Skin Privilege (15 page)

Jeffrey couldn’t speak. Tracking down the registration from the relative safety of the motel room was one thing. Walking into what could have been a den of skinheads – or worse – was quite another.

‘Hello?’ Sara said. ‘Are you still there?’

Jeffrey cleared his throat, trying to keep his tone steady and not go with his gut reaction to demand what the hell she thought she was doing. ‘I’m here.’

‘I was saying that I can go to the courthouse-‘

He stopped her dead in her tracks. ‘I need you to stay in the room, Sara. Don’t go to the courthouse. Don’t make any more phone calls. Just stay in the goddamn room and keep out of trouble.’

She was the one who was quiet this time.

He spoke through gritted teeth. ‘I can’t do my job and worry about you at the same time.’

She let some time pass before answering. ‘Okay.’

He could tell from the way she’d said the word that she was angry, but there was nothing he could do about that right now. ‘Promise me you’ll stay there until I get back.’

Again, there was the hesitation. Suddenly, he realized he was wrong. Sara wasn’t angry. She was disappointed with herself because
he
was angry. He would almost hear her thoughts, knew that she was berating herself for doing one more stupid thing.

‘I know you were just trying to help out, but, Sara, Jesus, the thought of you traipsing out on your own like that… this isn’t Grant County. You didn’t grow up here. These people don’t know you. It’s not safe, Sara. Do you understand what I mean?’

‘Yes.’

‘Baby…’ He shook his head, words failing him. ‘Please, just stay in the room. I’ll get back as soon as I can.’

‘No,’ she told him. ‘Do your job. You’re right. I’ll stay here.’

Now he felt like a complete asshole. He looked out the diner window. Nick Shelton was getting out of his Chevy pickup.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he told her. ‘Listen, Nick just pulled up.’

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll see you when you get here.’

She didn’t slam down the phone, but Jeffrey wished she had. Sara wasn’t compliant. She was headstrong and arrogant and demanding – all the things a man could want in a woman. Over the last few months, he had watched her go from a fighter to someone who just rolled with the punches. Jeffrey wanted her to be angry again. He wanted her to tell him to fuck off, that she knew what she was doing and he should be grateful she was wasting her time down here helping him out when she could be back home tending to patients. He wanted her to scream at him, to rail against the Powells and all the other bastards who were trying to keep her down.

He wanted his brilliant, beautiful wife back.

‘Hey, Chief.’ Nick Shelton came through the front door of the diner, rain flattening his long brown hair to his skull. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

Jeffrey stood up, shaking the other man’s hand. ‘No problem.’

‘Raining like a pisser out there.’ Nick called over to the waitress, ‘You got some fresh coffee for me, darlin’?’

She gave him a big smile. ‘Sure do.’

‘Leave me a little room at the top, will you? Maybe this much?’ He held his thumb and forefinger about an inch apart.

‘Be right back.’ She giggled, giving him a wink. Jeffrey had barely gotten a ‘good morning’ from the woman, but he gathered Nick, with his tight jeans and the heavy gold chain around his neck> was more her type.

The GBI man watched the waitress leave, giving her wide bottom an appreciative smile. ‘Might get me some fries with that shake.’

Jeffrey tried to steer the conversation away from the waitress. ‘How you been doing, Nick?’

‘Working like a dog, is how.’ He picked at the napkin dispenser on the table, shredding the first few. ‘State cut my budget in half for goddamn Homeland Security. We got gangs and drugs and murderers running around here faster than clam chowder through my grandma but the feds are making us shoot our wad on fighting damn terrorists who couldn’t even find Elawah or Grant County on the map. Hell, they don’t even need to make the trip. Give us a few more years and we’ll all kill each other on our own.’

Jeffrey had never had a conversation with Nick that didn’t involve some kind of complaint, but he tried not to fuel it with his own. ‘Sorry to hear you’re having a hard time, Nick.’

‘Bob Burg’s working some consultancy job up north making twenty times more than the state ever paid him.’

Jeffrey felt himself getting pulled in. Bob Burg had been Nick’s counterpart, handling counties that ran along southeastern Georgia. ‘What happened?’

Nick used the shredded napkins to wipe the rain off his face, saying, ‘I guess they figured all that time I wasted popping home to sleep and change my underwear could be put to better use. They kicked him out and gave me his territory.’

‘They fired Bob?’

