he was married to a black woman.
It went against everything Curt believed in, and here he was doing business with the man.
Curt had grown up in a tough, blue-collar, white neighborhood with a physically abusive construction-worker father who continually reminded Curt that he wasn't as good as his popular, football-star brother, Pete.
Curt found solace in hatred. He embraced the bigotry so prevalent in his neighborhood. It was comforting and handy to have a readily identifiable group to blame rather than examine his own inadequacies.
But it wasn't until he'd joined the Marines and moved to San Diego that his rather parochial bigotry was transformed into racial hatred with a particular abhorrence of miscegenation.
The transition had not happened overnight. It stemmed from an attitude that had its origins in a chance meeting with a man almost twice Curt's age. It was 1979. Curt was nineteen. He'd recently finished boot camp, which had provided a dramatic boost to his self-esteem. He and several of his newfound colleagues, which included several Africanamericans, had left the base to visit a bar on Point Loma. It was a bar frequented by armed forces personnel, particularly navy divers and Marines.
The bar was dark and smoky. The only light emanated from lowwattage bulbs inside old-fashioned, hard-hat diving helmets. The music was mostly from a band Curt later learned was Skrewdriver, and the man who was feeding quarters into the jukebox was sitting next to it, at a small table by himself.
Curt and his buddies crowded in at the bar and ordered beers. They swapped war stories about their recent boot camp experiences and laughed heartily. Curt was content. It was the first time he had felt at all like part of a group. He'd even excelled during training and had been selected as a squadron leader.
Eventually tiring of the thudding, monotonous music, Curt drifted over to the jukebox. He'd had several beers and was euphorically mellow.
He looked over the selections and fingered a handful of quarters.
'You don't like the music? ' the man at the small table asked.
Curt looked down at the stranger. He was of moderate size with closecropped hair. His features were sharp with narrow lips and straight, white teeth. He was clean-shaven and dressed in a T-shirt and ironed jeans. There was a small American flag tattooed on his right upper arm.
But his most striking attribute was his eyes. Even in the semi-darkness, they had a piercing quality that Curt found almost hypnotic.
'The music's all right, ' Curt said. He squared his shoulders. It appeared as if the stranger was sizing him up.
'You should listen to the words, friend, ' the man said. He took a pull on his beer.
'Yeah, what would I hear? ' Curt asked.
'A message that might save the goddamn country, ' the man said.
A wry smile crept onto Curt's face. He glanced over at his buddies, thinking they should hear this guy.
'My name's Tim Melcher, ' the man said. He pushed an empty chair out from his table with his foot.
'Sit down. I'll buy you a beer.' Curt looked at the beer in his hand. It was down to the dregs.
'Come on, soldier, ' Tim said. 'Take a load off your feet and do yourself a favor.'
'I'm a Marine, ' Curt said.
'It's all the same, ' Tim said. 'I was army myself. First Cavalry Division. I did two tours in Vietnam.'
Curt nodded. The word Vietnam made his legs feel rubbery. It meant real war instead of the playacting Curt and his friends had been doing. It also reminded Curt of his older brother Pete, the Bensonhurst football star. Eight years older than Curt, he'd had the bad luck of being drafted. He'd been killed in Vietnam the year before the war was over.
Curt turned the chair around, threw a leg over it, and sat down. He leaned on the back of the chair and drained his beer.
'What'll it be? ' Tim asked. 'The same? ' Curt nodded.
'Harry! ' Tim called to the bartender. 'Send us over a couple of Buds.'
'What's your name, soldier? '
'Curt Rogers.'
'I like that, ' Tim said. 'Nice Christian name. It fits you, too.'
Curt shrugged.
He didn't quite know what to make of the stranger, especially with his intense eyes.
With a fresh beer, Curt began to relax again.
'You know, I'm glad I met you, ' Tim said. 'And you know why? ' Curt shook his head.
'Because I'm forming a group that I think you and a couple of your buddies ought to join.'
'What kind of a group? ' Curt asked skeptically.
'A border brigade, ' Tim said. 'An armed border brigade. You see, the regular Border Patrol who are supposed to be protecting this country from illegal aliens are not doing their job. Hell, the Mexican border just ten freaking miles away is like a giant sieve.'
'Really, ' Curt said. He'd not thought much about the border. He'd been much too preoccupied with the rigors of boot camp.
'Yes, really, ' Tim said, mocking Curt's response. 'I'm telling you, this is a serious situation. You and I and the rest of our Aryan brothers and sisters are soon going to be the minority around here.'
'I'd never thought about that, ' Curt said. It was the first time he'd even heard the word Aryan and had little idea of what it meant.
'Hey, you'd better wake up, ' Tim said. 'It's happening. This country is on the brink of being taken over by niggers, spics, slanty-eyes, and queers. It's going to be up to people like you and me if our God-fearing, self-reliant culture is to survive where people work for a living and queers stay in the closet.
I tell you, not only are these other races seeping in here like water through a sponge, but they're reproducing like flies. This is one hell of a problem. We just can't sit around on our asses anymore. If we do, we only have ourselves to blame.'
'How are you going to arm the border brigade? ' Curt asked.
'If you got some crazy idea that people like me could help, think again.
We can't take our ordnance off the base.'
'Weapons are not a problem, ' Tim said. 'I've got a goddamn arsenal in my basement, including fully automatic Mls, machine pistols, scoped sniper rifles, and Glocks. I even have uniforms for us cause I already got about ten navy guys involved. We've already been on patrol.'
'Have you come across any aliens? ' Curt asked. Awed by the firearms Tim described, Curt's estimation of the stranger soared.
'Bet your sweet ass, ' Tim said. 'We've interdicted almost a dozen.'
'What do you do with them once you catch them, turn them over to the Border Patrol? ' Tim laughed scornfully. 'If we did that, they'd be back the next night.
The Border Patrol's idea of interdiction is to slap their wrists, scold them, and then turn them loose.'
'Well, then what do you do with them? ' Curt asked although he sensed the answer.
Tim leaned over and whispered. 'We shoot em and bury em.' He wiped his hands rapidly as if brushing off dirt. 'That way, it's over and done.
There's no second chance.' Curt swallowed. His throat had gone dry.
The idea of shooting illegal aliens was both arousing and scary at the same time.
'I got some copies of a magazine here in my briefcase, ' Tim said.
'I'll be happy to give them to you if you hand them out to people like you and me. You understand what I'm saying when I say people like you and me? '
'Yeah, I suppose, ' Curt said. 'What kind of magazines are they? '
'The one that I happen to have today is called Blood and Honor, ' Tim said. 'I've got others, but this one is particularly good. It's from England, but it talks about the stuff we're discussing. Western Europe has the same problems we do. I also have a novel you can read. Do you like to read? '
'No, not much, ' Curt admitted. 'Except gun manuals and stuff like that.'
'Maybe this book will turn you into a reader, ' Tim said. 'Reading is important.' He bent over, unsnapped his briefcase, and lifted out a sizable paperback.
'It's called The Turner Diaries.' He handed it to Curt.
