WILLIAM "IKE" FLOYD PULLED THE RYDER VAN INTO THE PARKING lot of a diner on the outskirts of Houston. It wasn't dark yet, but he was a little tired. His run-in with Pelly as he was about to leave Lafayette had spooked him, but the hairy Panamanian had not seemed to care too much where Ike had slept. What did it matter, really? He had to wait until Mr. Ortíz contacted the person here in Houston who knew what to do with the damn thing in the van. He had told Ike it would be a few days. He obviously didn't expect Ike to go without sleep and food for a few days, so what did it matter if he was in Louisiana or Texas? The locals all acted the same down in this end of the country. The accents were hard to tell apart, and it seemed like everyone wanted to pick a fight or steal your stuff. Ike didn't think he'd miss Omaha and its steady, comfortable life, but after the beating Craig had given him and then the comments Mr. Ortíz had made, Ike wondered if he wouldn't have been better off staying at home and just trying to expand his chapter of the National Army of White Americans. Or maybe just getting a promotion to major.
Ike did wonder what would happen to him if he was caught on this mission. This time he hadn't already fucked up and been forced to do what he had done. This time there were no excuses. He would carry this out, and things would change. Things would change, and he'd be famous.
He just didn't see how he would be able to enjoy it at all.
Inside the diner, he picked at a cheeseburger and thick, undercooked French fries. He still had to find a computer to check the e-mail account, get a hotel room that would be secure for the van, too, and then worry about Mr. Ortíz contacting the guy who knew what to do with his cargo.
As Ike ate, three men came in the front door. Two were older than Ike, in their late thirties. The third was a decade younger and seemed to have a little more interest in fitness. The trio were all in dirty jeans and filthy T-shirts. Each had a small backpack. The younger one wore a T-shirt with no sleeves, and his large upper arm bore an intricate tattoo with a swastika in the center.
They started to sit at the counter, but the man behind it held his nose and sent them to the booth next to Ike's, as far from the counter as they could go. All three shambled along, as one patron or waitress after another gave them dirty looks. Ike knew the looks well. They were not being shunned because they were dirty or possibly homeless. It was the tattoo and the fact that the oldest of the three had a German cross around his neck on a leather string. These men were being discriminated against for pride in their race.
As they came closer, Ike looked them in the eye and smiled. The oldest one, with a shabby mustache, saw the gesture and returned it, nudging his friends so they would also see the friendly face.
They stopped in front of Ike. "Hey, brother," said the older, scruffy one, "you recognize the symbols of race and power?"
It was the slogan of the White Aryan Men of America, an organization that tried to unify all the splintered white-power groups.
He answered with the second part of the slogan. "And I adhere to the laws of God's selection." It was the first time something like that had ever happened to him. He felt like beaming. Like he had stumbled on allies in the midst of a war.
The man asked, "Can we join you?"
Ike held out a welcoming hand.
"I'm Charlie. This here is Chuck and Charles."
"You're kidding, right?"
"Nope. Just chance that we all met up at a rally in Little Rock a month or so back. We all used 'Charlie,' but thought it'd get confusing if we called each other Charlie all the time. We rolled dice to see who got what handle." He smiled, showing missing teeth all across his upper plate.
The younger man eyed Ike's food like a wolf on a farm. The waitress didn't seem interested in visiting the table again.
Ike slid the plate to the center of the table. "You guys want some?"
All three men reached at the same time. After a minute of concentrated munching, Charlie looked at Ike. "Thanks, brother. We're mighty hungry. Not many people stop for three grown men hitchhiking. Best we get is the back of a produce truck once in a while."
"Where are you heading?"
"West, maybe California. We been stuck here in Houston, working as day laborers for the past week." He looked around like someone might wait on them. "What about you? Live here or visiting?"
"Just got into Houston now."
All three men eyed him. Charlie said, "This ain't no place for a white man, brother. We been ousted from a shelter, robbed twice and generally treated like turds. This here place is full of them Katrina refugees, and let me tell ya, they are a rough bunch. New Orleans must be paradise with all their hoodlums over here."
