I looked at him, replied, "Thomas Dickens was murdered by people associated with your lady friend on the radio."
He just couldn't help himself; he leered, then barked, "Good! One less nigger we'll have to kill when the war starts."
Uh-oh. I'd obviously been wrong about Piggott being finished, and his psychotic hatred appeared to have given him a second wind. I considered smacking him in his broken mouth, but didn't have the stomach or heart. Besides, considering his remark, it was beginning to occur to me that Paul Piggott had not really found the beating he'd already taken all that unpleasant, and I didn't want to do him any favors. Garth apparently felt the same aversion-although he might well have some other punishment in mind for Paul Piggott, like a quick death. He walked across the room to where a collection of knives was mounted on the wall and selected a huge Bowie knife. Then he walked back to Piggott and pressed the tip of the blade up under the now thoroughly terrified man's chin. For a moment I was afraid he was going to drive the blade straight up through Piggott's skull, but he didn't. Instead he lazily worked the tip back and forth in the sweaty flesh until a tiny hole had been opened in Piggott's quivering jowl. A drop of blood became a stream that ran down the man's throat and over his chest.
"Garth. .?"
"Not to worry, Mongo," Garth replied in a whisper. "Everything's under control. I'm just lowering his blood pressure."
"Hey, all I ever did was send around somebody to try to lay a lot of money on you!" Piggott burbled. "I didn't kill the African American guy!"
I said, "We know that. Let's get back to your lady friend. What makes a big macho guy like you so eager to act as a gofer for some woman you've never met?"
Piggott's eyes were wide and crossed as he gaped down his nose toward where the tip of the Bowie knife was stuck in his jowl. "Take the knife away," he mumbled. "I can't talk."
Garth took the knife away from the man's jowl. Piggott cowered as he pressed his blood-soaked handkerchief to the fresh wound in his throat. He croaked, "Are you going to kill me?"
"A distinct possibility," I replied. "The only thing you've got going for you is my brother's deep sympathy for the mentally handicapped, and your continued cooperation. Answer my question. Why are you so hot to do everything this woman tells you? Because she and her people give your group money?"
In an instant the light in his eyes had flickered from fear to hatred, and he glared at me. "I don't have any say where that money goes," he said through clenched teeth. "And none of it goes into my pocket. I do what she asks because she and her people get things done."
"Explain. Start by telling us how you got your hands on this particular radio in the first place."
"It was delivered a little more than a year ago, along with some batteries and the beeper."
"Who delivered it?"
"Some guy in a pickup truck. He didn't say anything-just put the radio and stuff down on the ground and gave me an envelope with a grand inside along with a note. The note said the radio and money were from people who wanted to help us fight ZOG. It said that if I was really serious about fighting for the rights of white Christians, I'd take the radio, set it to that frequency, and wait to be contacted. Me, I'm not stupid, so I figured it was just the goddamn government trying to trick me into doing something they could nail me for. But I figured it couldn't hurt to set up the radio and see what happened, so I did. Then the woman started calling me."
"And she asked you to do certain things?"
He shook his head, mumbled, "Not at first. I wouldn't have done anything for her in the beginning because I didn't have any reason to trust her. She said she understood that, so she was going to provide me with what she called her bony fideys. She said her people were going to do certain things to show me I could trust her, and they did."
"What did they do?"
"They killed people," he replied nonchalantly, wiping blood off his chin. "Kikes, niggers, spicks. Mud people. So-called community leaders around the country. First I'd get newspaper clippings about some troublemaker. Then, a few days later, I'd get an obituary notice saying the man or woman had been killed in an accident. I knew they were no accidents, because I'd been told about them in advance."
I shook my head, swallowed hard to try to work up some moisture in my mouth. "This still goes on?"
"Sure, it still goes on. ZOG is still in control, isn't it?"
"Who delivers the clippings?"
"A guy on a motorcycle. He doesn't stop. He just drives in, drops an envelope with the clippings on the ground, then drives off again."
"Does he have a schedule?"
"No."
"When was the last time he was here?"
Piggott thought about it, shrugged. "Last week-a couple of days after that lady kike on the Supreme Court died."
"The woman on the radio told you that Mabel Roscowicz was going to die?"
"I just said so. I knew about the guy who died just before her too. Any outfit that can take out two ZOG kike justices like that is one I'm going to take seriously. That's why I take orders from the woman."
"So what else has this woman asked you to do besides send somebody to try to bribe me and provide a shooting range for the two crew cuts?"
He looked away. "I said I didn't kill the poem guy. I didn't have anything to do with that. I wasn't even told about it."
"That wasn't the question. How many people have you and your friends here killed?"
"We haven't killed anybody. And the woman hasn't asked me to do that many things. Our main orders are to sit here and wait."
"For what?"
"To fight ZOG when the time is right. The woman says there are big changes coming in the country, and we're going to be foot soldiers on the front lines." He paused, glanced back and forth between Garth and me, then continued, "You're both white guys. You'd better start thinking about lining up on the right side before it's too late."
Garth said, "Pretty slim pickings here, Mongo. This is just a reserve unit of thugs and errand boys who probably don't know what day it is."
"Yeah, well, the trip hasn't been a total waste of time. Paulie here will make a colorful witness to the mystery lady's predictions. Also, we now know that they're not planning to use snipers at long range; the shooters plan to do their work up close and personal. The information will help the Secret Service."
"Maybe, maybe not. The president and vice president aren't going to let the Secret Service lock them up in a closet until November. The shooters get to pick the time and place, and they expect to die. It's going to be hard to stop them."
"True. But we've done our bit for the Republic. We have verification that the two justices were murdered. The FBI will want to chat Paulie up, and he shouldn't be too hard to find if and when congressional hearings are ever held."
Piggott's voice was coming back. "Hey, wait a minute!" he said, sitting up straighten "I'm not testifying to anything! You guys are likely to be dead soon! ZOG will be on its knees!"
Garth ignored him. "Yeah, but we've used up two days going on three, and we're no closer to finding Fournier or identifying his associates in the company. Those are the people you and I are after."
I nodded as I sighed in resignation, then walked across the room to the radio with the single, preset frequency. "This is a dandy piece of CIA equipment. No serial numbers, but experts might be able to trace some of the components and identify the manufacturer, who might be able to link it to the company. Too bad it's too heavy for us to lug out of here."
"What do you mean, CIA?" Piggott said with genuine indignation. "The CIA's an arm of ZOG!"
"They're the people you've been taking money and orders from, shithead," Garth replied without looking at the man.
I walked around the radio, peered through a cooling vent on the side. I'd turned the radio off, but there was a small blue bulb still glowing inside. I felt my stomach muscles tighten. "You leave this radio on all the time, Paulie?"