Chapter Five

They’d been in the car for almost half an hour, silent. Dr. Gerchstein’s wheelchair was secured to the floor at the very rear end of the Tahoe. He looked comfortable, and he was holding a glass of champagne. Across from him, the standard bench seat had been replaced by a small leather couch. That’s where Red was sitting. But Red didn’t look comfortable. He wasn’t comfortable. He was an unarmed suburbanite with the barrel of some lunatic’s assault rifle resting a little too casually against his neck. Not a sling shot. Not a pistol. Not a 10-gauge put-a-whole-in-your-ass shotgun. An assault rifle—the type bad Russian actors use in war films when they want to make human sponges.

"Allow me to clear things up a bit." The good doctor took a sip of champagne. "You are Red McGill, recent winner of the Coca-Cola mystery prize. Yesterday, you received that prize, which was a document. Specifically, it was a segment of a very ancient book that has everything to do with me."

"I never got it," explained Red. "The mailman was killed and his car was stolen."

Dr. Gerchstein paused. He glanced at one of his hirelings, muttered something in German, and looked back at Red. "There are consequences for lying, Red McGill. We’re not your government. If you are lying to us, we will not imprison you. We will not kill you. Your end will be much more dreadful." Gerchstein produced a Barbie doll and shook it at Red. "We will insert this through your rectum, which will then be sewn shut. You will be our captive for three days. As our captive, you will be humiliated and insulted. You will be unendingly mocked and called ‘candy-ass’ and ‘pansy-ass’ and your meals will consist entirely of beans. On the third day, you will be released. You will die shortly, unless a doctor undoes the stitching." He smiled. "In the latter case, this doll will exit your body so rapidly and violently that your digestive tract will be shredded, dislodged, and ejected. In which case you will die."

"Well… I’m not lying."

"Very well." Gerchstein nodded sadly and put the doll away. "Let’s move on. There will be people looking for you, Mr. McGill. People that will do almost anything to get their hands on what you were supposed to have received. If I were you, I’d leave town."

"I’ll certainly do—"

"No, you will not. If you leave town, my men will kill you."

"Well then why did you just—"

"Mr. McGill, your suggestions thus far have been preposterous. Now be silent." Gerchstein finished off the champagne and tossed the glass to an Aryan underling, who snatched it out of the air. "We’re going to make this interesting, Mr. McGill. We don’t know who this mail thief is, or who he works for. But we will find him. We will not rest until every segment of Jasher is in our possession, and this considered we are willing to extend to you the following proposition: if at any point in the near future the segment comes into your ownership, we will pay you ten thousand dollars for it. If, on the other hand, you at any time possess the document and fail to transfer it to us, you will die. Do we have a deal?"

"Well, I’m not sure that—"

"If you refuse my offer, you will die."

"Deal."

"Good. You will be closely watched. Do you have any questions?"

Red thought for a moment. "Yes, actually… who are you, exactly?"

"I could tell you," replied Gerchstein, "but—"

"But then I’d have to die, right? Yeah, I get it. All right then. Why did the cop run?"

At this, Gerchstein glanced at Dietrich, nodded, and spoke. "That man… yes. Before today, we’d only corresponded with him through mail or on the phone. We’re not sure of his real name, but the fact is he’s not important. Even if we did allow you to communicate with police officers, you wouldn’t want anything to do with this one—he’s an old ally and a new enemy, you could say, and certainly of no value to any honest organization. He’s corrupt, to put it simply. You see, I have a few connections to his superiors, and he would have hated for me to say anything to them regarding his recent activities. Go near him and he might harm you. If he doesn’t, we will kill you."

"Say I come up with the prize. Where can I find you?"

"We’ll find you."

Red shrugged. "Fair enough. Listen, if it isn’t too much trouble… somebody’s been leaving notes on my door. Weird notes. If you or your men happen to see him—"

"We’ll take care of it. It was nice meeting you, Mr. McGill. Dietrich will show you out." With that, Dietrich took his gun off Red’s neck and opened the rear door. The car was still traveling at fifty miles per hour.

