Time Bomb (53 page)

I said, “Or is it Haberdashery
über Alles
?”

Latch said, “Asshole.”

I feigned puzzlement. “Let’s see now, which one are you, Gordie? Goebbels or Goering? Must be Goering, ’cause it looks like you’ve got a little paunch sprouting under those baggies. And what about the charming Ms. Crisp? Is she doing Eva Braun in tonight’s pageant, or is that Beth Bramble’s role?”

Ahlward sighted down the barrel of the big black pistol. His left eye closed. I fought to keep my eyes open, staring straight ahead. Behind him.

Concentrating on the spear logo, glowing scarlet and ugly. Thinking of photos at an exhibit. A wintry day in Bavaria. Bodies collapsing into a ditch.

“You’re a puzzling piece of turd,” said Ahlward. “I’ve researched you. Always getting into things that aren’t your business.”

“For the last time,” said Latch.

Ahlward said, “Show and Tell time, turd.” Gestured with the gun.

I said, “Why should I bother?”

Ahlward smiled. “Because,” he said. “Every second’s precious. Everyone thinks they’re immortal. Amazing the things creatures will do—how low they’ll sink—to buy seconds.”

I said, “Is that a fact?”

“Scientific fact. Toss a kike-creature in freezing water and watch him prolong his agony just to buy seconds.”

“Toss a penny in the pool and he’ll dive in voluntarily,” Latch added.

Ahlward smiled and said, “They gasped like fish and screamed in Yiddish for mercy, even though they knew it was no use. Just kept going until they turned into Popsicles. Scientists are using it today. Hotshot research on hypothermia. Who knows? Maybe you’ll end up benefiting mankind too.”

“An entire new area of inquiry,” said Latch. “Pain tolerance.”

“So,” said Ahlward. “You’ll cooperate. What’s the alternative?”

“The alternative is, I say fuck you.”

Ahlward put his gun away and pushed a button on the phone. His reward was a single short ring. He picked up the receiver and said, “Now.”

He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. Same stance I’d seen a few days ago. In a classroom.

A single knock sounded on the door.

Ahlward said, “In.”

Two clean-cuts came in, grasping something big and white and limp under the arms. Both of them were husky, very young. One was blond and had bad acne. The other, dark-haired, with a wispy mustache.

Twenty years old, tops. They should have been beer-bashing. Trolling for cheap thrills.

They stood at attention, grim, pithed of soul.

The white thing between them was Milo, head lolling, heels dragging.

Dead weight. My heart did a high jump and landed in my gullet, choking off air. I moved forward. Ahlward snatched up the gun and said, “Stay.”

Buy seconds.

I remained in place and looked at my friend.

He was barefoot and had been stripped down to his undershirt and trousers. The shirt was ripped and splotched with blood. His eyes were swollen shut, his lip split in a couple of places and blood-engorged. Worms of dried blood crawled all over his face, trailed down his chin and onto the shirt. One of his shoulders was exposed through a rent in the undershirt. Scraped raw and still weeping. Blue-maroon cabbage-shaped bruises blossomed along his arms. Despite his bulk, he looked small.

His head sank lower and bobbed. I saw more blood at the crown, crusting his hair. Where it hadn’t been damaged, his skin, always pale, had the dirty-porcelain cast of the terminal ward.

But faint pumping movement under the shirt. Respiration.

He passed wind; a raw growl.

Latch chuckled. The boys in black grinned.

I said, “Milo.” Louder than I’d intended; it made me sound desperate.

His face didn’t change but something passed through the raw-liver lips. Half sigh, half retch; I couldn’t tell if it was voluntary.

He sank again. The black-shirts tightened their grip. Eagle Scouts helping a drunk across the street, whether he wanted to cross or not . . .

Ahlward said to me: “Here’s the way it’s going to be. You’re going to sit down right now and not give me any shit, or I’m going to walk up to your asshole buddy and hurt him while you watch. When he’s no longer of any use, I’ll blow his brains out, making sure lots of wet gray stuff lands right on your shirt. Then I’ll cut the stuff with a fork and knife and feed it to you. Vomit it up, you’ll eat vomit for dessert. One way or the other, you’re going to get it all down. After that I’ll hurt you. Take you apart—surgery—and make you watch it happen. Turn you into a fucking cartoon. You’ll be the only one not laughing.”

Shrugging with my arms behind me was painful. I sat down. “Well, if you put it that way, D.F. . . . D.F. Let’s see—gotta be
Der Führer,
right? You guys have a thing for initials. D.F., L.D.—where’s the harmonica, Gordon? Still playing requests? How about the old ‘Horst Wessel Song,’ or isn’t that in your repertoire?”

Talking fast. To keep from shaking.

Ahlward gave his hand an impatient wave. The Gestapo-scouts began dragging Milo out of the room.

I said, “No. I want him here.” Surprised at the assertiveness in my voice. Good clear sound, finally, shooting out of my aching throat.

Buy seconds; I half-expected to die.

But Ahlward looked amused. He held up a hand and the black-shirts stood still.

“You
want.”

