X shook his head. “It’s the truth,” he said. “I called your Aryan pastor, and he put me on to the one he called the leader. I told him everything we knew about you. I would imagine the FBI was listening in the whole time, too.”
Murphy stared at X.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they have some guys on their way here now to take care of you, Detective Murphy,” X said.
“You little bastard!”
Murphy picked up the .38 and shot X point blank in the chest.
C H A P T E R 60
The .38 blew X off the chair he was sitting on, and spun him to the left, six feet away. His body slammed into the filthy, cracked dance floor at Gary’s, and he did not move again. There was a plate-sized stain of blood spreading on his old hunting sweater. Northman studied him for a moment, then took aim at X’s forehead. As he did so, the Brotherhood’s hit squad burst through the doors at the back of the tavern.
They had been in the lobby, trying to determine how long Frank had been dead, and who had killed him, when they heard a loud voice — Northman’s voice — coming from the bar. Then they heard the gunshot.
Northman jumped to the wall facing the Gary’s stage, and carefully peeked around the corner, in the direction of the main entrance. The teacher and the truck driver, he could see, were hovering behind the end of the bar, both carrying handguns — they looked like the stolen SIG Sauer P220s. The marine, meanwhile, was crouched behind a table, near Gary’s entrance. He appeared to be holding a MAC-10 with a suppressor attached. When he saw Northman’s face, the marine fired off a rapid burst. He didn’t even come close.
Flattened against the wall, Northman made a calculation. All three members of the Brotherhood’s hit squad were relatively close together, and he had seen no one else. If he threw one of his M67 fragmentation grenades, he would probably kill all three. If he was going to make it to the alleyway door, he needed to be sure that they were all dead, or out of commission. If they weren’t, Murphy wouldn’t make it to the alleyway, where his white panel van had been parked. But the sound of the exploding grenade would attract every cop in Maine, and he might not get far.
So he waited. He remained silent, and completely still, while the three brethren made the next move.
He didn’t have to wait long. The teacher had started to make his way along the far wall. He was hidden by the bar, which ran virtually the entire length of Gary’s, and was pretty dark. Murphy heard the teacher’s boots scuffing across the old tile floor. When he was opposite Murphy’s position, the marine and the truck driver started to fire off some rounds, to give him cover. But Murphy, expecting this, was ready.
The teacher rose up from behind the bar, the SIG Sauer P220 pointed in his direction, but Murphy fired first. The .38 caught the teacher directly in the forehead, and blew brain matter and blood all over the Budweiser mirror directly behind him. He was killed instantly, and crashed to the floor.
“See that? You’re next, kinsmen, unless you get out of here, now,” Murphy called out. “I don’t want to kill my Aryan brothers. But I will if I have to.”
Murphy could hear the marine and the truck driver whispering, but he could not make out what they were saying. He glanced at the alleyway door. He knew that he would not get five paces before one of the two remaining shooters took him out. He had to improve his odds before the police arrived. They wouldn’t be long, now.
He reached into his bomber jacket and took out one of the M67 grenades. This would give him all the cover he would need. It would blow to bits everything within a twenty-foot radius and make a huge sound, but he now had no choice.
Murphy carefully placed the .38 on a table to his right, then extracted the pin on the top of the grenade. He moved forward, and kept squeezing the spoon lever with his left hand, which kept the grenade from detonating. He then waited, listening.
When the whispering stopped, he knew the truck driver and the marine were on the move. Murphy stepped out, for a moment, to throw the grenade. As he did so, the marine — who had gotten much closer to Gary’s stage area — fired at him. One of the 9mm slugs struck Murphy in the arm, shattering his elbow. He screamed and cursed.
The M67 went only half the distance Murphy had intended. It caused an enormous BANG, sending debris and dust everywhere. Fragments from the grenade ripped into the truck driver’s back and blew him into a row of chairs that been stacked near the bar. He was dead.
Dust was falling onto everything, like filthy snow, and they could hear the sound of beer seeping out of kegs onto the dirty floor. Murphy remained still, waiting.