Ike shook his head. "I can tell you from recent experience that New Orleans is no paradise."
"What are you doin' here?"
"Working for the Cause."
Charlie smiled again. "No shit? Need any help? We're outta work. You know how people discriminate against us."
Ike thought about his run-in with Craig and those disastrous results. Then he thought about keeping an eye on the truck. These tired, hungry men weren't predators. They were members of the same kind of outfit as Ike.
"What if I told you I'd pay you in a couple of days for helping me? Would you be interested?"
"We gotta work with niggers?"
"Nope."
"We gotta get up early?"
"Maybe one of you at a time."
"We gotta lift anything heavy?"
"Nope,"
"Then we're your men."
Ike realized that the early schedule and hard labor were what really bothered these men, but it didn't matter. He just needed someone to tell him if the rental van was being bothered. He nodded approval at his new friends.
Staub may not have been in this bar, but Pelly certainly didn't consider it time wasted. He couldn't believe this attractive girl with the broken nose named Lina had sat at the end of the bar, leaned in close to him and talked over the music for almost an hour now. She was fascinating in that she loved to do all sorts of sports and didn't seem to notice his condition in the least. Of course, he had already shaved twice in the past hour. Every time he went to the bathroom, he ran his razor over his stubble.
Lina had seemed very open to him except for what she did for a living. He didn't believe she was a female kickboxing champion, but he didn't want to risk calling her a liar. Not when she was being so friendly.
A song that Pelly did not recognize blared over the speakers, and Lina stood with a bright smile across her crooked mouth. "This is my favorite song."
Pelly said, "I am not familiar with it."
"You will be," said Lina as she took his hand and jerked him onto his feet. "We're dancing." It was a direct order, and she tugged him along behind her like a mother would a child.
He had not danced since one had been arranged for his grade school with the girls from a small school run by nuns. He remembered he liked the smell on one small girl with long, rich hair. Other than that, his experience with dancing was what he caught on MTV when he was somewhere with a satellite.
Lina held his hand as she started to bounce to the rhythm of the music. He felt the bass and instinctively knew to bob to the beat. Shuffling his feet slightly, he felt like no one could identify him as a hairy policeman/killer from Panama. Although he doubted that Lina had completely bought his story of being an art historian from Madrid.
They danced through the song, and then another, older-sounding song called "Shout" came on and everyone seemed to know how to dance to it. He just followed Lina's example.
A drunken woman with outrageously large, fake breasts, kept bumping into Lina and him during the song as her tall boyfriend attempted to spin her every so often. Pelly didn't mind it. In fact, he was enjoying his first night out on the town in the United States. Maybe this wasn't such a bad assignment after all.
Pelly found the rhythm to the song and enjoyed seeing Lina's form move to the beat. He felt his hair below his face mat with sweat, but knew it was unnoticeable under his long-sleeved shirt. He had shaved a small circle near his throat so he could leave his shirt opened one button.
Then the drunken, top-heavy woman seemed to turn an ankle and started to go down hard. Pelly twisted to catch her at an awkward angle, but it was too late. With her long nails she groped out, looking for a way to keep from falling on the dance floor.
She found his collar and grabbed on instinctively.
He felt his shirt start to tear and buttons start to pop even as he tried to catch the woman.
As she landed and rolled slightly, he felt the front of his shirt fall open before he could stop it. Even in the low light of the dance floor, he knew everyone could see him. He felt his thick chest hair untangle and fall out of the tear in his shirt. He touched his chest and realized the shirt was open almost to his stomach. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hair near his shoulder start to pop straight up now that it was free. Dark, tall, proud strands of hair he battled with daily. Now, when he needed to win the battle most, the hair had defeated him and escaped.
Then he heard someone with a thick New Orleans accent say, "Jesus, would ya look at that boy. He must be part monkey."
Pelly's fist was in the man's mouth before he could follow up the comment. Someone stepped up to grab Pelly, then fell to one side. Pelly turned and saw Lina, the girl he had just met, standing over him, her foot coming back to the ground after kicking the man who tried to accost him from behind.
Maybe she really was a kickboxing champ.