“You want what I’ve got, D.F. What I want in return is seconds. Just like you said. For both of us.”

“You
want.”

He got up and put his hands on his hips. He wore a narrow tooled black belt with a gold spear buckle. Hanging from the left side of his belt was a black leather sheath that dangled like an off-center codpiece. He slid something out of it. A hunting knife with a black haft and gold crosspiece. Wide, tapering, foot-long blade. Big enough for butchering large game. Outdoorsman’s knife . . .

He turned it, examined the blade, then lowered it and held it parallel to his right leg. Then he came from around the desk with remarkable speed and stood in front of me.

“
You
want
,” he said.

Smiling was as easy as chewing ground glass. “Got to play the few cards I’ve got, D.F.”

His pink eyebrows arched. “You think you have
cards
?”

“I know I do. The only reason you brought me here is because I have something you want—information. You need to find out how much I know, who I’ve talked to. About Bear Lodge. Wannsee Two.”

“Three,” said Latch.

A silencing look from Ahlward.

I said, “We’re talking damage control, D.F. You worked on Milo and he didn’t tell you much. Maybe he just didn’t know, or maybe he was tougher than you thought. In either event, you figure I’ll be a softer touch. And maybe I will—but not if you’re going to kill him anyway.”

“You and he have something going, do you?”

“It’s called friendship.”

“Right.” He smiled, lifted his right arm, and brought the knife up to my chin. And under.

“It’s your kind of decadence that brings a society down,” he said. “Softness. Putting it and taking it up the ass.” Probing with the knife.

“All soft,” he whispered. “Every inch of you.” A tiny flick of his wrist and the blade came away red-tipped and wet. He turned again, holding it so that it caught the light—and stared at the candy-apple glint.

No pain for a moment, then a throbbing pang just above my Adam’s apple. Wet heat. Like a wasp sting.

“This is you—this is all you are.” Blood-entranced. I wondered how many animals he’d tortured as a kid. How many people . . .

I said, “What can I do, D.F.? Sure, you’ve got most of the cards. But I’ve still got to use what I have. Survival. Just like you said.”

His blunt face was motionless. Then amused once more.

Then something else, dark and empty.

He raised the knife high, stabbed down hard.

I stumbled back, away from the slashing blade, anticipating agony. But less afraid than a moment before. Less afraid than I imagined I’d be—nerves deadened, anesthetized. The same kind of anesthesia they say overtakes gazelles just before the hyenas rip them apart.

I was on the floor, curled, head tucked, trying to be tiny.

But still alive. He’d stabbed air. From the look on his face I knew it had been intentional.

He began laughing.

Latch laughed too. The Gestaposcouts joined in.

A regular black-shirt gigglefest.

Through the gaiety, Ahlward’s voice, soft and boyish: “Get up.”

The laughter died.

He nudged my butt with his boot tip. Shiny black cowhide; no lizard for him. Gold chain dangling from instep to ankle.

Deprived of arm-balance, it took me a while to get to my feet. I didn’t want to see his face. Concentrated on his clothes. The battle ribbons looked phony. Homemade . . .

“Yes,” he was saying. “We’ll keep the faggot here, for efficiency’s sake. I’ll want both of you together anyway. The grand climax.” Smile. Frown. To the junior SS: “Dump it there.”

He crooked a thumb at the couch. Latch gave an uneasy look.

The Gestaposcouts dragged Milo over and dropped him next to Latch. The big bruised body landed on its belly, head on the armrest of the couch, mouth gaping, cabbage-arms flaccid, grubby feet brushing against Latch’s slacks. Latch wrinkled his nose and scooted to the far end. The scouts waited at attention until Ahlward nodded.

Then they were gone and the door closed behind them.

Milo groaned, rolled his head, stretched, and was touching Latch again. Latch looked as if he’d been ordered to drink a cup of spit. He shoved Milo’s foot away, wiped his hands on the arm of the couch, and squeezed himself farther into the corner. “Don’t you think we should tie him?”

Ahlward’s heavy jaw tightened and the hand holding the knife blanched. “Why’s that?”

“Just in ca—”

“Do you feel he’s a threat to you?”

Latch pushed his glasses up his nose. “No, not at all. I just wanted to be—”

“If there’s no threat, then there’s no need to worry, is there?” said Ahlward. “Let’s keep things logical. And as for this one”—he put the knife in its sheath and used his right hand to take hold of my nose—“he’s not going to be any problem, is he?” Finger pressure, cutting off my air. “He’s white-collar all the way.”

He gave Latch an amused look. “The talking class, right, Gordon?”

Latch gave a weak smile. “Absolutely.”

Led by the nose, I was pushed down in one of the folding chairs.

Ahlward said, “Wet and gray. All over your shirt. Maybe
infected
wet and gray stuff—all those little fag-viruses just waiting to squirm out and swan-dive into your blood system. If you’re not already infected. You like to eat men, turd? You’ll be eating
men.”

I said, “Better give your knife a thorough cleaning afterward, D.F. Keep yourself healthy for the revolution.”

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,
Rosen
velt 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.”