contributions made by men and women from all over Europe and Scandinavia (Greer noticed that Burt glanced at a guy in the front row who looked like a Viking when he said that), about how the culture was built on Christian values, and about how that culture—“once the highest in the history of the world”—was now in terrible danger.
“What is it in danger of?” Burt asked, looking around the room. Everybody stopped crunching on their chips or sipping their beers. “It’s in danger of falling apart.”
Not even a chair squeaked.
“And from what?” Burt asked. “Why is it gonna fall apart?”
“Because you can’t carry a gun anymore,” someone called out.
“That’s true,” Burt said. “In L.A., they’ve got more laws about guns than you can shake a stick at. But that’s not what I was talking about.”
“Pornography,” another guy threw out. “Ever’where you look, there’s nothin’ but porn, porn, porn.”
Especially under this guy’s bed, Greer thought, sipping his beer in back.
“That’s a problem, too,” Burt said, “but I’m getting at something else.” He clearly felt he had led his audience to the brink and then started to lose them. When another guy said something about divorce law and the rights of fathers, Burt jumped in and said, “Race, gentlemen, race.”
They all got quiet again.
“We’re in a race war, and most people don’t even know it.”
That dog’s too old to hunt, Greer thought.
“We’ve got a border with Mexico that’s nearly two thousand miles long, and it’s about as protected as…” He paused, trying to figure out how to complete his thought. “About as protected as anyone here would feel at midnight, on the corner of Florence and Normandie.”
A few obligatory chuckles, but his hesitation had killed the joke.
And, Greer considered, he was mixing his message. Who were we supposed to be worried about? Blacks in South Central L.A., or wetbacks sneaking into America through the back door?
“Every day hundreds — hell, thousands — of illegal immigrants just wade across the Rio Grande, stroll into San Diego or up here to Los Angeles, and flood our systems. Our schools, our hospitals, our highways.”
Now he was back on the more likely track. You could always get people fired up about the border, Greer reflected. If they weren’t worried about terrorists coming in, they were up in arms about all the spics taking those great jobs picking tomatoes and mopping floors. You could see Burt warming to his task, too.
“Just look around you the next time you go to the mall. I was out in Torrance last night, at a Denny’s, and I was the only white guy in the place. And I counted — there were sixteen customers, and maybe three waitresses — and I was the only authentic white guy in the whole damn place.”
He waited for that alarming news to sink in. But if Greer was any judge, only half the crowd — probably the ones who were already charter members of the Sons of Liberty — seemed moved. Two or three others glanced down at the sheaf of papers they’d picked up from the table, one glanced at his watch, then stared blankly out the window, undoubtedly wondering if he could have one more beer before getting the hell out.
But Burt was just hitting his stride. For another twenty minutes or so, he outlined the darkening skin, and the resulting decline, of the United States of America. Most of his warnings were about the Mexicans, the Guatemalans, the Salvadorans. Greer had never been able to tell one from the other, not that it mattered. For a second, he thought about Lopez, the guy he’d lost on that mission outside Mosul. The guy who’d just been… carried off in the night. Had he felt one way or the other about him? As opposed to, say, Donlan, or Sadowski, or anybody else in his unit? He took a long pull on his beer, and decided that he had not; there were even times when he felt bad about having gotten the guy killed.
As if he’d been reading his mind, Sadowski was now turned around in his chair, smiling at Greer, with an expression on his face that said,
But Burt was finally wrapping up. “I hope you’ll all take a copy of the Sons of Liberty membership packet — you’ll find a new members form inside — and if you’ve got any questions, or you just want to shoot the shit, I’m here… all the fucking time!” He laughed, and a few of the audience members, maybe just because they were so happy to be free again, laughed along. “And don’t forget, when you join, you get a ten percent discount every time you come to the range.” Same discount Greer was offered as a vet.
While a couple of interested candidates milled around the front of the room with Burt, and the others grabbed a beer or headed for the men’s room, Sadowski ambled back to the sofa. “You got any questions for Burt?”
“Yeah. How come he talks so much?”
Sadowski started to look pissed. “You didn’t believe him? You don’t think it’s time we woke up and smelled the coffee?”
“I think it’s time we got in your little patrol car and did what we’re supposed to do tonight.”
Greer got up — damn, his leg had locked again, and he had to stop to rub some life back into the knee — and headed for the door. He saw Burt, busy recruiting a guy in a UPS uniform, look his way, and Greer raised a hand, giving him a thumbs-up.
In the parking lot out front, Greer waited by the Silver Bear Security car until Sadowski, after muttering something about the Fourth of July to another Son of Liberty, came over and unlocked it. He still looked pissy.
“I don’t know why you won’t listen,” Sadowski said as they got into the car and strapped their seat belts.
“Because it’s a crock of shit.”
“It’s not.”
Greer wondered if it was his turn to say, “Is, too.” Instead, he said, “Just give me the jacket.”
Sadowski, pulling into traffic, said, “It’s in the bag.”
There was a Men’s Wearhouse bag on the seat between them. Greer opened it and took out a gray Silver Bear windbreaker, with epaulettes and silver snap buttons, and a visored cap. A growling bear, rising up on all fours, was emblazoned just above the brim. He put the cap on and turned the rearview mirror to check himself out.
“I need that,” Sadowski said, turning the mirror back.
Greer laughed. “What, did I hurt your feelings?” he said.
Sadowski, his jaw set, just kept driving.
Greer shook his head; it was too weird. Sadowski didn’t mind Greer getting a lap dance from his girlfriend, but he got bent out of shape if you dissed his secret society. He looked out the window, trying to focus himself; there wasn’t time for this bullshit right now. He had to concentrate on what was ahead. He reached into the pocket of his dark gray jeans — as close to the jacket color as he could find at the Gap — and took out a couple of pills; one to kill any pain from the leg, and another to raise his internal alert level. This wasn’t like that job in Brentwood, when he’d stumbled into the dog-sitter at the doctor’s house. This was big time.
This was the al-Kalli estate.
And he would need to be as hyped and vigilant as he had ever been.
Once they’d passed under the arched gateway to Bel-Air, Greer started to take careful mental notes on the terrain, the street layout, the avenues of escape. He’d already studied the map of this area in his Thomas Guide, and pulled it up on MapQuest, too, but there was nothing like checking out the lay of the land for real. And the maps didn’t tell you just how dark — he guessed the locals would call it tasteful — the street lighting in here would be. No high-crime, low-sodium glare here, no rows of towering poles, humming softly, their heads bobbing in the ocean breeze. The street lamps were few and far between, and the light they cast was more like amber pools. As far as Greer was concerned, that was ideal.
The higher they went, the darker it got, and the less Greer could see from the patrol car. If there were houses back there, behind the high hedges and brick walls and iron driveway gates that bristled with warning signs and intercoms and surveillance cameras, you’d never know it. Once in a while, especially when they passed a Silver Bear sign, Sadowski told Greer what movie star or pop singer or athlete lived there. Greer could only imagine what kind of pickings those houses would provide. Why had he been bothering with guys who were just doctors, in Brentwood? He’d have to discuss that, later, with Sadowski.
“See that? Sadowski said, slowing on a narrow curve, beside a high stone wall.
“See what?”
