Dominion (51 page)

“There’s a couple of serious dudes,” Clarence pointed to his right. “Pull over. I want a closer look.”

Clarence eyed the two young men, one with a brownish green flight jacket, the other with a tight fitting, wide open Levi’s jacket, accentuating his bulging biceps. Both wore brown military-style shirts with white suspenders and white T-shirts showing from underneath. One wore plain black pants that highlighted the stark white of his suspenders and shoelaces; the other had on camouflage pants. The flight jacket sported an American flag; the other a swastika.

“Why are they called Skinheads? Most of them don’t shave their heads.”

“They used to,” Ollie said. “A lot of them don’t now because it makes them an easy mark for law enforcement. They want attention from other people, but not us. It all goes back to England in the sixties. The original skinheads shaved their heads to protest the hippies, who they saw as worthless, drug-using long-hairs. They were right about that, but not much else. Now you’ve got white supremacist groups all over Europe. The neo-Nazi movement in Germany has really taken off.

“See the Doc Martens?” Ollie pointed to their heavy workboots with steel-tipped toes. “Notice that punk has white laces—that’s about white supremacy, white power. The other dude? Red laces for blood—that means he’s shed blood for his cause. Okay, check out that pasty looking guy leaning against the wall, with the iron cross. See the 88?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it before. What’s it mean? A street number?”

“Nope. Each eight stands for the eighth letter of the alphabet,
H.
So 88 is HH— as in Heil Hitler.”

Clarence stared harder. They were close enough to see the larger tattoos, ranging from Swastikas to hooded Klansmen to Viking symbols and a small circle with a cross in the middle. Most of the tattoos had three or four letters. “What’s WSU?”

“Not Washington State University, unfortunately. White Student Union. SWP is Supreme White Power.”

“Look above the swastika behind them,” Clarence said, pointing. “Does that say what I think it does?”

Ollie strained his eyes and read the words slowly “Hitler didn’t finish the job. We will.”

“Incredible,” Clarence said. “Why doesn’t someone just wipe out those tags?”

“Maybe they will. Then a few hours later they’ll come up again.”

Clarence scanned the walls and the gangsters. “The creep in the Levi’s jacket has a tattoo that says BBKS. What’s that?”

Ollie hesitated. “Stands for Black Boy Killers.”

Clarence stared at the gangster, locking his eyes, then gazed at the graffiti on the wall behind him, the most prominent messages being “White Pride” and “Niggers Beware.”

The two boys now noticed Clarence. They glared at him with palpable disdain. The younger boy stared at Clarence, then grew uncomfortable to see the black man in the business suit staring back, eyes not blinking. The boy lost the battle and looked down. The other young man, the muscular one, held steady. He met Clarence’s gaze and poured out hatred through his eyes. He spit on the ground.

Clarence rolled down his window. “Somethin’ you don’t like?”

“What’s it to you, nigger?” The boy’s grimace shifted to an infantile grin.

“You punks are really tough, aren’t you?” Clarence said.

“Tough enough to take you, shoeshine boy.”

In one fluid motion Clarence hopped out of the car. The younger boy turned and broke into an all-out run. The muscular boy held his ground, reaching down to his boot. He pulled out a knife.

Clarence considered reaching for his own knife, but ruled it out when he remembered Ollie. Besides, he didn’t need a knife for this punk.

“You say you can take me,” Clarence blurted, moving closer to the boy. “I say yo’ mama raised a fool!”

Suddenly Clarence felt a firm grip around him and saw two hands join together below his diaphragm, squeezing painfully hard. It felt like a professional wrestler administering the Heimlich maneuver.

“Clarence! Get back in the car.” Ollie had never sounded so commanding. Clarence obeyed, reluctantly backing away.

The young man took a sudden step toward Ollie. “You come an inch closer,” Ollie warned him, “and you’re goin’ down little man. You’ll be breakin’ the fall with your face.”

“This is our turf. Don’t want no nigger-lovers here.”

“That’s
officer
nigger-lover. Portland police.” Ollie flashed his badge. “You own the whole city or just this corner?”

“We’re gonna own the country, man.”

“Not as long as I live here, you won’t.” Two other Skinheads walked closer, including the one who’d run off. Clarence opened the door and started to join Ollie.

“Stay where you are,” Ollie yelled back at Clarence, only turning his head slightly, keeping an eye on the gangsters crowding in close.

Emboldened by the presence of his homeboys, the muscular Skinhead stepped toward Ollie with his knife. With lightning speed, Ollie thrust his right hand inside his suit coat and pulled a SIG-Sauer .38 Super from his shoulder holster. He pointed it at the boy’s forehead, now only six feet away.

“Don’t try growin’ a brain on me, punk,” Ollie said. “Okay, which of you junior Nazis makes the move? I’ve got nine rounds here, three for each of you. I take requests—who wants his first?”

They all backed off, two of them raising their hands, the other lowering his knife.

“Now, I’m not going to make an arrest as it stands,” Ollie said, “but anybody tries anything, and I change my mind real quick. Got it?”

They nodded. Ollie backed up and got into the car. He drove off slowly, he and Clarence both sitting silently and peering over their shoulders to keep an eye on the Skinheads.

“Why didn’t you arrest them?” Clarence asked.

“More hassle for me than them. Take me longer to do the paperwork than they’d spend in jail. What’s the point? Besides, you started it.”

Clarence’s eyes dropped.

“This isn’t a game, Clarence. If I’m asking too much of you to not pick fights with gangsters, just let me know, okay? Criminy, cool your jets, will you?”

