“Really?” Colleen said. “I had no idea. How do you know all that?”
“I majored in history. In case you thought all I did was go to keggers. Our nation’s true past will haunt you.”
Colleen put the applicator back in the bottle, set the bottle on the mantelpiece. She went over, put a hand on each of Alex’s shoulders. “You’re sweet to worry. But there’s nothing to worry about.” She gave Alex a reassuring smile. “What are you going to do tonight?”
“I think I’ll go down to Peg’s Place for a drink.”
“One drink. And no nose candy.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“I mean it, Alex. You’re not the only one who worries.”
“Same goes for you. Those nutjobs are probably breaking out the moonshine and nooses as we speak.”
Colleen threw on her oversized leather jacket, waived bye, headed downstairs to the Torino. Starting it up, she feathered the throttle while she reached down under the dash and got the Bersa hanging in the gym sock. She slipped it into the pocket of her coat and set off. No need for Alex to worry.
“Nice ride,” Shuggy said when Colleen pulled up in front of the Thunderbird. The V8 engine rumbled in idle.
“Hop in.”
“You too chicken to ride the Bull?” Shuggy stood by his motorcycle, wearing pretty much what he’d been wearing yesterday: beat-up leather jacket, torn sleeveless denim jacket on top of it.
“It’s got to be fifty degrees out there,” she said. And it was. A San Francisco winter wasn’t a Midwest winter, but the cold bit in a way the latter didn’t. Besides, she wanted to be able to leave the festivities when she chose to. “Another time. Get in, already.”
Shuggy took another appreciative look at the muscle car, climbed in.
“Get on the freeway,” he said. “Hunter’s Point.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Is it safe to park here?”
Colleen pulled the Torino up in front of an isolated warehouse in Hunter’s Point. Vehicles were parked everywhere in the near darkness, up on the curb, back behind the fence. A lot of pickup trucks. Confederate flags prevailed. Across the bay, the distant lights of Oakland shone in the mist. The muffled sounds of primitive rock ‘n’ roll boomed from within the building.
The neighborhood, ironically, was mostly black, despite KKK meetings and the like. Poor, forgotten, neglected. The naval shipyard had closed a few years ago.
“Over there,” Shuggy said, pointing Colleen to a loading bay where a big open dock door cast an oblong of light into the night. A large man in camouflage stood by, wearing a matching fatigue cap. His arms hung by his side, as if he might be hoping for trouble. “Jimbo’ll watch your car.”
Colleen motored through the open gates, tires crunching over rough asphalt, pulled up next to a shipping container. Two bikes were parked to one side, the same ones Shuggy’s compadres had ridden up to the Thunderbird the other day. She killed the engine. She and Shuggy got out, headed for the door. The music was louder, hard-edged rock with a dirge-like feel. The singer had a ragged growl of a voice as he sang about a tree where justice was delivered with a rope.
“And who do we have here?” the guy at the door said, eyeing Colleen. His coquettish voice didn’t go with the camouflage and Klan armband, a white cross on a red background, drop of blood in the center. His rubbery face slid into a grin.
“This is Carol Anne, Jimbo,” Shuggy said. “She’s with me.”
You wish, Colleen thought.
“Well, hello there, Carol Anne,” Jimbo said, drawing out the hello.
“Watch my car, will you?” she said.
“You got it,” Jimbo said, “but I still got to pat you down.”
Wanted to pat her down, more like it. Colleen was getting nervous with the Bersa in her pocket.
She turned to Shuggy. “You didn’t say I was gonna get groped.”
“Don’t worry, Carol Anne,” Jimbo snickered. “I’ll be gentle.”
“This is total bullshit,” she said. “I’m a white female. My old man is doing a dime for you people.”
“She’s cool, Jimbo,” Shuggy said.
“She’s not a member though, is she, Shuggy?”
“Fuck it,” Colleen said. “No one touches me without my say-so. See you later, Shuggy. You’ll have to find your own way home.” She turned to go.
She walked slowly.
