Street.”

  “Does that mean something?”

  “Yeah, it does, apparently. Danny Hate’s cousin is into the whole skin/punk scene in California. Apparently some of the skins there are getting into the racist thing big-time. He says the eighth letter of the alphabet is H, and so 88 is HH.”

  “Heil Hitler,” X said, slowly shaking his bandaged head. “These guys are the real deal, eh? Nazi skins in Portland.”

  “Looks like it,” I said. “And that ain’t all.”

  “What else?”

  “Guess who’s been leaning on him to get him to talk?”

  “Murphy and Savoie?”

  “Yep,�
� I said. “They think it could be these guys who killed Jimmy and Marky.”

  X tried to sit up, but couldn’t. He tried to shrug, but winced instead. “Fuck,” he said. “I can’t even shrug without needing those stupid fucking painkillers.”

  “What did they give you?” I asked, knowing X’s aversion to any and all drugs. Also, swearing.

  “They gave me stuff at the Mercy. Dunno what,” X said. “My folks are making me take Tylenol 3s, but not for long. Not my thing.”

  “Dude,” I said, “I know you are all against drugs and booze and all that, but seriously: those bastards almost killed you. You’re entitled to some pain relief.”

  X shrugged again, and winced.

  We heard the doorbell ring downstairs.

  “What time is it?” X asked.

  “Dunno. Eleven or so.”

  “It’s the cops,” X said. “My folks said they were coming. Want to talk to me.”

  We could hear the murmur of male voices. A minute later, X’s father stepped into the room. “They’re here,” he said. “You still okay to talk to them?”

  “Sure,” X said. “I don’t remember much, but I’ll talk to them.”

  I stood up to leave. “Should I go? I already talked to them a couple days ago.”

  “I don’t see why you can’t stay, Kurt,” X’s dad said. “We’ll see what they say.”

  When he came in, Savoie looked rumpled and haggard and stunk of cigarette smoke. He seemed to be wearing the same clothing he always did: unpressed pants, unpressed shirt, and a jacket that looked like it had come from a landfill. Murphy, for his part, seemed to occupy half the room with his mass. He was a big, brawny boy. He also seemed upset and was shifting from one foot to the other.

  “Hey, Chris,” Murphy said, all forced jocularity. “How you doing, buddy? You had us all pretty worried, there.” Even Savoie nodded at that.

  “Fine, thanks. Getting better,” X responded. “At least I get to miss some school.”

  The detectives laughed, a bit too loudly, and looked for places to sit down. They settled on a desk chair and a borrowed Darius guitar amp. Both extracted notebooks. “Okay if we take some notes?” Murphy asked, looking up at X’s father, who stood in the doorway. He nodded.

  Savoie spoke first. “So, um, Chris, we understand from your folks you don’t remember much,” he said, sounding much friendlier than the last time they had spoken. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right,” X said. “The bands were almost done, so I went outside to get some fresh air. I’d gone maybe forty, fifty feet toward the rail crossing when they let me have it.”

  “What happened next?”

  “The big one, the one with the bat, called me a faggot and brought it down on the top of my head,” he said. “They beat on me a bit. And then it all went black, I guess. Don’t really remember anything else until I woke up in the hospital.”

  Savoie nodded, peering down at his notebook. “That’s fine, that’s fine,” he said. “We have plenty of your friends who have given witness statements.” He snorted. “First time any of them have cooperated with the police, I think.”

  Asshole.

  Murphy frowned.

  Then he spoke next. “Look, Chris,” he said. “The guy we caught isn’t saying much, so we wanted to see if you somehow knew him or his friends. All we have at this point is his name and his record.”

  “Who is he?”

  Murphy extracted a small black-and-white mug shot photo from inside his leather jacket and handed it to X, who took a look, then showed it to me. The skinhead glared out of the photo, an SS lightning bolt tattoo clearly visible on one side of his neck. “His name is Peter Wojcik. No fixed address. Lots of arrests for assaults and break and enter. Born in Nebraska, drifted around the West a lot. Sometimes calls himself Nathan Forrest.”

  X stirred. “Nathan Forrest? Why?”

  Savoie looked down at his notes again. “Nathan Bedford Forrest was the founder of the Ku Klux Klan, apparently,” he said, sounding uncomfortable. “We don’t know if this guy’s a member of the Klan or not. He won’t say anything, other than he’s John Smith, and he gives a fake address. Seems to think this whole thing is funny.”

  “He won’t find it too funny when we charge him with attempting to murder you … and the murders of your friends,” Murphy said, clearly agitated. “He may be a minor, but he’s looking at serious time as an adult.”

  Savoie looked down, saying nothing.

  “What about the other two?” X’s father asked. “Any leads on them?”

