He said, "Your dad was in the war, right?" "Tank gunner," Richard said.
"Well, let me ask you," Louis said. "What side was he on?"
Richard looked at him straight, 240 pounds of Richard in his T-shirt and police pants with the light-blue stripe down the side, crew-cut head looking at Louis--no screwing around with Richard-- not a glimmer of anything in his blue eyes.
"My dad was with the 9th Armored. KIA at Remagen, March 12, 1945. I was two years old." Louis said, "Oh."
The reason he was confused, there were photographs of American soldiers sitting on tanks; but there was also a red, white and black swastika on the wall; pictures of German soldiers cut out of magazines; a photograph of Adolf Hitler, and a nice shot of Heinrich Himmler in his black SS uniform.
Ordell was watching Louis taking his time to look at all the stuff on the wall before he got to the gun display. Ordell said, "See, Richard says the Germans the best soldiers in the world and it don't matter about sides now. That right, Richard?"
Richard must have nodded. Louis didn't hear him say anything. Louis said, "How come they lost then?"
"Logistics," Richard said, "their troops divided up on two fronts. The way it should've been, we should've been over there helping them fight the Communists."
Jesus Christ, Louis thought. Again he said, "Oh," and picked up a copy of a tabloid newspaper with the name THUNDERBOLT on the masthead. Published, he noticed, by the National States Rights Party. Louis came to a poster and glanced over at Ordell. Ordell was grinning. The lettering on the poster said, Nothing is lower than Niggers and Jews, except the Police who protect them.
Ordell said, "Richard believes some niggers are all right though. Hey, Richard?"
"Some," Richard said.
"The rest he want to send back to Africa--" "The ones on welfare," Richard said.
"Yeah, the ones on welfare he want to send back. I say, Richard, but Ah's from Cleveland. He says it's all right for me to stay. Least till we get this job done."
Louis reached the conference table that displayed Richard's arsenal, an assortment of rifles, revolvers, a musket, shotguns--one sawed off--several grenades, bayonets, trench knives, a gas mask, a German helmet, an Afrika Korps soft hat, Nazi armbands, belt buckles, an SS death's head insignia, boxes of cartridges and shotgun shells.
"Show him some," Ordell said.
Richard picked up the musket first. "Well, this here is your Kentucky rifle, black powder musket. That little sawed-off's a Mercury 12-gauge double barrel. Let's see, you got your Mauser, German K-43 semi-automatic ... Beretta M-59 Assault Rifle, holds twenty rounds. Here's your famous Walther P.38, some people think is a Luger ... your Colt .45 ... your Smith and Wesson Combat Masterpiece ... Iver Johnson Sidewinder, some Saturday night specials that ain't worth a shit for killing anybody, I mean stopping them, but they're sort of interesting, you know? Here's my favorite weapon, Colt Python .357 Mag. Son of a bitch weighs almost four pounds. It'll knock a man down and tear a hole in him big as a fist coming out."
Ordell said, "That the one you carry?"
"When I'm on duty," Richard said.
Louis said, "You ever shoot anybody?"
Richard looked at him and seemed to think about it before saying, "Not yet."
"Over here," Ordell said. "What's it called, Richard?"
"That's your Valtox drug-screening kit," Richard said. "Runs you fifty-nine ninety-five." He walked over to the open vinyl case, sitting on a wall shelf, that contained small bottles with eyedropper tops and what looked like test tubes. "You can test over twenty-five different drugs. Marijuana, hashish, your amphetamines and opium alkaloids, also your LSD, STP and so on." Richard picked up one of the bottles. "This here is your new cocaine odor test. Put a drop on the material and if it's cocaine you get a smell like, it's like a wintergreen mint."
"Brush your teeth with it and get high," Ordell said. "What else you got?"
Richard's thick body revolved slowly as he looked around, raising stubby hands to rest on his hips. Like a guard in a concentration camp, Louis thought. Jesus.
Richard said, "Well--"
"You notice in the drive?" Ordell said to Louis. "He's got an AMC Hornet, man, pure black, no shit on the outside at all, your plain unmarked car. But inside--tell him, Richard."
Richard said, "Well, I got a rollbar. I got heavy-duty Gabriel Striders. I got a shotgun mount in front."
"He's got one of those flashers," Ordell said, "Kojak reaches out, puts up on his roof?"
"Super Fireball with a magnetic bottom. Let's see," Richard said, "I got a Federal PA one-seventy electronic siren, you can work it wail, yelp or hi-lo. Well, in the trunk I keep a Schermuly gas grenade gun, some other equipment. Night-chuk riot baton. An M-17 gas mask." He thought a moment. "I got a Legster leg holster. You ever see one?"
"He's gonna see everything," Ordell said. He took Louis into the hall, squeezing past Richard. He showed Louis the bathroom and opened the door to a small bedroom. "Big enough, huh?" Louis looked in. He saw a vanity made of blond wood and a single bed covered with a decorative chenille spread.
Downstairs, Ordell said, "Don't Richard keep a nice house?" He made a sweeping motion with his hand, presenting the lace curtains and furniture to Louis, the fat maroon couch and easychairs with crocheted antimacassars on the arms and headrests. "He's a good cook, too," Ordell said. "Fixes noodles with about anything you can name. Don't you, Richard?"
"I like noodles," Richard said.
Ordell was picking up the Sunday Free Press from the coffee table, looking for a section. He said, "I'm gonna take a piece of this, Richard. Okay?"
No, Richard was shaking his head. "I haven't read it yet."
"I'll leave the funnies, man. I just want this part here."
Outside, getting into the van, Louis said, "Jesus Christ, I don't believe it."
"I told you he's beautiful," Ordell said. "I love Richard. Make a wonderful screw at some maximum security joint." He dropped the section of newspaper on Louis' lap and started the engine. "See, what he does, Richard trips on that Nazi shit; makes him feel big. What I like about him, in his mind there ain't any bullshit. I mean everything's in order."
"His mind," Louis said. "That guy's got fucking cement for brains."
Ordell glanced at the rear-view mirror pulling away from the house. "Sure he does, but that's the beauty. I tell him the man's a big rich Jew, that's all Richard has to hear. See, it's for the cause then. It's like you wind him up--he'd do it even if he didn't need the money so bad."
"What's he need money for, buy some more guns?" Louis glanced at the newspaper that said, across the top, FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN, and caught the word tennis below it.
"No, he needs to find his old lady. She ran out on him."
"Jesus, I don't blame her."
"Yeah," Ordell said, "first time in years his old lady is probably happy. Don't have to get up and salute the swastika."
Louis was holding the newspaper open now, looking at the full page of photographs of tennis moms and their kids.
"Which one is she?"
Ordell reached over and pointed to one of the pictures. "That one. See over near the end it's got something about, this man saying how much it cost him for his kid to play?"
"Yeah?"
"That's the man. Spend six, seven grand a year on tennis balls."
Louis was still looking at the picture of Mickey Dawson.
"I was expecting her to be older," he said. "An older woman. You know, she's not bad looking in the picture."
"You're gonna see her for real," Ordell said, "if we can work it, get up close to the place."
"It says her name's Mickey."
"You hear what I said?"
"What place? This is some tour, you know it?" "Out where the rich folks live," Ordell said. "Call the Deep Run Country Club."