The marine, who had ducked behind a table when he saw the grenade, was for a moment stunned, but otherwise alive. His ears were ringing. In his hands, he still clutched the MAC-10.
Murphy was on the floor, cradling his left elbow in his right hand. Blood was seeping out between his fingers, and he knew his arm was now useless. Unless the marine was dead, he would have to shoot his way out. He reached back to retrieve the .38, but it was gone.
He heard the familiar voice.
That voice.
Murphy spun around to see X — pale, breathing heavily, and leaning against the wall. X was holding the .38 and he was not at all dead.
“X is the hidden factor,” he said to Murphy, raising the .38. “Today, it’s a bulletproof vest, borrowed from the Chows.”
BANG.
And, with that, he shot Murphy once, directly in the center of his chest. Northman crashed backward, dead, without saying another word.
A moment later, the marine reached the corner and saw Murphy’s inert form. The marine also saw the punk boy on the dirty floor, clutching at his chest, and holding a .38. The marine lifted the MAC-10 to kill him.
Before he could fire, another shot rang out, and the marine dropped his arm. He looked bewildered.
He then slammed to the ground, beside Murphy.
Me, Mike, and Marty rounded the corner of the bar. While Mike and Marty kept the shotgun trained on Murphy and the now-dead marine, I knelt down beside X.
“Are you okay, brother? Were you shot?”
X managed a small grin, pointing at his bloody chest. “Yeah, but I’m wearing the vest,” he said. “It feels like I’ve got a couple more broken ribs. But I’m not dead.”
Mike reached down and removed the .38 from X’s hand. Sirens, a ton of them, were wailing in the distance. “Hold on,” Mike said. He wiped the .38 on his “FUCK THE WORLD” T-shirt, then placed it near Murphy and the dead Marine.
Mike looked closely at X. “You never had a gun, you never even held a fucking gun, got it? You haven’t seen Kurt since the hospital, and you don’t know where he is,” he said. “Murphy told you to meet him here. From the cops’ perspective, all these pieces of shits killed each other, end of story. I ran downstairs when I heard all the shooting, and I found you alive, got it?”
“Yes,” X said, wincing in pain. “Nobody will believe any of it, but I got it.”
Mike looked up at Marty and me. “You two better get the fuck out of here, now,” he said. He handed Marty his .45. “Take my car. It’s in front of this bastard’s van. I’ll find you later. Go.”
Marty didn’t need to be told twice. The sirens were getting closer. His shotgun in one hand, Mike’s .45 in the other, Marty bolted out the door to the alleyway. I hesitated, looking at him. X spoke: “Go, brother. I’ll be fine.”
I sprinted out just behind Marty, past the same spot where our friend Jimmy Cleary had died months before.
As me and Marty took off, and the sirens closed in.
C H A P T E R 61
Sharon Martin and detectives Chow, Wright, and Savoie sat at the boardroom table in the boxy stone headquarters of the Portland Police Department and looked at X and the rest of us.
X’s dad was with us — plus Patti and Betty Upchuck, me, and Sam Shiller. Sam still had bandages across the brid
ge of his nose, following some surgery to repair the damage Martin Bauer had done to the bone and cartilage in his face. X, meanwhile, was still wearing bandages across his chest, visible under his beloved Clash T-shirt. Sister Betty was fine, but the long cut on her scalp could still be seen against her pale skin.
We remained expressionless as Sharon Martin spoke. “The police service and the Attorney General have announced that there will be a formal inquiry into whether there are others like Terry Murphy within the ranks,” she said. “I will be part of that inquiry. Apart from that, I can tell all of you that there will be no other prosecutions in these cases. We will be working with the government of Canada to facilitate the extradition of the surviving members of the neo-Nazi group that calls itself the Brotherhood. But it is our belief that Murphy was solely responsible for the murders of Jimmy Cleary, Mark Upton, the employee of the bar, and the three skinheads. He was also almost certainly responsible for the attempted murder of Danny O’Heran and Ken Haslam, although he was likely assisted by the skinheads in both of those cases. Finally, the FBI has informed us that Murphy has been linked to the execution of a former member of the Brotherhood some weeks ago in Idaho.” She paused. “He may go down as one of the most prolific murderers in the history of the State of Maine.”