  “Wojcik isn’t talking. One of them, we have no idea who he is,” Murphy said. “But the big one, the one who swung the bat, is probably a guy named Martin Bauer. Lives in Portland. He’s known to police. Has a record for the same kind of stuff — assaults, B and Es, vandalism.”

  “Where is he?”

  “We’re still looking,” Savoie said. “He lives in the East End with his mother, but no one’s seen him for days.”

  Murphy looked at X intently. “Chris, do skinheads ever attend any of your gigs?”

  “Sure, at the start, in ’77 or so, skinheads used to come to the shows,” X said. “In those days, they weren’t all neo-Nazis. A lot of them were into bluebeat and ska.”

  Savoie looked bewildered. “What’s bluebeat and ka?”

  “Ska. It’s kind of like Jamaican reggae, but a bit faster,” I explained. “Better to dance to. Lots of punks are into ska and reggae and bluebeat. Before they went to the dark side, lots of skins were, too.”

  “The dark side?” Murphy asked. “Racism, you mean? When did that start to happen?”

  I spoke up. “We’ve all noticed it. In the past year, maybe the past nine months or so, we’ve noticed that a lot of the skins had gone all white supremacist — insignias, white bootlaces, fascist salutes, the whole deal. Some are racists that just started dressing like skinheads. Some of the racist groups are actively recruiting skins as muscle. Maybe even the Klan. But I couldn’t tell you what the groups are.”

  Savoie and Murphy scanned their notes. “Ever hear of something called Hammerskins?” Savoie asked.

  “Think so,” I said. “From some stupid Pink Floyd songs, right?”

  “Right,” Savoie said, looking again at his notes. “Two crossed hammers, shoot the Jews and all that.” He paused. “Great entertainment, there. Anyway, these guys apparently call themselves Hammerskins.”

  “You ever see this Bauer creep or Wojcik at any of your shows?” Murphy asked.

  We shook our heads.

  Murphy gave a little pat to X’s foot. He looked at Savoie, who shook his head: interview was over, apparently. “All right, thanks, guys. We just wanted to see if you knew something about these creeps — and also how you were doing, of course.”

  “Thanks,” X said. “I’ll be fine. Just find out who killed Jimmy and Marky.”

  “We think we already have,” Murphy said, with conviction. As they got up to leave, Detective Savoie didn’t look so sure.

  C H A P T E R 20

  Down at the concrete bunker that was the Portland police headquarters on Middle Street, an officer who identified himself only as Constable Brown laid out the mug shots, which he called “packs,” in front of X. I sat off to the side, watching. I couldn’t see the photos, and I had been told to say nothing in case they needed me as a witness or something.

  “I am doing this sequentially,” Brown said, as if he had said the same thing a million times before. “I do not know who the suspect is, or even if he is in the photographs I am showing you.”

  Beside him on the desk, an old cassette tape recorder was whirring away, ready to record whatever X would say. Outside in the hallway, Detectives Murphy and Savoie were waiting with his father.

  X was better, much better, than he had been just a week earlier. His broken ribs still caused
him a lot of pain whenever he sneezed or yawned, and the headaches were more or less constant. But he was off the painkillers, and the bandages had been removed from his head. He would be back at PAHS, and back to sort-of-normal, soon enough.

  X studied the photographs carefully. He told me later that all the photos showed young white men with shaved heads or close-cropped military-style hair. All looked like they were capable of assault, or worse.

  X slid one away, then pulled it back. “This one,” he said. “This one looks …”

  Constable Brown said nothing. The tape recorder hissed, waiting.

  “This guy,” X said, holding up the photograph and showing it to Brown. I could see it, too, but said nothing. “I think this is him. It was dark, so I’m not totally certain. But I’m pretty sure this is him.”

  Impassive, Brown said nothing. He took the mug shot, looked at the back, and said into the tape recorder microphone, “The witness has selected number six.”

  That was it. As he put away the other photographs, he told X that he would be typing up a “verbatim account” of the lineup.

  “Okay,” X said. “I guess nobody can tell me if I picked the right guy.”

  Brown said nothing. He collected the cassette tape and the photographs, and stepped out of the interview room.

  A minute letter, a beaming Detective Murphy entered, followed closely by X’s father. “Well done, Chris,” Murphy said, sounding relieved. He put a big hand on X’s shoulder. “Thank you. You did great.”

  “Is it Bauer?” X asked.

  Murphy settled into one of the metal chairs on the other side of the tiny desk, and waved for X’s father to do the same. “I probably shouldn’t say,” Murphy said, throwing an elaborate wink at X, then at me. “But I can tell you that we picked up Bauer earlier this morning. His friend, too.”