‘ “Merged the offices to streamline the operation,”’ Nick quoted in a businesslike drone. ‘Bunch of dumb-ass pencil-pushing motherfuckers, and don’t even get me started on them cash bonuses they’ve been handing out to the higher-ups to thank them for all this kissing up and kicking down.’ He sat up as the waitress came back. ‘Why, thank you, darlin’. You did it up perfect.’ He gave her a wink and the woman giggled again before sashaying off.

Nick continued, I can’t blame Bob for being pissed off, but he left a freakin’ mess for me to clean up. Paperwork missing, files incomplete.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

Nick shrugged, brushing it off. He asked, ‘How’s Sara doing?’

‘She’s good,’ Jeffrey lied, trying to fight the sadness he felt.

Nick gave him a sharp glance over the coffee cup. ‘Heard you and her’s already made some friends in town.’

‘That got around fast.’

‘It’s not every day that a crack squad loses a prisoner.’ He gave Jeffrey a wink. ‘And gets gut-punched for their trouble.’

Jeffrey felt a grin on his face. ‘He was asking for it.’

‘I have no doubt.’

‘Tell me what you know about Jake Valentine.’

Nick grabbed the sugar dispenser off the table. ‘Jake Valentine,’ he echoed, giving the name a jaunty ring. ‘OP buddy Jake was a deputy for maybe two days before he ran for office.’ He kept pouring the sugar as he talked. ‘There was this old coot, Don Cook, wanted the job, but people in town were sick of the codgers sitting on their asses, collecting their paychecks, while the rest of the town was going to hell in a handbasket.’

‘Meth?’ Jeffrey guessed. There wasn’t a town in America that wasn’t being slowly crippled by the scourge of methamphetamine. It was cheap to buy, cheaper to make, and almost impossible to quit. The drug ruined the life of anyone it touched, including some law enforcement officers who had unwittingly walked into booby-trapped labs.

‘Meth,’ Nick confirmed, finally finished with the sugar. He grabbed the creamer, saying, ‘Jake’s a little wet behind the ears, but he’s a good kid.’

‘He didn’t look old enough to drive a car.’

‘That’s true, but he’s willing to learn, which is more than you can say for most everybody you meet. I guarantee you, if he can hang on to the job long enough for his balls to drop, he’s gonna make a good sheriff.’

‘He doesn’t seem to have much support from his deputies.’

‘Maybe one or two will bug out on him, but only when the chips are down.’ He added, ‘Don Cook’s not as powerful as he thinks he is.’

‘What about Jake’s predecessor?’

‘Al Pfeiffer. He was a good guy, but nothing says it’s time to retire like a firebomb thrown through your front window.’

Jeffrey was sure he’d heard wrong. ‘What?’

Nick nodded, pouring cream into the cup until the liquid touched the rim. ‘They firebombed his house. Wife and grandkid barely got out. The old man suffered third-degree burns on his face and arms. Lost one of his fingers. Never made a case because nobody would talk: no witnesses, no crime scene evidence, no nothing. Happened in broad daylight on a Sunday afternoon. Take that as a warning, Chief. These boys don’t fuck around. They’re making too much money.’

‘Skinheads?’ Jeffrey asked.

‘Guessed it again, Chief.’ Nick gave him a careful look. ‘Something tells me you’ve played this game before.’

Jeffrey knew it was his turn to share. I saw this guy outside the Elawah hospital last night – tough-looking con. He had a big red swastika tattooed on his arm.’

‘That old thing.’ Nick waved his hand like an old lady fielding gossip. ‘It’s used by the Skin Brothers. Now, there’s an interesting bunch of Nazis. Started in the prisons back in the late fifties. Integration on the outside, segregation on the inside. All them white boys running the cell blocks didn’t like the black guys coming in and they made it known every way they could.’ Nick leaned forward, kept his voice low. ‘In the 1950s, you had maybe sixty-five, seventy percent white in all the federal and state prisons, basically in line with the white population on the outside, right?’

‘Right.’

‘Now, it’s upside down. You got maybe a sixty-forty, eighty-twenty mix in some prisons. The whites are the minorities, the blacks and Hispanics are the majority.’

‘So, in come the gangs.’

‘Crips, Bloods, the Boyz, Tiny Raskals, MS-13, Nazi Low Riders.’

Jeffrey said, ‘Which brings us back to meth again.’

‘That kind of quick money to be made, there’s always gonna be some kind of war going on, some asshole wanting to swing his dick around. Whites on whites, blacks on blacks, all that matters anymore is the green. You got the Aryans telling the Low Riders what to do, the Low Riders telling the Aryans to fuck off, the purists telling them both they’re selling out the white race… long story short, whoever’s in charge better be looking over his shoulder all the time.’

