Макс Коллинз - Quarry in the Black

“Under the point of a gun. Our partnership is in its early stages, remember, and this is your trial period. Get in.”

He sighed. He made a face. Whined some more. But he crawled in, folding himself up like a fetus in a womb by Dodge. I shut the lid hard and he kind of yelped, but I figured he was just making a point.

“Be quiet,” I told the trunk. “I’ll be back with your money.”

With the Ku Klux Klan dress and hat over my arm, I walked up the hill, but stayed down in the ditch. I didn’t need any other latecomers spotting me walking up the gravel road. At the crest, I climbed up to where a cluster of trees provided a nice spot for a panoramic scenic view. The blazing white Hunter’s Moon would help.

But the moon wasn’t the only thing blazing — so were three wooden crosses, the ones on either side maybe five feet high, the center one around eight. Thirteen men in white robes and hoods were gathered around the crosses in a well-spaced circle, as if about to play a demented game of ring-around-the-rosie.

The obvious leader, in a green silk version of the outfit, stood inside the circle, near enough to the central burning cross to feel its heat on his back. In front of the smaller fiery crosses were standard white-robed and — hooded members with the Stars and Stripes on one pole and the Confederate flag on the other.

This bizarre assemblage was down there in the center of a large, woods-surrounded clearing that somewhat overwhelmed them, robbing them of the significance they sought. The night had turned chilly with some wind picking up and it made the fire dance and the flags flap and the uniforms flutter. They didn’t look sinister or foolish or anything like you might expect. In the light of the Hunter’s Moon, the flames burned a bright orange with blue highlights and the white uniforms seemed to glow, while the waving flags took on a near majesty. If some racist Rembrandt had his easel set up, he could get a really nice calendar out of it.

I sighed, leaning against an oak tree. I’d never been much of a joiner, but this would have to be an exception. I got out of my windbreaker and stowed it under the tree, then got into the robe. It was a little big for me — they’d probably been given the lumberjack’s sizing — but that helped keep the nine millimeter in my hand hidden. The suppressor meant I had to hold my hand sideways, bent at the wrist, but nothing in life is ideal.

Finally I put on the hood. Despite oversize eyeholes, the thing really limited your field of vision.

Slowly, carefully, but confidently, I moved out of the wooded hilltop and down the slope. They had no sound system setup — this was a roughing-it outdoor event, after all, like a Boy Scout Jamboree — but I could hear the guy in green silk speaking.

“ ...we will show those red Commie son-of-a-bitches what real freedom is! We will arm ourselves, we will learn hand-to-hand combat for this coming battle!”

Of course, the well-projected radio-announcer’s baritone belonged to Commander Zachary Taylor Starkweather. Just because the Lone Ranger is wearing a mask, that doesn’t mean you don’t know Clayton Moore is under there.

“Oh, I know we will be outnumbered, though I don’t know about you, but I don’t fear these long-haired college punks much, not very much, no. ”

He paused for them to laugh, and they did. I bet that was what it was like at Al Capone’s boardroom table.

“ We will teach these college brats the hard way what it really means to be an American, a white, God-fearing, Christian American. They will learn that it is a sin under God to racially mix. They will learn that the Bible condemns the homosexual. ”

I slipped into place in the circle, my hooded neighbors making room, putting myself as close to Starkweather as possible; his pointy head turned my way, so I figured he’d noted the new arrival.

“ They say we are nigger haters, first and foremost. But I respect the niggers that keep to their own. Still, it is true that you can take the nigger out of the jungle... but you can’t take the jungle out of the nigger! ”

That got laughter and applause. But I had a feeling it was something they’d heard before, plenty of times. A catchphrase they were laughing reflexively at, like Gleason saying, “Away we go!” or Maxwell Smart asking, “Would you believe...?”

“ No, it is the Jews we will hang first. No more will our taxes go to fund Israel. No more will we tolerate the sins of the Jews against humanity and God. As your Grand Dragon, this I promise, to each and every knight in this Klavern. ”

Grand Dragon, huh? Explained the green silk housedress, anyway.

“God bless the Klan!” he shouted. “God bless the Klan! ”

They echoed him, but out in the open like this, it didn’t have much punch. Hard room to fill.

Then the Grand Dragon began to sing “Amazing Grace” and they all joined in. I decided it was time to break ranks and entered the circle, walking right up to Starkweather, who paused in mid-lyric and his lamb-dropping eyes glared at me through the big eyeholes.

“Back in line, knight!” he demanded.

“I’m here for my payment,” I said. “As arranged.”

The eyes got squinty. “Later, man. Can’t you see the meeting is in full swing?”

“I’m not a member. I want the money now. Take a break.” I nodded to the guy holding the Confederate flag, then to the one with Old Glory. “Have Moe or Larry take over. Time to do business.”

But I’d misjudged it. This wasn’t like interrupting an Elks Lodge meeting or not respecting Robert’s Rules of Order. Several of the rank-and-file were abandoning the circle to come toward us, or really toward me , and then more joined in. They were unfriendly ghosts floating right at me, and I backpedaled, knocking into the guy with the Dixie flag. He stumbled backward, into the smaller cross, and the flag went up in flames and then so did he, and he started running around like, well, like a man on fire.

They were all yelling, screaming now, though of course the one-man conflagration on the run was screaming loudest. But the rest were still coming at me, closing in as they shouted their outrage.

The Grand Dragon stormed through and leapt at me with his hands clawed from under his big sleeves, like a villain in an old serial about to strike, and Jesus, what do you think I did? I ran from him. Back behind the burning crosses, I turned and kicked out like Bruce Lee and caught the bigger cross at its base. It splintered, it gave, it fell on the Grand Dragon, not heavy enough to take him down and pin him or anything, but when he pushed it away, the wind-whipped flames were curling around him, drawing him to them, stroking, fondling, embracing, squeezing a nearly orgasmic cry from him as he succumbed to their seductive power.

The base of that cross was wrapped in some flame-retardant material, so I tried picking it up and the thing was light, which made sense as who wants to carry a heavy wooden cross for very long, and now the enraged hooded white robe wearers were swarming around me. I whipped the thing around, awkwardly, the flames snapping and hissing and leaving tracer trails in the night, catching some of those white uniforms, decorating them with dancing orange-and-blue demons, and from those white uniforms the demons leapt to other white uniforms and others.

Turns out white sheets are pretty fucking flammable.

A hooded handful that the fire hadn’t yet touched were poised like they wondered if they should rush me. I hurled the burning cross at them and they changed their minds, scurrying away. I took the opportunity to get out of the hood and then the robe, knowing I was anything but immune to the hell I’d unleashed here. Then I kicked the other two fiery crosses over, to further discourage anybody fucking with me.