“Whoa!” Jimbo shouted after her. “You’re good, Carol Anne.”
She turned back. “That’s more like it.”
Jimbo stood back with a shit-eating grin. “You guys have a good meeting. Dr. Lange is going to talk soon.”
“The lady don’t take shit,” Shuggy said as they headed in.
“Make a note,” Colleen said.
Inside the drafty old warehouse, the music became a direct aural assault. Sparse fluorescent lights in the high ceiling, many burned out, cast a pall over several hundred shadows milling about. Remarkably silent for such a large crowd. Much of the throng was gathered around a low stage where the band thudded away. A row of kegs on one side attracted others. Construction lamps on metal tripods glared either side of the stage, like pseudo torches. A white cross banner hung on the wall behind the band next to a red flag with a swastika in a white circle.
An emaciated singer scowled at the audience. He sported a dark buzz cut, long sideburns, and workpants held up by black suspenders under a plain white T.
Now that her eyes had adjusted, Colleen saw that the crowd was made up of skinheads and punks, but the bulk were faceless white men wearing clothes straight from the Sears catalog. Short hair, lacking style, was the norm. Facial hair was not. They might have faded into nothingness were it not for the preponderance of armbands with white crosses, Confederate flags, the odd swastika. Dotted throughout the crowd were white Klan robes, but without facemasks. A friendly event, no need for anonymity. Several men in fatigues stood guard around the edges, pistols on their hips in plain view.
To the right, a chunky woman and a preteen girl in matching Klan robes manned a table where they doled out scoops of sloppy casserole to a line of men gripping paper plates. It was obvious the two were mother and daughter. They were also the only ones who appeared to be smiling.
“You all enjoy that!” the woman said, slapping a pile onto a plate.
“This way.” Shuggy pushed through to the front of the stage and Colleen followed. With Shuggy’s size and garb, people immediately gave him room. As they got closer, she saw the words Fist of Vengeance on the band’s bass drum, fashioned out of lightning bolts.
There were few women and Colleen was getting furtive looks.
Two biker types in leather showed up and Colleen recognized them as the two who’d stopped at the Thunderbird with Shuggy, the tall beanpole and the fireplug.
“I got to talk to someone,” Shuggy said to Colleen. He marched off.
She was left with Ace, the little guy on the Harley trike, who had a pinched face, fuzzy hair, and a sullen leer, and Stan, the lanky guy with a pointed nose and hair combed over in an unmistakably Hitleresque affectation. He was well spoken while Ace fought with a stutter and ogled her over his beer cup.
Off to one side of the stage, Colleen saw Shuggy heading for an important-looking guy in a gray suit that was definitely not off the rack. He sported a tie and a stylish Burt Reynolds haircut and mustache. A group of underlings hovered around him. A tall, skinny woman in a black skirt suit, short pixie hair. A portly man in a blue Klan robe, wearing thick glasses, looking like an insurance salesman out trick-or-treating. Two bodyguards, dark suits, no ties. The important guy looked at his watch. Dr. Lange, Colleen suspected. He might well be a source in unraveling the mayor rumor. Shuggy went up to him, everybody else moving away, and stood with his hands on his hips, talking close.
“That’s Dr. Lange?” Colleen asked Stan.
Stan confirmed. “He’s going to speak soon.”
“You guys know him, too?”
“Oh, yeah,” Stan sa
id, puffing up.
“You S-Shuggy’s old lady?” Ace asked her, staring over his cup.
“I’m not anyone’s old lady. But I’ve got an old man.”
“S-so w-where is he?”
“Doing ten to fourteen.”
“You don’t say,” Stan said. “What did your old man do to earn such a lengthy stay?”
Trying to impress her. “Dealing out justice for his brothers while this crowd drinks beer and shakes their fists at the kiddie music,” she said.
“There might be some of that,” Stan said. “But we’re not like them, Carol Anne.”
“I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” she said. “There sure are a lot of vigilantes lining up for casserole.” She shook her head. “Some den.”
