He went back behind the desk, sat, picked up the black gun, and used a fingernail to scrape something off its barrel.
“Start,” he said.
34
I pushed through my fear of him. Concentrated on the tacky ribbons. The costumes, the banner, the paramilitary bullshit.
D.F.
Play to his ego.
I said, “Well, one thing I’ve figured out is your previous identity. Dayton Auhagen. Darryl Ahlward. Which one’s real?”
“When you ask questions,” he said, “my mind wanders.”
“Okay, let’s go back to fashion, then. Your taste in clothes a few years ago: buckskins. Long hair, a beard too. Perfect image for roaming the wilderness. For surviving in places like the forests of southern Idaho. Surrounding Bear Lodge. You trapped, hunted, lived off the land. Using all those survivalist skills you figured would come in handy when the brown stuff hit the Armageddon fan. Nifty stuff, self-reliance. Where’d you learn it from?”
Latch said, “It’s in the blood,” like a child reciting a lesson.
Ahlward flashed him another sharp look. But it lacked energy.
He liked the attention. All those years of charade. Executive assistant. Waiting to be center stage.
I said. “In the blood, huh? That mean you’re a second-generation storm trooper? Got roots in the Fatherland, D.F.?”
I expected him to brush that off, but he gave a slow measured headshake. “I’m all-American. More American than you or that soft, sorry piece of shit over there could ever conceive.”
“All-American,” I said. “Ah. Was your father in the Bund itself, or one of the splinter groups?”
The amber eyes opened a bit. “You know about the Bund?”
“Just what I’ve read.”
“In the establishment press?”
I nodded.
“Then you don’t know shit. The Bund was the most effective citizens’ lobby this country’s ever known. The only patriots with the foresight to warn against getting involved in the kike-war. So instead of heeding the warning and rewarding them for their foresight, Rosenvelt hunted them down like criminal scum. So he’d be free to send our boys over to Europe to die for the kikes and the commie-maggots and the pope-fuckers and faggot-scum like you.”
Latch said, “Major blunder. Sociologically as well as politically. World War Kike was the first step toward mass mongrelization. Opened the sluices for all the Asian and Semitic sewage Europe had no use for.”
I ignored him, concentrated on Ahlward. “Like I said, D.F., all I know about the Bund is what I’ve read. Which no doubt is biased. But you can see the establishment’s point- a war going on, the public being told day after day who the enemy is. Swastikas and sieg heils in Madison Square Garden wouldn’t go over great.”
Ahlward gave a petulant, impatient look and slapped the desk hard. “That’s because the establishment was too stupid to know who the real enemy was. Mass stupidity fed by the Zionist-occupier media. Mass weakness due to drugs and toxins developed in secret labs by the Zionist-infiltrated Rosenvelt army. The Zionist-occupier doles out drugs and toxins like candy- that’s why they all become doctors, to poison the goyim. That’s what kosher food’s really about- the little U they put on cans. You know what goyim means in serpent-tongue? Sheep. We’re fucking sheep to them. To be shorn and slaughtered. You know what the U stands for? Some Yid-word that means poison. They use toxins and tranquilizers that their bodies can tolerate because they’re constructed of toxic cells. But we can’t and it gradually weakens us. Physiological hypnosis- it’s been scientifically proven. Been that way for centuries in every society the Zionist-occupier infiltrates. Gradual mass passivity, decadence, then inevitable destruction. Every liberation movement has to overcome it by wielding the cleansing spear.”
It reminded me of stuff I’d heard during internship. On the back wards of state hospitals. He reeled it off in the flat tones of a high school thespian.
I said, “Cleansing spear,” and looked at the banner behind him.
Latch said, “The spear of Woden. The ultimate cleansing machine.”
Once again I ignored him and asked Ahlward: “What about Crisp and Blanchard and the rest of them? They second-generation Bundists too?”
His eyes narrowed. “Something like that.”
“No skinheads for you, huh, D.F.?”
Latch laughed and said, “Punks. Rank-amateur clowns. We prize discipline.”
I said, “So, am I right about the mountain-man bit, D.F.?”
Ahlward sat back in the swivel chair and put his hands behind his head.
“Okay,” I said. “So you’re living off the land and hiding from the government. Just like some of your former enemies on the left. Your movement’s in trouble. So is the left. Cointelpro, Nixon, J. Edgar. Divide and conquer and it’s working. It gets you thinking. By squaring off against the left, you’re giving the establishment exactly what it wants. Some people on the left realize it too. And you all come to realize that when you stop to think about it, the radical right and the radical left have lots in common. You both believe society has to be torn down in order to totally restructure it. That democracy is weak and inefficient, controlled by the international bankers and running-dog press-by the talking class. A new populism is called for- empowering the working man. And the main issue that used to separate you- race- is no longer that big of a stumbling block. Because there are white leftists enraged at the uppity blacks who’d tried to kick them out of their own movement. White leftists getting in touch with their own racism.”
“A beacon of wisdom,” said Latch, “shining through the shit pile.”
I said, “I don’t know who thought of it first, D.F., but somehow you communicated and a new concept was conceived. Wannsee Two. Pressing inward from the outermost edges in order to squeeze the center and crush it to death. Which is how you got together with old Gordie here.”
A quick look at Latch, then back to Ahlward. “Though to tell the truth, D.F., I really can’t see the appeal. You’re clearly a man of action. He’s nothing more than a hot-air purveyor living off his wife’s money.”
Latch swore and waited for Ahlward to defend him. When the redheaded man didn’t speak, I went on.
“He’s the proverbial empty barrel making lots and lots of noise. A lap dog- the ultimate example of the talking class. Do you really think he’ll be able to cut it when the time comes?”
Latch jumped to his feet. The impact jostled Milo; his body rolled to the edge of the sofa, then rolled back. His mouth gaped. As I searched the battered face for signs of consciousness, I felt another wasp-sting on my cheek. A new layer of pain veneering a three-year-old jaw injury. Memories of wires and putty… My head shot back. Another layer.
Latch was standing over me, spittle collecting in the corners of his mouth: a lap dog gone rabid. He raised his arm to hit me again.
And starring as the punching bag in tonight’s school pageant is little Alex Delaware…
He struck out, and the rattling in my head reverberated like acid rock pumped through a cheap amplifier.
After the knife, petty annoyance.
I looked up at him and said, “Temper, temper, Gordie.”
He ground his teeth and drew back his fist. Just before impact, I feinted to one side. His hand grazed me. He was caught off balance and stumbled.
Ahlward looked disgusted. He said, “Sit down, Gordon.”
Latch righted himself, stood there panting, his hands bunched. High color in the freckled cheeks. The welfare glasses askew.
My head hurt, but not that badly. My arms were numb. Gazelle-anesthesia, or loss of circulation?
I said, “Why don’t you sit down and toot your harmonica, Gordie?”