The Theatre - Kellerman, Jonathan

"You enjoyed the interrogation, didn't you, Nahum?"

"Labor of love."

The two of them got in the Escort. Daniel revved up the engine, drove out of the basement and across the rocky surface of the site. Gravel spattered the underside of the car. Only a semi-circle of sun was visible over the horizon. The darkness had turned the partially framed building into something ephemeral. Atrophied.

"Speaking of obstruction," said Shmeltzer, "Drori, the anesthesiologist, is eliminated. Night of both murders he was on duty at the hospital, working emergency surgeries. Thing that pisses me off is that the Thursday night that Fatma was killed, Krieger-the one who informed on him-was there loo. They did an operation together. Krieger was trying to harass the guy."

"Personal thing, as we suspected," said Daniel.

Shmeltzer gave a disgusted look. "I tailed Drori to find out where he goes on those middle-of-the-night drives when Krieger's on duty. Straight to Krieger's flat to fuck Krieger's wife. Same old jealousy shit-bastard was trying to use us as his henchmen. If we weren't so busy, I'd pull him in, teach him a lesson."

"Anything on the desert hikes?"

"University and the Nature Conservancy still checking- the usual bureaucratic bullshit."

Daniel steered the Escort onto the road and headed south. They rode for a while without speaking, past the upper Ramot, and down toward A and B. Just ahead of them, an Egged bus had pulled up to the curb. Dozens of dark-garbed yeshiva boys alighted; their mothers, waiting at the bus stop, greeted them with soft bosoms, kisses, and snacks. The bus swung out sharply, moving nonchalantly into the path of the Escort, and Daniel had to weave sharply to avoid hitting it.

"Idiot," muttered Shmeltzer. His glasses had been knocked loose and he straightened them. A hundred meters later he said, "Busting a journalist, Herr Pakad. Going to bring down big buckets of political shit."

"I'll wear a hat," said Daniel. He pressed his foot to the floor and sped back toward the city and its secrets.

Wonderful, wonderful, wonderful, thought the Grinning Man, masturbating. Then thinking: I sound like Lawrence fucking

Welk, and starting to giggle.

But it was wonderful. Sand-niggers and kikes chewing each other up. Ripping and squeaking like the little hook-nosed rodents they were.

And he, the trainer.

Project Untermensch.

He flashed a mind picture of opposing rat hordes, charging at each other on little rat feet. Pouring out of sewer pipes, up out of putrid storm drains, bubbling to the surface of sinkholes.

Little brown sand-nigger rats with little rag heads and black whiskers. Little pink-and-gray kike rats with yarmulkes and chin-beards. Yammering and shrieking and snapping, biting off snouts and lips and leaving gaping holes like the pictures in Dieter Schwann's big green book.

Chomp. There goes a tail.

Chomp. There goes an ear.

Chewing each other up until there was nothing left but little bone piles and little moist rat stains that you could clean up really good.

And blessed silence-space for a white man to walk.

No more bad-machine noises.

Plenty of elbow room.

Chomp.

What a terrific feeling, to set something into motion and watch it work out just the way you planned.

Real power.

Real science.

Power. The thought of it made him come sooner than he'd planned. He was lost in the orgasm for a few brain-shattering moments, rocking back and forth on the bed, stroking and squeezing himself with one hand, caressing the half-healed swastika wounds on his thighs with the other.

Mind control.

The kind he'd wielded over Doctor, though the fucker had been only one rat and now he had lots of them scampering on command.

But an important rat, a mind-fucker par excellence.

The Michelangelo of mind pictures.

No. Dali. There was a mind-fucker - limpo clocks, quails cooked in their own shit. And they said he was a kike. Lies!

Power over Doctor. He'd been careful not to overdo the extortion thing - dear old dad was a greedy pig, didn't give a shit about him. Push him too far and no telling what he'd do.

The important thing was to keep a good sense of balance. Hit the fucker for favors that were really important. Squeeze him hard and fast, no mercy, then disappear. The rest of the time, let him go about his life deluding himself that he was a free man.

The squeeze: cash. Lots of it-more than anyone else his age had, but nothing that would break Doctor-fucker kept cracking chests and raking it in, all those apartment buildings he owned, blue-chip stocks and certificates of deposit.

Money junkie, like all of them.

How do you teach a Jewish baby to swiml

Throw a penny in the pool. The rest takes care of itself.

The little bit he squeezed added up surprisingly quickly. Some of it went into a savings account, some in a safe deposit box, along with the bonds.

Tax-free municipals and high-yield corporates-he clipped coupons every month, saved the principal, pocketed the interest. Doctor told his attorney the time had come to pass some of his holdings along to his beloved son in order to get around the inheritance tax.

Estate planning. Gee, what a neat dad.

Cash and bonds and growth stocks that he could sell whenever he wanted. Doctor introduced him to his broker, told the slimy button-down asshole he wanted his beloved son to learn the financial ropes at a young age, be able to make his own decisions.

Superdad.

And the cars-the Jag totally cool but always in the shop. Perfect once in a great while for cruising in high style, feeling like King Shit, the Emperor of Real Science. The Plymouth ugly but dependable, plenty of trunk space for toys and whatever.

Doctor gave him three gas credit cards. The maintenance bills and insurance premiums were always paid right on time.

He had the house to himself-Doctor had moved out, lived in a condo near the hospital. She was grokked-out all the time now, sleeping and pissing in her bed, brain circuits totally fried.

Doctor, terrific husband that he was, hired private-duty nurses to take care of her. Different ones each week, fat nigger broads and swishy faggots-they just sat there doing crossword puzzles and smoking, changed the sheets, stole jewelry and food.

The maids were gone; in their place, a retardo nigger who came in once a week to dust and clear away the dishes.

The house had started to smell old and stale. Like death. Only his room was clean. And the library.

He cleaned those himself.

Cleanliness next to godliness.

Nice quiet house-he was Lord of the Manor.

He made a stab at junior college, taking Mickey Mouse courses and attending just often enough to pass. Kept his job at the hospital for fun, working three afternoons a week delivering mail-richest fucking mailboy in the city.

He read journals and books in the hospital library, learned a lot. Snuck into the pathology lab, opened body drawers and fondled the cadavers, rubbed himself against cold flesh, ogled welcome holes and jars of organs. Coded new mind pictures.

Nighttime was the right time.

Cruising Nasty Boulevard, ogling the geeks, freaks, junkies, slime-os, and whores. Using the Jag for show, the Plymouth for serious business. He craved new identities, sought out the theatrical supply shops on Nasty and bought disguises: hats, glasses and sunglasses, false mustaches, beards and wigs, to make himself look different. Be different. Prac-ticed talking voices, using different mannerisms.

He could be anyone!

In the beginning he just cruised and ogled. Passed the motel where he'd caught Doctor and the candy-striper, saw only soft cars, a different slant at the desk.

He stopped, closed his eyes, and wondered what was going on inside. How many whores were fucking how many geeks, the things they were doing, a treasure trove of mind pictures. Whores, the ultimate females.