He moved through the crowded dance floor and to the less-busy bar. He rubbed his face out of habit and felt some slight bristles but no real hair yet. It had been thirty-five minutes since he shaved. He thought he had at least another hour and a half before things got out of control and he started getting looks again. He had a razor in his pocket for a touch-up if needed.
He looked around, and at the end of the bar he saw a single woman with an empty bar stool next to her. Conveniently, it was the only empty one at the bar. He approached it casually and said in his best English, "Is this stool available?"
The woman looked up from her drink and nodded her head.
Pelly smiled, trying to figure out if the woman was attractive. She had dark, seductive eyes and a sharp jawline, but there was something asymmetrical about her face that seemed odd. Pelly knew the feeling and thought fate might have put him next to this woman.
He leaned into her, catching a whiff of the straight bourbon in her glass. "Are you visiting New Orleans?" He spoke just loud enough to be heard over the sound system that was playing some dance mix he had not heard before.
The woman looked up. "I don't live here. No." She gave him a crooked smile. "What about you?"
"I am from," he paused because he didn't want to give too much information, but he didn't want to be a peasant from Panama to this American bourbon-drinking woman. "Spain. I am from Spain in Europe." He smiled as he unconsciously rubbed his face with his right hand.
"Where in Spain?" She turned to face him as he had hoped.
"Madrid."
"Oh, Madrid is beautiful."
"Yes, yes, it is. And that is where I was born. Madrid."
She smiled and held out her hand. "Hi."
Pelly took her somewhat large hand and said, "My name is Arturo Pelligrino, but my friends call me Pelly."
"Hello, Pelly. I'm Lina."
38
WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD PULLED THE RYDER VAN INTO THE PARKING lot of a diner on the outskirts of Houston. It wasn't dark yet, but he was a little tired. His run-in with Pelly as he was about to leave Lafayette had spooked him, but the hairy Panamanian had not seemed to care too much where Ike had slept. What did it matter, really? He had to wait until Mr. Ortíz contacted the person here in Houston who knew what to do with the damn thing in the van. He had told Ike it would be a few days. He obviously didn't expect Ike to go without sleep and food for a few days, so what did it matter if he was in Louisiana or Texas? The locals all acted the same down in this end of the country. The accents were hard to tell apart, and it seemed like everyone wanted to pick a fight or steal your stuff. Ike didn't think he'd miss Omaha and its steady, comfortable life, but after the beating Craig had given him and then the comments Mr. Ortíz had made, Ike wondered if he wouldn't have been better off staying at home and just trying to expand his chapter of the National Army of White Americans. Or maybe just getting a promotion to major.
Ike did wonder what would happen to him if he was caught on this mission. This time he hadn't already fucked up and been forced to do what he had done. This time there were no excuses. He would carry this out, and things would change. Things would change, and he'd be famous.
He just didn't see how he would be able to enjoy it at all.
Inside the diner, he picked at a cheeseburger and thick, undercooked French fries. He still had to find a computer to check the e-mail account, get a hotel room that would be secure for the van, too, and then worry about Mr. Ortíz contacting the guy who knew what to do with his cargo.
As Ike ate, three men came in the front door. Two were older than Ike, in their late thirties. The third was a decade younger and seemed to have a little more interest in fitness. The trio were all in dirty jeans and filthy T-shirts. Each had a small backpack. The younger one wore a T-shirt with no sleeves, and his large upper arm bore an intricate tattoo with a swastika in the center.
They started to sit at the counter, but the man behind it held his nose and sent them to the booth next to Ike's, as far from the counter as they could go. All three shambled along, as one patron or waitress after another gave them dirty looks. Ike knew the looks well. They were not being shunned because they were dirty or possibly homeless. It was the tattoo and the fact that the oldest of the three had a German cross around his neck on a leather string. These men were being discriminated against for pride in their race.
As they came closer, Ike looked them in the eye and smiled. The oldest one, with a shabby mustache, saw the gesture and returned it, nudging his friends so they would also see the friendly face.
They stopped in front of Ike. "Hey, brother," said the older, scruffy one, "you recognize the symbols of race and power?"
It was the slogan of the White Aryan Men of America, an organization that tried to unify all the splintered white-power groups.
He answered with the second part of the slogan. "And I adhere to the laws of God's selection." It was the first time something like that had ever happened to him. He felt like beaming. Like he had stumbled on allies in the midst of a war.
The man asked, "Can we join you?"
Ike held out a welcoming hand.
"I'm Charlie. This here is Chuck and Charles."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope. Just chance that we all met up at a rally in Little Rock a month or so back. We all used 'Charlie,' but thought it'd get confusing if we called each other Charlie all the time. We rolled dice to see who got what handle." He smiled, showing missing teeth all across his upper plate.
The younger man eyed Ike's food like a wolf on a farm. The waitress didn't seem interested in visiting the table again.
Ike slid the plate to the center of the table. "You guys want some?"
All three men reached at the same time. After a minute of concentrated munching, Charlie looked at Ike. "Thanks, brother. We're mighty hungry. Not many people stop for three grown men hitchhiking. Best we get is the back of a produce truck once in a while."
"Where are you heading?"
"West, maybe California. We been stuck here in Houston, working as day laborers for the past week." He looked around like someone might wait on them. "What about you? Live here or visiting?"
"Just got into Houston now."
All three men eyed him. Charlie said, "This ain't no place for a white man, brother. We been ousted from a shelter, robbed twice and generally treated like turds. This here place is full of them Katrina refugees, and let me tell ya, they are a rough bunch. New Orleans must be paradise with all their hoodlums over here."
Ike shook his head. "I can tell you from recent experience that New Orleans is no paradise."
"What are you doin' here?"
"Working for the Cause."
Charlie smiled again. "No shit? Need any help? We're outta work. You know how people discriminate against us."
Ike thought about his run-in with Craig and those disastrous results. Then he thought about keeping an eye on the truck. These tired, hungry men weren't predators. They were members of the same kind of outfit as Ike.
"What if I told you I'd pay you in a couple of days for helping me? Would you be interested?"
"We gotta work with niggers?"