“May I come in?”
Hansen stepped out of the doorway and ushered him in.
For a large house, it was remarkably simple. The rooms were all rectangles. The walls were eggshell white with western paintings hanging on them. The floors were wide-plank hardwood with bright Indian rugs.
“Come into my office,” Hansen said.
Neal followed him into a small room with a plain wooden desk, a swivel chair, and a straight-back cane chair. He gestured for Neal to take the cane chair as he sat in the upholstered swivel. Neal figured that this positioning was used to intimidate employees, let ’em know who was the boss, as if there were any question.
“What was last night all about?” Hansen asked.
“It was about keeping Cal out of prison.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know Cal. He would’ve killed Mills. Then where would he be? More important, where would we be? If Cal had any brains he’d be thanking me for jumping him.”
“You’re a smart man, Neal.”
If I were smart I wouldn’t be here.
Hansen continued, “But I don’t know how committed you really are.”
“I’m committed, Mr. Hansen,” Neal answered. Or should be, anyway.
Hansen tapped a pencil on his desk as he looked Neal over. Then he said, “It’s a dilemma for me, Neal, it is. Because I was about to make you a full member of our brotherhood. We were even planning the swearing-in ceremony.”
Great. Terrific. Good job, Neal. Screw everything up in a barroom brawl.
Neal looked him square in the eye. White man to white man. “There’s nothing I want in the whole world more than to be a member of the brotherhood, sir.”
Hansen nodded. “That’s fine, Neal. Because we need you. We need your skills.”
Damn right you do. You couldn’t knock off a gumball machine without me telling you how.
“We’re going to rob an armored car,” Hansen said.
Or an armored car.
“A sympathizer in Los Angeles has ‘tipped us off to this opportunity, so it will be an ‘inside job,’” Hansen said, his eye twinkling as he trotted out his criminal jargon. “An armored car company services the little banks and the mines around here. It’s making a big run in two weeks. I was hoping you could organize the hijacking.”
Neal whistled. “An armored car is a lot tougher animal than a pimp or a card game or a pickpocket, sir. I don’t know if we’re ready for it.” He sat quietly for a few moments, thinking it over. “How much money are we talking?” he asked.
Hansen’s eyes widened. He leaned forward in his chair and carefully pronounced, “Two to three hundred thousand dollars.”
“Two hundred large,” Neal said. “That’s a lot of money.”
Hansen sat back again. “I can’t begin to think what getting that money would do for the cause,” he said.
“Getting it and getting away with it are two different things.”
“That’s why we need you, Neal.”
Well, come and get me, Bob. Neal stood up and offered his hand. “I’d be real honored to help, Mr. Hansen. I want to fight for my race.”
Hansen stood up and took his hand. “I’m so glad to hear you say that, son. And after this mission is over, you’ll become a brother. I promise.”
Then Hansen bent on one knee, pulling Neal down with him.
“Let’s pray together, Neal,” he said. He bowed his head and said, “Oh, Yahweh, bless this, your fine young warrior, and bless our common endeavor. Bless our holy war against your enemies. Your will be done, amen.”
“Amen,” Neal echoed.
Now let’s eat.
Two weeks, Neal thought as he walked over to the bunkhouse to make his peace with the boys. I can do another two weeks.
He didn’t get it. He got about two hours.
While he was sitting in the bunkhouse with the boys, talking about the swearing-in ceremony, and the End Time, and about the big job they had to start planning, Steve Mills came to call on Bob Hansen.
“It’s good of you to come over, Steve,” Bob said as they sat in his kitchen. “We been neighbors too long to have bad blood.”
They were drinking out of jelly jars. Steve was having some of the scotch that Hansen kept for guests, Hansen was drinking milk.
“I don’t have any hard feelings for you, Bob. But lately, the hands you’ve been hiring… they have a certain low tone. Anyway, I was a jackass last night and I apologize. If we can round up your boys, I’ll shake their hands.”
It seemed like the opening Hansen had been waiting months for. So he told his old neighbor Steve all about it. How he’d first come across some literature from the Reverend C. Wesley Carter, how he’d visited his church while on business in LA, how he began to see his true Christian identity and his rights and duties as a white man. Hell, they both knew what was happening to this country. The damn federal government was taking over everything, telling a man what he could do and what he couldn’t.
“It’s true,” admitted Steve. “You can’t raise a cow or cut a tree without seventeen bureaucrats giving you permission.”
Wasn’t it the truth, Bob continued. The government had already ruined both coasts and was working its way toward the middle. Why, this was the last open, free country on earth, up here on The High Lonely, but it wouldn’t be long before the government destroyed what they had here. And he was sure that Steve knew why.
Steve allowed that he had some ideas about the federal government.
Jews, that’s why, Bob told him. The Zionist conspiracy to rule the world. That’s why they’re letting those subhuman niggers run riot. And homosexuals. They’re all in on it. The IRS, the Federal Reserve, the FBI-all were riddled with Jews.
Bob told him all about the True Christian Identity Church, how becoming a member had changed his life, made him see things the way they were, and promised him salvation. How Jory had come to see the truth too, and how he now hired only men who were committed to the cause. And as his friend and neighbor for these twenty years, he felt it was his duty to invite Steve to join.
“Well, I don’t think I can do that, Bob,” Steve said when he was finished.
“I do wish you’d give it a try.”
Steve shook his head, finished his whiskey, and set the glass down on the table.
“May I ask why not?” Bob said. He felt his hopes for Steve fading away.
“Sure,” Steve answered. “I guess it’s because I’m Jewish.”
Which stopped the dialogue.
Feeling the need to fill the conversational void, Steve added, “Half Jewish, anyway. On the top side. Mother was Irish as a drunken wake, but my old man’s old man came over from Russia. I think the original name was Milkowski, something like that. Got shortened somewhere along the line. Anyway, I don’t guess you want me in your church.”
“Get out,” Hansen said. His face had drained of color.
Steve stood up. “You bet,” he said.
He took his time getting to the door while Hansen sat in his chair, staring at the table.
“Oh, Bob,” Steve said from the door. “Shalom.”
Hansen sat in a rage for a couple of minutes before the thought hit him. Then he got up and ran toward the compound.
Neal looked up from cleaning his gun as Hansen burst through the barracks door.
“Where’s Jory?” Hansen yelled.
All of the men froze at his rage. No one wanted to speak.
“I think he took Shelly to lunch in town,” Neal said. “Is something wrong?”
Hansen looked like he might have a stroke any second.
“Steve Mills is a goddamn Jew!” he roared.
Yup, Neal thought, something’s wrong.
They all sat there looking at one another for a second.
“Get off your asses and go get him!” Hansen hollered. “Get him away from that Jew bitch! Bring him back!”
Hansen turned and stormed out the door.
“You heard the man,” Vetter said.
Cal Strekker let out the whooping laugh he’d been holding in. “Well, how about that! Prince Jory’s been cuddling with a Jew! And don’t know it!”
“Let’s get after it,” said Carlisle.