“We’re n-not like t-them!” Ace blurted out, his face turning red.
“What do you do, Ace? Scold them if they ask for seconds?”
His face reddened. “We s-stand up and t-take n-names.”
She gave a grin. Draw these guys out. “I see.”
“S-straight up. We k-kicked some dude’s ass the other night.” He nodded with satisfaction and slurped beer.
“What dude?”
“S-some s-snitch.”
Stan glared at Ace. “Maybe cool it, little brother?”
“What dude got his ass kicked?” Colleen asked Ace.
Ace blinked rapidly. “S-some r-retard.”
“You guys beat up a gimp? Whoa. Big time.”
Stan interjected while Ace turned red with verbal frustration. “Ace shouldn’t be talking out of school, Carol Anne, but he’s telling it like it is. We don’t play at it like these other guys.” He thumbed his chest with pride. “When it counts, we can be counted on.”
“So what exactly did you guys do?” Colleen asked, wanting details.
“Only threw his f-fuckin’ ass in a d-dumpster!” Ace spat.
“That’s enough, Ace,” Stan said.
Colleen suppressed a shudder of disgust, even as she welcomed the admission.
“Shuggy, too?” she asked casually.
“You th-think he’d miss a p-party like that? It w-was his idea.”
So it was official: Shuggy and his pals beat Lucky to death.
“Why?” she asked.
“Something big is going down, Carol Anne,” Stan said, tapping his nose. “And we caught some weasel listening in. So he really did it to himself.”
“What’s going down?”
“You’ll find out.”
“I hate surprises,” she said. “Come on, Stan. Quit playin’ hard to get.”
Stan blushed and shook his head. “All in good time.”
She couldn’t push too hard without raising suspicion.
“Well, I guess I stand corrected.” Colleen nodded with feigned respect, while inside, she roiled. “I take it back. I’m glad to know you guys.” And she was, because these two, along with Shuggy, were going to pay. She’d hand them over to Owens, or Sergeant Dwight.
The singer snarled into the mic: “This one is called ‘Justice Is My Name.’”
Fist of Vengeance pounded into a song that sounded similar to the previous one, filling the air with angry noise. This one featured the tale of Joe, a hardworking white man trying to feed his family while immigrants squatting in his building steal from him when they are not cat-calling his wife and underage daughter. Joe loses his job when a “mongrel” siphons gas out of his truck and he’s late for work. If the message of Joe’s plight wasn’t clear enough, his Jewish landlord won’t do anything about the squatters either. The overworked police are too busy fighting crime in the ghetto to help. Then, while looking for work, Joe’s wife and daughter are raped by the squatters. Joe is obviously going to have to take matters into his own hands. He loads up the shotgun and heads downstairs.
The crowd was eating it up, those at the front of the stage shouting along, fists raised and shaking in unison.
No longer will I turn my cheek!
No longer will I live in shame!
The time has come for vengeance!
Justice is my name!
Colleen looked over at Dr. Lange across the room. Shuggy was gone. She caught Dr. Lange’s eye. He gave her a timid smile. She returned a long, sleepy one, the kind men liked.
He liked it.
Another lead she might be able to pass on.
She flashed Stan and Ace a smile and pushed off toward Dr. Lange and his crew.
“We got one more before Dr. Lange speaks,” the singer said into the mic. “This one is called ‘Final Solution.’”
Oh joy, Colleen thought.
The band plowed into another major offensive. The action at the front of the stage was beginning to resemble a football game without helmets.
Dr. Lange was going over papers, his speech most likely. Colleen approached.
The tall woman in black blocked Colleen’s way.
“Can I help you?” She had to shout over the music.
“I just wanted to introduce myself to Dr. Lange,” Colleen yelled back. “I’m an admirer of his work.”
“He’s about to talk.”
“Real quick.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Maybe afterwards.”
“He’s got a red-eye to Los Angeles.”
Damn. “He’s a busy man,” Colleen said.
“Yes, he is. Who are you with?”
“I’m a friend of Shuggy’s,” she said.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I see.”
