Looking at Cal Linley and then at the Nazi memorabilia on the shelves, he had a difficult time seeing his point of view.
"You a member of a racist group, too?"
The big man looked surprised by the question. "Why should I answer? So you can open a file on me?"
"Look, Mr. Linley, I swear to God there will be no record of my visit."
Again Linley was taken aback. Duarte didn't think he was smart enough to catch the subtle threat in the comment.
The longshoreman took a small step back. "What do you want, ATF man?"
"Answers. That's it. You tell me and I'll leave."
"What if I threw you out instead?"
Duarte didn't respond. He rarely did to threats. Instead he picked up a tiny statue of a woman holding a banner with a swastika. "This valuable?"
"More'n you could afford."
Duarte heaved it against the front wall, the small figurine shattering almost into dust."
"You crazy? What kind of federal agent are you?"
"One that needs answers." He leaned toward the shelves and then flicked a ceramic Black Sambo playing a banjo off the shelf and watched it break into a dozen pieces on the hardwood floor.
"That's Americana. It's art. I spent my whole life collecting it."
Duarte looked at the shaken man and said, "The Mona Lisa is art. That thing was insulting. Especially how you look at it." He bumped the shelf, and two candlestick holders with German writing on them clinked together then fell over.
Linley shrieked, "Dammit! Cut that out."
Duarte didn't acknowledge him. Instead he reached over and picked up a beer stein with a glass bottom.
"No, not that. It's engraved to me personally."
"From who?"
Linley hesitated, then said, "The commander of the Aryan Army."
Duarte shook his head. "What was in the crate?"
"I told you, I don't know."
Duarte dropped the stein straight to the ground. He heard the man say "Okay," and in a lightning-quick flick of his hand and bend of the knees, he caught the mug an inch off the ground.
Duarte said, "I'm listening."
"I did take something from the container, but I swear I don't know what it was exactly."
"What do you think it was?"
The big man scratched his chin as he formulated an answer. "I just saw the metal and some wires, but I was thinking it might be some kind of machine."
"To do what?"
He hesitated and finally said, "I think it has something to do with oil wells."
"Like how?"
The tall man shook his head. "I ain't sure, but I think it might be a drill head or maybe even something to fuck up the oil flow."
"How'd you figure that out?"
"I ain't stupid. I know the folks bringing it into the U.S."
Duarte had a lot of questions, but decided to go with "Where'd you take it?"
"A motel over in Metairie."
"Who'd you give it to?"
Linley paused, appraising the ATF agent again. Duarte lifted his hand with the engraved stein.
"Okay, okay. I gave it to a young fella from Omaha."
"Look, you're dragging your feet. Just tell me the whole story, and I'll be out of here. Keep stalling, and I might have another accident." To emphasize his comment, he lowered the stein, but flicked a cast-iron tank a little bigger than his hand off the shelf, then while it was still in the air he kicked it hard. It flew in a straight line directly through a windowpane on the side of the house. He hadn't meant to aim for the window, but he wouldn't admit it to this moron.
Linley yelled, "Would you cut that out? I'll tell you." He took a breath and said, "His name was 'Ike' and I called him on a pay phone in Omaha. The president of the National Army of White Americans, Mr. Jessup, hooked us up. All I did was deliver the crate to him. Mr. Jessup spent his whole life in the oil business."
"The NAWA? You're kidding me, right?"
"Nope. We're allowed representation."
Duarte sighed, then said, "How much they pay you?"
"Nothin'."
"Then why'd you do it?"
"To help my country. They is gonna use whatever it is to help build a stronger country."
Duarte eyed the man. "A stronger country for whom?"
"Americans, you dumb-ass. You seen what's going on in this country? We need to do something, and I done my part. I ain't ashamed of it either. Figured the association has some way to set things straight."
"Like what?"
The big man's eyes shifted, then he said, "Maybe taking control of oil production. Hell, I don't know." Sticking to his same story.
Duarte questioned him some more about "Ike" and the motel. At least he had a lead.
When he had all the information he could use, Duarte said, "Look, Mr. Linley. Give me the phone number to this Ike and whatever else you know, and you can forget I was ever here."
"But I'll know by my smashed stuff."
Duarte looked at the remains of the few items he'd broken and at the hole in the window. Then he looked up at Linley. "Believe me, you got off easy."
25
IN THE LOBBY OF THEIR HOTEL, ALEX DUARTE SHOOK HIS HEAD. He had just recounted all that Cal Linley had told him the night before.
Lina looked at Félix, then back to the ATF agent and said, "Oil doesn't fit in with our sources here in the U.S. I don't see it as a possibility."
He looked over at Félix. The DEA man had seemed more and more disturbed by the death of his informant, Gastlin. Often cops took the full brunt of responsibility for the deaths of people who worked for them. Duarte had seen the subtle signs that Félix was being eaten alive by this. Félix had made a note of Cal Linley's name on a small pad.
Félix finally said, "He does sound a little crazy, bro. Why would he do shit like that for no money? And what would 'help the country' in a crate that fit in the back of a truck? Could oil equipment be more valuable than pot?"
Lina sounded interested now. "What would be more valuable than the pot?"
"Coke or maybe even heroin. That would bring in a hell of a lot more cash than pot."
Duarte sighed. "There's something wrong here. It may have to do with our load, and it maybe points to Ortíz."
Lina said, "Or it might distract us from working on the case. It could work both ways."
Duarte nodded and said, "Regardless, I'm staying a few more days until I'm satisfied."
Félix said, "I'm with you then, bro. Maybe I can help." He paused and then said, "You really think this guy Linley might know something about Gastlin?"
"He might know someone who does. It's a long shot, but I feel like I have to follow up on it."
Lina became more agitated and said, "You're both foolish. It was a load of pot, and you feel guilty your snitch got killed. That's it."
Duarte kept his dark eyes on the FBI agent. "Lina, it's not like I'm asking you to jump in on this. I just have a few leads to run down. Maybe it is nothing."
"You have a report on your interview?"
"No report on that interview."
She shook her head like a frustrated teacher.
Duarte let her calm down a little and said, "Have you seen the colonel? I've got a few questions for him."
Lina shook her head. "No, he's been gone since early this morning."