Detective Chow leaned forward, slightly, also scrutinizing X’s expressionless face. “We are unclear why Murphy chose to kill Martin Bauer at the time and place that he did, however. It is puzzling. But we are closing the book on that aspect, and thought we should tell you that.” He looked at all of us.
He knows.
X said nothing, his arms crossed.
Detective Savoie addressed us next, his tobacco-stained fingers tapping the top of the conference table for emphasis. “The shootout involving the Brotherhood members and Te —” He almost said Terry, but corrected himself. “— Murphy. That was quite a mess for our forensic guys. And they still can’t figure out how or why that one shooter, an ex-marine as it turns out, could get his hands on Murphy’s .38 and kill him with it, when he already had a perfectly good, working MAC-10 submachine pistol in his possession. Or where the shotgun is that apparently killed the marine, or where the rifle is that killed Mark Bauer.” Savoie glared at X. “We haven’t yet figured those things out.”
X and I knew the truth, of course, but we remained silent. At this point, X’s father and the Upchuck sisters were also looking at X, and they seemed concerned. X ignored them and kept his uneven gaze on Detective Savoie.
“Is that a question?” X said, watching the detectives.
“I’d say there are still plenty of questions!” Savoie barked, his face flushing red.
“Like how an experienced detective can have a neo-Nazi killing machine as a partner for years, and somehow not ever notice anything?” X said. “A question like that?”
Ouch.
Savoie looked like he was about to lunge across the table and strangle X. Before he could, Detective Chow put a hand on his shoulder, and Savoie remained where he was, simmering with rage. I suppressed the urge to laugh.
“Anyway,” Martin said, glaring at Savoie, who was still grumbling. “There will be discussion and speculation about these cases for many years to come, I’m sure. But, for our purposes, these files are closed. Our task now is to deal with the extradition, and to ensure that the inquiry into the issue of bias in the ranks of the Portland police is done right.” She looked at the detectives to her right and left. “And, unless there is anything further, I think that wraps it up for today. Thank you for coming in, all of you.”
Sharon Martin started shaking the hands on the other side of the conference table. The detectives all did likewise, Detective Savoie with some obvious reluctance. Again, I stifled a laugh.
As we prepared to leave, Detective Chow spoke. “Forgive me, Christopher, but I must ask: What does the X stand for?”
We all stopped and watched. X almost grinned — almost — but said nothing.
Detective Chow gave his big smile, nodding. “All right, then,” he said, laughing a bit. “My sons asked me to ask you. By the way, what do you plan to do next? I understand you’re graduating.”
X shrugged. “I’m taking a year off to travel with Kurt’s band. Then maybe study journalism somewhere,” he said, face blank. “And then maybe someone will write the story of everything that happened — more or less.”
So, I did.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to various bandmates throughout the (many) years: Ras Pierre Schenk, Rockin’ Al, Bjorn von Flapjack III, Steve Deceive, Snipe, Davey Snot — and, of course, the Blems, the Nasties, and Shit from Hell. Also, our merch girl, Emma.
Thanks in particular to Shannon Whibbs, who spotted the book for the good folks at Dundurn; Allison Hirst, my ever-patient Dundurn editor; and, most of all, to Emily Lawrence, who was my editorial guide and advisor throughout. Emily, you rock.
And thanks, as always, to Lisa, who puts up with the punk who won’t ever grow up. You carry my heart.
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Copyright © Warren Kinsella, 2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purpose of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cover image: © 123RF.com/Igor Stevanovic
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Kinsella, Warren, 1960-, author
Recipe for hate / Warren Kinsella.
Issued in print and electronic formats.
ISBN 978-1-4597-3906-2 (softcover).--ISBN 978-1-4597-3907-9 (PDF).--
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PS8621.I59R43 2017 jC813’.6 C2017-902799-9
C2017-902800-6
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