Fifteen minutes later, they were bouncing over a rutted dirt road so narrow that scrub bushes and small pines brushed against their windows. Off to the left, tiny green lights flickered and disappeared.
“Deer,” Bobby said.
Soon they arrived at a clearing, then a small rise, more like a bump in the road, and then a hand-painted sign that said ARYAN MOUNTAIN KIRK, PASTER TOM MILLER. A small, dilapidated, wood-frame cracker house was up ahead and beside it sat a Quonset hut-like barn of corrugated aluminum painted in green and brown camouflage patches.
Bobby parked the van a few yards from the front door and waited. A light came on over the door, and a huge, older man filled the doorway. He must have been 6′6″, 300 pounds. “Jesus H. Christ,” Bobby said. The man was mythic-looking, with a John Brown spade beard and combat boots and bib overalls that strained against his belly and chest.
“Wait here,” Bobby said. “I don’t come out in ten minutes, you start the engine and drive the fuck out of here.”
She showed him her Seecamp. “You don’t come out, I’m going in after you.”
“Christ, Sheila. That little thing will only piss him off. A couple of shots from that would be like mosquito bites.”
Sheila shrugged. “Whatever, Bobby. Sure.”
Bobby got out of the van and the huge man approached, followed by a muscular white pit bull, about Hoshi’s size. Hoshi flattened his ears and began to growl low in his throat.
A few words were exchanged, the men shook hands and then the huge man seemed to embrace Bobby. He picked the pistol out of Bobby’s belt with thumb and forefinger, as if it were something rancid, and tossed it into the bushes. Then he put one of his massive arms around Bobby’s shoulders and walked him toward the Quonset hut. It was the first time Bobby had ever looked small to Sheila.
The fur on Hoshi’s back bristled, and he growled again. Sheila scratched his ears, but he paid no attention. “Everything’s going to be all right, Hosh,” she said as the two men and the pit bull disappeared into the hut.
Inside the hut, the Reverend Miller introduced his dog. “I call him Dog-Dog,” he said, and reached down to pat his head. “He’s a loyal guy. An Aryan, too.” He winked at Bobby and smiled. “White race got to stick together, Bobby.” He laughed. “You can go ahead and pet him. He won’t bite. Not unless I tell him to.”
Bobby stroked the pit bull’s back, which was covered with scars. His ears were clipped for fighting and his eyes were mean and yellow.
“Bobby Squared, huh?” the reverend said. “What kind of a name is that?”
Bobby thought for a moment, decided to chance it, looked up into the huge man’s eyes and said, “It used to be Robert Redfeather, when I was on the reservation.”
“It did, huh? You should have kept it. Indians are a noble race. They should never have let us in. Ruined the whole damn neighborhood.” He threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Come on. Let’s see what I got for you.”
The Quonset hut was hot and smelled of mildew and hay and horseshit and, strangely, gun oil. A card table was stacked high with pamphlets and books: Letters from the Mountain Kirk. The Turner Diaries. The Brotherhood. The Order. The reverend palmed a copy of The Holy Book of Adolf Hitler. “What a great man, eh, Bobby?”
“If you say so, Reverend.”
The man winked again and then, with a vast gesture of his meaty arm, motioned toward the far end of the hut, where Bobby saw a barren altar with a wooden pulpit and behind it not a cross but an enormous Nazi flag pinned to the wall.
“The faithful love that shit,” said the reverend. “Hitler, swastikas, burning crosses. Keeps ’em happy.” He shook his head mournfully. “But so what? If that’s what they want, fine, I’ll give it to ’em.”
“Where were you ordained, Reverend?” Bobby said.
“Where?” The man glared. “Where? Right fucking here. I came out here one night and ordained myself.” He crossed the room and unlocked a door to the right of his pulpit. “I’m my own fucking god, Bobby. After you.”
Bobby stepped into a smaller room filled floor to ceiling with cardboard boxes. They were stamped in black letters: BRNO. PRODUCT OF CZECHOSLOVAKIA; ISRAELI MILITARY INDUSTRIES; LLAMA GABILANDO. PRODUCT OF SPAIN; NORINCO. PRODUCT OF THE PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA; BERETTA. PRODUCT OF ITALY. The reverend opened a box stamped NORINCO and held up an AK-17. “I believe this is what you’re looking for?” He racked the side, aimed the AK at Bobby’s forehead and pulled the trigger. Click. He threw back his head and roared again, his booming laughter echoing off the aluminum walls. He tossed the AK to Bobby and began to open other boxes, producing CZ-75 pistols, Uzis, a Llama 45.
Bobby handed back the AK. “Everything but the Llama,” he said. “My man doesn’t like those spic guns.”
“A man after my own heart. Here, let me show you something.” He went over to a closet and opened the door. Ten big tins labeled SURVIVAL CRACKERS were stacked on the floor. The clothes rack was lined with satin Ku Klux Klan robes in several colors. “I got red, I got green, I got yellow.” The reverend touched them. “Robes for every occasion. Formal, casual, beachwear. They love it. But this” — he pulled a box from one of the upper shelves and held it out to Bobby — “is what I wanted to show you.” He opened the lid and gently parted the layers of tissue paper.
It was a Cuban flag. Three blue stripes, two white stripes, a white star in a red triangle. The flag was soiled and ripped in places, blackened with gunpowder, stained with dried blood. The reverend watched Bobby as he looked at the flag, then he, too, looked at it.
“I fought for this flag,” he said, tapping Bobby’s arm for emphasis. “I believed in it. It was the only thing I ever believed in. I carried it into battle in the Sierra Maestra, and into Havana after we routed Batista. I was mobbed, like a god. The people shouted, “Gringo! Gringo!” I could have had anything I wanted. Anything! But I only wanted the revolution to work. They were good people. I became an outlaw in my own country for them.”
He spat on the floor. “And how did that bastard Castro repay me? He waited until we cleaned the Batista forces out, then he came in two days later, the conquering hero. He pinned a medal on my chest in the middle of Havana, with a couple hundred thousand people screaming, “Gringo! Gringo!” Fidel bent over and whispered in my ear, ‘You think you’re bigger than me, gringo?’ So he put me in charge of the execution squads. The dirtiest fucking job, to humiliate me. I told him the Batistas had fought bravely, that we should let them into the revolution now. But he wouldn’t listen. I went around the countryside with a firing squad. A shit detail.”
The reverend shook his head. “But I only once pulled the trigger myself. Fidel was going to shoot this poor little bastard himself, with the guy’s wife and little kid watching, the worst thing you can think of. They made the guy kneel in front of Fidel, but the bastard had heart. He looked right into Fidel’s eyes and told him to pull the trigger. Fucking Fidel tossed me his gun and told me to do it. I’ll never forget it. A chromed P-38, a Nazi gun. Fidel was never a Communist. He was a Nazi.” The reverend’s eyes went blank. “So I shot him, poor guy Two weeks later, Fidel put out a warrant for my arrest. Treason.” He slammed the lid on the box and shoved it back into the closet. “I took a slow boat to Miami.”