One guy had staked out a spot underneath an oak tree. He slept on his back as his children-four girls- constructed houses out of ice-cream sticks. A two-year-old ran bumpily across Daniel and Gene's path, sobbing and grubby-faced, arms extended to a blond man in shorts and T-shirt, crying 'Abba! Abba!' until the man scooped the child up in his arms, assuaged her misery with kisses and tongue-clucks.
The two detectives stopped and sat on a park bench. Daniel looped Dayan's leash around a back slat, said 'Sit,' and when the spaniel ignored him, dropped the subject. He looked around for Mikey and Benny, spotted them clear across the park, climbing a metal structure shaped like a spaceship. Shoshi had met up with a girlfriend, was walking with her near the guardrail of the roller skating rink. Both girls had their heads lowered, lost in a conversation that looked serious.
The boys reached the top of the spaceship, clambered down, and ran toward the Train Theater, disappearing behind the boxcars.
'You let them get out of your sight like that?' said Gene.
'Sure. Why not?'
'In L. A. you can't do that-too many weirdos hanging out at the parks.'
'Our parks are safe,' said Daniel, chasing away the leering image of Sender Malkovsky.
Gene looked as if he were going to say something. Something related to the case, Daniel was certain. But the American stopped himself, bit his lip, said, 'Uh huh, that's good,' and stretched his legs out.
They sat there, surrounded by shouts and laughter, but lulled into inactivity by empty minds and full bellies.
Gene's arms dropped to his sides. 'Very nice,' he said, and closed his eyes. Soon his chest was heaving, and his mouth opened slightly, emitting a soft, rhythmic whistle. Poor guy, thought Daniel. Luanne had dragged him all over the country.('Sixty-three churches, Danny Boy-she's been keeping score.')
He sat there next to the sleeping man, felt himself sinking into the bench and didn't fight it. Time to let his guard down. Rest and renew, as his father had said. Time to remove his policeman's eyes-suspicious eyes trained to home in on discrepancy, the odd, disturbing flaw that an ordinary person wouldn't notice.
No protector, no detective. Just one of the fathers. A guy out with his kids in Liberty Bell Park.
His eyelids were heavy, he yielded to their weight. Shab-bat shalom. True Sabbath Peace.
So complete was his surrender that he had no idea he was being watched. Had been observed, in fact, since his entry to the park.
A big nigger and a little nigger-kike. And a little worm of a dog that would be good for a few minutes of fun.
Beautiful, just beautiful.
Amos and Andy. King Kong and Ikey-Kikey in blackface.
Nigger-kike-the very idea was a joke. De-evolution at its nadir, selective breeding for stupidity and weakness.
The little asshole was stupid, which was why he listed his name in the phone book. Everyone in this fucking country did-you could look up the mayor, go to his house, and blow his face off when he came out the front door. Come and get me. Instant victim: Just add Jew genes.
Reminded him of that invention he'd thought of as a kid. Insta-Auschwitz, little green box on wheels. Quick disposal of unwanted pets. And other untermensch nuisances. Clean it all up. Cut it away.
Look at that. Rufus and Ikey-Kikey Blackface limped out on the bench like a couple of grokked-out winos.
What did you get when you crossed a nigger with a bike-a janitor who owned the building? A shylock who npped himself off?
One big hook-nose squashed flat.
One hell of a circumcision-have to use a chain saw.
The man felt the laughter climbing up through his esophagus, forced himself to keep it bottled up. He feigned relaxation, seated on the grass among all the other people, half-hidden behind a newspaper, wearing a wig and mustache that made him someone else. Scanning the park with cold eyes concealed behind sunglasses. One hand on the paper, the other in his pocket, fondling himself.
All those kids and families, kikes and sand-niggers. He would have loved to come rolling in with a giant chain saw of his own. Or maybe a lawn mower or a combine, something relentless and gas-powered? No, nuclear- powered, with gigantic blades, as sharp as his little beauties but big. As big as helicopter rotors.
And loud, making a sound like an air-raid siren. Panic-feeding, ear-bleeding loud. Blood-freezing loud.
Come rolling in with the nuke-mower, just pushing it through the human lawn, listening to the screams, churning everything up.
Back to the primordial soup.
Some terrific game, a real pleasure diddle. Maybe one day.
Not yet. He had other things to do. Hors-d'oeuvres.
Project Untermensch.
The one who'd refused him had set things back, fucked up the weekly rhythm, really gotten him upset.
Stupid sand-nigger bitch, his money hadn't been good enough.
He'd watched her for a couple of days, gotten interested because of her face, the perfect fit for his mind- pictures. Even when she put on the tacky red wig, it was all right. He'd take it off. Along with everything else.