“They’re a bunch of racists.”

“Duh…well,
of course
they’re racists. That’s the whole point. Wake up and smell the coffee, Mr. Abernathy. Most gangsters are racists. It comes with the territory. But just because they’re morons doesn’t mean you have to compete with them for the head moron prize.” They sat quietly as Ollie drove back toward the precinct.

“Hey, Ollie,” Clarence finally said. “You surprised me. You’re strong. You move fast. Seemed like I was just out of the car when you grabbed me.”

“I’m so tough I do my own dental work,” Ollie said. “When I was born and the doctor slapped me, I gave him a head butt. Learn your lesson, Abernathy. Messin’ with me is like wearin’ cheese underwear down rat alley.”

“What’s with the girls?” Clarence pointed to a group of a half-dozen girls, several in short skirts, a couple in camouflage clothes, wearing iron crosses, 88s, and swastikas.

“They’re scary. Flakier than Mama’s piecrust. Girl gangbangers are a mystery to me. They want the attention of these guys—they’re impressed with their macho image, I guess. But the guys just pass them around like a bottle of cheap wine. Girls are much more active in the white supremacist groups than most gangs. They say it’s their duty to fight beside their men in the coming race war. They claim the race war will be on us either in 2000 or 2020.”

“Not much time left, huh?”

“They claim the L.A. riots were a warning to get armed and ready. Years ago when I interviewed them on that Ethiopian case, they kept calling their jailed members prisoners of war. And their dead members martyrs. A lot of them work out and stay in good shape because they’re prepping to be soldiers. It’s no joke—they’re dead serious.”

“What gang were those guys with?”

“White Power. Then there’s Americans White Pride, 100% Honkey, the Swastikas, the Lightning Bolts. The KKK and White Aryan Resistance and Aryan Nations are more traditional groups, but they recruit and take advantage of all the skinhead gangs. There’s a few so-called Christian groups—Church of the Creator and another church or two. Check out the gangsters over here.” Ollie pointed to several Asian young men, leaning against the walls under graffiti. “We’re going right by Red Cobra territory now. LA.’s got all the Asian gangs—Korean, Filipino, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Samoan, you name it. Portland’s getting more all the time. The Asian gangs are generally tougher than Hispanics and blacks. Once you’re in, good luck gettin’ out.”

“I never drive this part of town,” Clarence said. “Seems like the gangs are everywhere now.”

“They just keep multiplying,” Ollie said. “The worst thing is, now they’re normal. To people in the cities they’re a given, an accepted way of life. Like you can’t stop them. Best you can do is maybe placate them, stay out of their way. You see that when politicians call these gang summits to ask the gang leaders how they can control the violence. The gang leaders get respect and esteem and financial bonuses from city government. In L.A. and Chicago, you’ve got politicians hiring gangs to get signatures for petitions and get voters out to the polling places. In Chicago there was even a gang leader elected to office. I read your column about Norcoast hiring bangers for his campaign. I’m telling you, it’s making them look respectable.”

“I hung out with the wrong guys for a while when I was Ty’s age,” Clarence said. “I was on the fringes of gang life, but I never got sucked all the way in. It’s amazing these kids join the gangs when it’s so obvious it’s going to mess up their lives.”

“They don’t see it that way,” Ollie said. “To them, joining the gang isn’t a problem, it’s a solution. For a kid without a dad, a gang gives him male figures to bond with. Gives him a feeling of belonging. It’s a family thing. Lots of these kids don’t feel like they have options. The gang gives them a sense of purpose. Kids who feel like they’re nobody suddenly feel like they’re somebody.”

“Pastor Clancy was talking about that in church Sunday He said the gang gives them support and companionship they aren’t getting at home or church or school. Even the names are family names—Homeboys, Brother, Blood, Cousin. These kids are looking for something bigger than themselves, something to believe in, something to be loyal to. That’s all good, but they’re looking in the wrong places. That’s why I’m concerned about my nephew. There’s a lot of bad stuff out there.”

“There’s a lot
weirdness
out there. Take that guy” Ollie pointed. “Hairdo looks like an inflammation on a baboon’s rear end. You know what I think the root problem is?”

“What’s that?”

“Guys wearing earrings.”

“That’s cultural, don’t you think?” Clarence asked. “Not exactly a root problem.”

“No? Well, did you notice the same time men started wearing earrings, women started wearing tattoos? Think about it.” Ollie cringed.

“Good point.”

“You one o’ my peeps now, Li’l GC. Want to prove you a true 60s?”

“Yeeeah.”

“Okay Check out dis piece, man.” GC reached under his bed to one of several old cardboard boxes that contained his gun collection. He pulled out a .357 Smith and Wesson revolver, stainless steel.

“Four-inch barrel. One o’ my homies got this for me in L.A.. Had it with me ever since. I don’t take it out on the street ’cause I don’t want Po Po to get it.”

“Cool.” Ty handled it nervously.

GC turned it barrel up, spinning the cylinder until all six rounds fell out. Then he picked up one of the shells off the bed and said, “Here’s the one that proves your manhood.”

GC slipped the single round in one of the chambers and spun the cylinder again, like
Wheel Of Fortune.
He put the gun first to his forehead, then his right temple, finger on the trigger.

Tyrone jumped up off the bed. “No, cuz, don’t do it. Don’t do it!”

“Hey, little homie, you can’t get scared or it might tag you. If you know it won’t fire, it won’t.” GC smiled, looked right into Ty’s eyes, and pulled the trigger.