"Ummm… I don’t think—"

"If you do not exit the car, you—"

Red jumped.

Red’s ankle gave out instantly, and the rest of Red wound up a groaning, lacerated heap on the highway side. He attempted, with what little cunning he’d preserved, to catch the license plate number from the back of the Tahoe. But that was impossible. With a good deal of pain, he composed and erected himself. He’d suffered a slash to his right arm in addition to whatever was causing the excruciating pain in his ankle. One of his fingers hurt like hell. He looked around. He was on the northbound side of the turnpike. A police car with giant, chrome rims was rolling toward him.

And, suddenly, he had this abnormal craving for a muffin.

Officer Elvis pulled over, and Red ran.

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His trip had worn off. Sergeant Pybas was thinking clearly enough now to understand that this rodent-driving fellow was in serious danger. He wasn’t sure how he was going to explain the entire fiasco. Surely the poor sap knew nothing of Gerchstein—which meant that if he did explain the situation, he could just end up frightening the kid more than the good doctor had. If he hadn’t already. And by the way the guy was running now, Pybas was pretty sure that he had. It was almost humorous, really; this scantily clothed, pale-skinned unfortunate with short, ruffled hair darting about a Miami highway as though he’d eventually find a tree to hide behind.

Pybas watched Red as he attempted to flag down passing cars. It was like watching a laboratory rat in a maze, thought Pybas. Only a cat had been added. Well, a damn lazy, cruel cat by the way Pybas just sort of stood there enjoying himself. Gerchstein had probably fed him the usual bullshit. It wasn’t all unfounded, sure. But it was enough. He’d have to break the kid into it all slowly. Very slowly. He drew his gun.

"Stop running and get in the car," he called across the highway. Forty seconds later an angry, barely rational, and rather terrified Red McGill sat in the back seat of Sergeant Pybas’ patrol car.

-------

There was a knock on N’s door. He put down his beer, straightened his suit, and rose from his Lazy boy. His visitor still hadn’t stopped knocking. Red’s eyebrows caved in and he growled. He picked his beer back up and finished it off. The knocking didn’t stop until he’d opened the door.

Outside, a man wearing a broad-brimmed black hat, a black coat, and a white shirt stood, smiling, as though he hadn’t just TKO’d somebody’s door. He wore a long beard and sideburns, but no mustache. Amish.

"What do you want?" asked N in Dutch.

The Other Man’s smile widened and he pulled his coat to one side, to show N the revolver he had strapped to his waist. He said, in Dutch, "Ah, you know Dutch. You will show me to Red McGill or I will use force. Be quick about it."

N hadn’t flinched. "You’re a member of the Izz."

The Other Man was startled. "That doesn’t… no, how--"

"That doesn’t… no, how—oh, wait, you have no fucking idea what to say to that, do you?"

"This is a serious matter—"

"Oh, serious? It’s serious? I’m sorry, because for a minute I thought a Dutch-speaking goofy-ass just knocked on my door wearing medieval clothing and waving a pistol around as though it’s going to make one damned bit of difference."

The Other Man was reaching for his firearm when the bottle came crashing down on his skull. He crumbled.

N knelt casually, sighed, and searched the Other Man’s pockets. He withdrew a small picture of Red, threw it away, and continued rummaging. He did so to no apparent avail, and, frowning, he stood and let his eyes wander about the block until they came to rest upon a horse and buggy parked a few lots down. He cursed and disappeared into his house.