Colleen caught Dr. Lange’s eye again. He came over, his hand out.
“I’m Dr. Lange,” he said in a high voice. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
“Carol Anne Aird.”
“Thanks for coming. How do you like it so far?”
“Well, to be honest, my ears are bleeding, but then I came to hear your speech.”
“I know this music isn’t for everybody.”
“It’s the price we pay to reach people,” she said.
“Exactly. Exactly. You’re a smart woman.”
“I’d love to get involved,” she said, with another one of those looks, before she added, “with the organization.”
“That would be splendid. I’m thinking of running for office. And I can use all the help I can get.”
“What office would that be?”
He gave her a knowing look. “When you know, you’ll know. But let’s just say that this city is long past due its spring cleaning.”
Colleen wondered if one of those cleaning tasks was shooting the mayor.
“Well,” she said. “Sign me up.”
“Excellent. You do understand you’ll have to be vetted first?”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” she said. “Can I get a business card?”
The tall woman interrupted. “Your speech, Dr. Lange?” She shot Colleen a squint.
“Doris,” he said to the tall woman. “Get this woman’s contact info.”
Dr. Lange was introduced onstage by the clown in the purple Klan robe. “And now, let’s give a warm welcome to the man whose book, The Plight of the White Race, has earned him continued respect and given a voice to the silent majority.”
Dr. Lange stepped up and spoke in a squealed monotone about the reasons white people were in dire trouble: racial interbreeding, liberals, communists, the Soviet Union, sexual permissiveness, Africa, Latin America, Israel, foreigners, weather patterns, government subsidies to minorities, the breakup of the nuclear family, birth control, and more. He never once mentioned a race by name, but you knew exactly who he was talking about. Nothing about a call to shoot the mayor. But if anyone had a hand in such a thing, he would be a fit.
“I need to get your contact info,” Doris said to Colleen.
Colleen had her phony business cards for Pacific All Risk, but she didn’t want any exposure at all with this crowd. And she honestly didn’t think Doris would see that her info got to Dr. Lange. The green-eyed monster was lurking behind her
beady eyes.
“Doesn’t Dr. Lange have a business card?” she asked.
“Dr. Lange needs to be careful who he gives his contact information to.”
Colleen returned an artificial smile. “I see.”
All Colleen wanted to do was leave, but she needed to get hold of Dr. Lange after his speech. She looked over at the kegs, the crowd, saw Shuggy watching her. No smile.
The speech was only ten minutes but it was a long speech.
Dr. Lange stood down to moderate applause, came back over.
Colleen got in front of Doris.
“Excellent speech, Dr. Lange.”
“Why, thank you, Carol Anne.”
“Can I get your card?” Colleen said, blocking Doris as she hovered about.
“Didn’t Doris give you one?”
Colleen dropped her voice. “I think there might have been a misunderstanding.”
“I see.” Dr. Lange reached into his jacket pocket, came out with a gold business card case. He extracted a card, got out a pen, jotted a number on the back.
“That’s my direct line,” he said. “Maybe you and I can get together over dinner and discuss a potential role.” Raised one eyebrow.
“I’d like that,” she said, taking the card. “I’d like that a lot.”
Doris couldn’t take it any longer. She barged in. “You’re going to be late for your red-eye, Dr. Lange.”
“Yes, Doris.”
Colleen bid adieu, trading looks with Doris who, surprisingly, hadn’t pulled a knife on her.
Fist of Vengeance got back onstage to raucous cheers.
“Let’s have another hand for a really smart man who fucking tells it like it is.”
Another smattering of applause was followed by drum rolls and screeching guitars. Drunken young men jumped up and down. Colleen reminded herself to pack earplugs next time.
Shuggy was talking to Stan and Ace. She took the long way around, headed for the exit as the band thumped away.
Outside, the air was fog wet and pleasantly bereft of racket. She ignored Jimbo, headed to her car. The big trike and Stan’s Police Special were still there.
Bad Scene Page 6