‘Who uses the black swastika?’

‘Just about all of ‘em but the Skin Brothers.’ He anticipated Jeffrey’s next question. ‘And never the twain shall meet. You put a Skin Brother in with, say, a Low Rider, they see their tats, you might as well put two tomcats in a cardboard box. Only one of ‘em’s gonna come out alive.’

‘You positive about that?’

‘Their feud goes so far back nobody even remembers how it got started. Part of the oath they take when they jump in is to kill any motherfucker playing for the other team. Red or black, you get that tattoo, you better be damn sure it’s for life. You’ll see peace in the Middle East before those two get together.’

Jeffrey breathed a little easier. Whatever was going on in Reece, he could take Ethan Green out of the equation for the moment.

Nick leaned back, cupping his coffee in his hands. ‘You hear about that case with the Hells Angels out on the West Coast?’

Jeffrey shook his head.

‘Let me tell you, them’re some violent motherfuckers. Been inside most of their adult lives, no hope of getting out, they’ll cut you just as soon as look at you. The feds are trying to go after them with the RICO statutes, saying they’re the same as organized crime. They had to bolt the bastards to the floor during the trial. One of ‘em was already in for stabbing his lawyer with an ink pen. These guys got nothing to lose; just biding their time at the old SuperMax, waiting for their number to come up. They know they’re never gonna see the light of day without a set of bars casting a shadow through it and they don’t care how many bodies they leave in their wake.’

Jeffrey felt his blood turning cold in his veins. ‘Let’s go back to the Skin Brothers.’

‘Technically, it’s the Brotherhood of the True White Skin, but that don’t flow off the tongue near as well.’

‘Tell me more about them.’

‘For the last five, maybe ten, years, it’s been run by two brothers, Carl and Jerry Fitzpatrick. Carl’s in prison and Jerry lives out on a zillion-dollar compound with the rest of the family. Thinks he’s some kind of preacher for the Way of Whitey.’

‘True believer?’

‘Sadistic true believer,’ Nick amended. ‘You don’t cross Jerry. He takes care of the stray lambs himself – tracks them down and shatters their little legs so the rest of the flock knows they better keep on the path. You got grown men, mean-as-fuck skinheads with twenty kills under their belt, who piss their pants at the thought of Jerry coming after them.’

‘He’s never been caught?’

‘Oh, he’s been charged plenty, but nothing sticks. Witnesses tend to change their minds when their fingernails are pulled off and their children go missing.’

‘Where’s the compound?’

‘Up in a little town called Keene, New Hampshire.’

‘Why is it always a relief when these guys are Yankees?’

Nick pretended surprise, clutching his hand to his chest. ‘Racists in the liberal North? How dare you, sir.’

‘Shocking,’ Jeffrey agreed, wondering not for the first time why the rest of America wanted to believe racism only happened south of the Mason-Dixon. It was as if Watts and Harlem, the cases of Rodney King and Abner Louima, were startling anomalies on their respective coasts.

Nick continued, ‘The FBI has the Fitzpatrick brothers on their watch list, but I’m not sure what kind of priority they’ve been given. All this anti-immigration shit that’s been stirring up has been like free PR for the neo-Nazi groups. Suddenly, saying we should close our borders and kick out the people with the funny-sounding names doesn’t sound like extremist rhetoric anymore.’

‘Good thing we let the Fitzpatricks slip in first,’ Jeffrey commented. ‘What’s the brother in prison for?’

‘Shooting two cops.’

‘ New Hampshire have the death penalty?’

‘Just for this very thing,’ Nick said. ‘Only problem is, they’ve set their age limit at seventeen. Carl was two weeks shy of his seventeenth birthday when he pulled the trigger. Life in prison without the chance of parole. Smart boy, our Carl. He met the right people on the cell block, made some good contacts, worked his way up in the group, and – as these things happen – beat his boss to death with a dumbbell and took over the organization. Real upwardly mobile guy.’

Jeffrey tried not to think about the two cops that had been shot, how their families, their children, had coped with the loss all these years. ‘So, how do the Fitzpatricks pay their bills?’

‘They’re real heavy into meth. Like, super-heavy, kill-your-mama heavy. The Fitzpatricks control everything going in and out of the Southeast corridor, from Florida on up. Some of those boys are billionaires. Only catch is, they’re dead before they reach the age of thirty.’