He returned minutes later with a length of rope, some super glue, and a marker. Whistling an old work tune, he stripped the Other Man’s clothes off and dragged him out of his front yard and down one-seventieth boulevard. When N was beneath the old gumbo limbo tree a block or so up the road, he pitched the rope over a thick branch that extended halfway across the street. The braver neighbors were out on their balconies crying bloody murder. The others were inside calling the police. N continued to whistle. He took one of his assailant’s hands and carefully super-glued all of its fingers, except the middle one, to its palm. He then wrote something across the man’s bare chest. He proceeded to glue the Other Man’s gun to his second hand and fasten one end of the rope to his ankle. A heave, a ho, and N hoisted him about eight feet into the air. He tied the loose end of the cord to a nearby fence post and made his way toward the Other Man’s horse and buggy.

A small leather bag rested on the passenger seat, which he inspected shortly after mounting the driver’s seat. The fruits of his labor were a palm pilot, a small bible, a key ring, a wallet, a business card, three condoms, and a CD. Flipping through the pocket-sized bible’s pages yielded another small card, which he removed before depositing the bible back into the bag. The wallet was empty save for some cash and a false ID, so it was returned as well. The business card was for a used hub-cap dealer in the Redlands and a few directions were scribbled on the back. A closer look, though, revealed that the directions on the back didn’t match the address on the card. N pocketed it. He did likewise with the palm pilot, and then took a second glance at the CD.

It’s was Lay-Z’s debut album, "Best Not Sit on My Ass." He put it aside.

Then he took the reigns, shouted something in Dutch, and the horses whinnied and moved. Producing the business card once more, N memorized the directions on the back, sighed, and headed for the turnpike.

--------

"Listen, I don’t want anything to do with this. I didn’t do anything illegal, so just let me out of the car and I’ll pretend none of this happened."

"I’m afraid that’s impossible, sir. You’ve implicated yourself in something more serious than you can quite possibly imagine."

"Implicated myself?" Red was becoming frustrated. He clenched the metal grate that separated him from Elvis, who had introduced himself as Seargent Pybas. "Myself? I don’t think so. I never wanted anything to do with this."

"Look, I’m sorry. But either way, you’re implicated. Where do you live?"

Red hesitated, but told him.

"I’m going to take you home. We’re going to have a little chat on the way. And then, if you play your cards right, you’ll live a perfectly normal life and probably forget about this whole fiasco in a couple years."

Red snorted. "This coming from Elvis."

"My fondness of Elvis is entirely personal and doesn’t get in the way of my work. And it doesn’t affect the fact that I know what’s going on right now—some of it, at least—and you don’t know anything. So shut up and listen."

Blah blah blah blah. This was just some corrupt cop. According to Gerchstein. Gerchstein, a handicapped Nazi. That left Red to trust Red, and Red alone. Red knew that Red wasn’t all that trustworthy either, but what choice did Red have? Which made Pybas as veritable as Gerchstein, who he’d listened to, which obligated Red to listen to Pybas. Well, would have if Red had any integrity. Or was he better off listening to neither of them? No. They had guns. Red would have to get a gun. He’d buy a revolver. A big shiny silver one, and he’d spin the barrel all the time.

"As you may have guessed, Gerchstein is a Nazi." Officer Pybas looked in his rear view mirror periodically. "He’s been in South Florida for years, searching for some book. I’m guessing—hypothesizing really—that you have some connection to that book, whether you know it or not."

"I won a mystery prize from Coca-Cola. Gerchstein said it was a book or something, but it was stolen yesterday before I received it."

"That clears things up. I don’t know much about the book, but I’m fairly certain that it’s very old and that it has to do with the ideals behind Nazism. The Nazis have rivals in the KKK, who, by the way, also have connections to the police department. I’m guessing they’re responsible for the theft of your prize."

"How do you know all this?"

Officer Pybas paused before answering. "I don’t know all of it per se. And it’s a long story. Long ago, when I was Detective, my superior, a good buddy of mine, was Gerchstein’s connection. That superior, was, one day, mysteriously relocated to West Palm Beach. I was to learn later that the KKK was behind that relocation, but at the time it gave me an opportunity to make some money, since I secretly carried on in my superior’s footsteps. You know, doing technical work, background reports and so on for Gerchstein. Big payoff. So this new guy—Robinson--replaces my superior, and one day I get a call from Gerchstein. He tells me that the new guy is linked to an enemy organization. Remember, at this point I didn’t know what the hell Gerchstein was part of. I didn’t care either. But he told me not to trust the new guy. Well, I saw another opportunity. One day I sneak into Robinson’s office while he’s away. Sure enough, his computer’s got evidence all over it—consisting primarily of former background reports on prominent African American and Latin local figureheads who weren’t really suspected of anything. I take a few pictures, save it to disk, sit down and wait for the guy to return. When he does he’s pissed. But I tell him to shut up, I tell him I know all about him and who he works for. I don’t really, but he believes me and he’s scared. I agree to keep quiet for one-third the money that he gets for the illegal work. I can tell he’s upset, but he hasn’t got a choice.

"What’s more, I demand to talk to his contact. He gets me on the line with him and then he leaves the office. The contact is angry at first, but I tell him I can supply him with information on Gerchstein. Suddenly there’s silence, and then he says ‘what do you want?’ I tell him I want to know who he’s working for, who Gerchstein’s working for, and ten thousand dollars a month. Plus I don’t want Robinson to know anything about our conversation. I want him to tell Robinson that everything’s peachy. He disappears for a few minutes, gets back on the line, and agrees to everything on the condition that I leave Robinson alone and never mention anything to him—or anyone else—again. I agree.

"So now I’m being paid by Gerchstein, Robinson, and the KKK, and I know exactly who it is that I’m being paid by. This lasts for about six months—"

"Until Gerchstein finds out?"

"Right. And I’m still not sure how he did. But that was the end of his payments, and also of the Klan’s, since I could no longer supply them with information. And, shortly after this, Robinson just stops paying me. This is no surprise, of course, as the KKK no longer had any obligation to keep him in the dark about me. Robinson can’t do much, but he does demote me to sergeant. That brings me up to date. Now I do traffic violations and worry all day about being killed. This is your exit, right?"

"Yes. So how did you know about the book?"

"That was a conclusion of my own, really. I became very interested in it all. You see, the people I had been looking up for Gerchstein were librarians, old book collectors, linguists—things like that. I even questioned a few of them. None of them seemed to know what I was talking about—and I suppose I didn’t either. I don’t think the KKK was looking for the same book at first, since Robinson’s work was more general, anti-minority stuff. But I do remember a few background reports on white Coca-Cola managers and executives down at the local bottling plant that Robinson had had on his computer. I couldn’t explain those until just now."

Red hummed and sat back. He was almost home. Why would this police officer tell Red, of all people, all this? He doubted all of it, and certainly didn’t believe the story was complete. "I don’t know. Of course, I don’t believe what you’re saying. But even if it is true, a local bottling plant would have little to nothing to do with my mystery prize. The bottle cap prizes are a national thing."

"Still though, there must be something up with that. And you’ll believe me soon enough."

Red wanted to ask a few more questions, especially concerning Ellie and the muffins, but he was interrupted by a particularly interesting radio transmission.

…numerous reports that a man was lynched on one-seventieth boulevard and ninety-second avenue, southwest…

"Hey, that’s right by my house…"

Officer Pybas turned up the volume. …just under six feet, unshaven, long oily black hair, dressed in a business suit, may be armed…

Red almost gasped. They were talking about N. And armed? Red wasn’t sure whether that was funny or horrifying.

Pybas picked up the speaker. "I’m right on it," he said. "Lights, siren, action." The car lurched forward.

And three minutes later, they watched from inside the car as a naked man with a strange haircut and "Fuck the Po-lice" written across his chest hung from a tree, waving a gun in one hand and his middle finger with the other.

And they responded in unison, as naturally as churchgoers reciting a line of some ancient creed: