were sweat-slick, the Beretta cold and slippery. He waited as the
Latam man potchked with the lock, thought of the scrubwoman, naked on some table, head down, dripping into a rug
Too damned old for this shit.
The Latam guy worked patiently, twisting, turning, losing the tumblers, finally finding them.
The door swung open silently.
They stepped into a big dark front room, gleaming stone floors, heavy drapes blocking rear windows, swinging Dutch doors leading to a corridor on the right. A low-wattage bulb in a wall sconce cast a faint orange glow over heavy, expensive-looking furniture-old British-style furniture, stiff settees and bowlegged tables. Lace doilies. More tables, inlaid Arab-style, an oversized inlaid backgammon set, a potbellied glass-doored breakfront full of silver, dishes, bric-a-brac. A guitar resting on a sofa. Ivory carvings. Lots of rugs.
Rich. But again, the senile, old-clothes smell of neglect. Set up like props on a theater stage, but not lived in. Not for a long time.
The front room opened to a big old-fashioned kitchen on the left. The Latam man peeked his head into it, came back signaling nothing.
The Dutch doors, then. The only choice.
Damned things squeaked. He held them open for the Latam man. The two of them stepped onto an Oriental runner. Doors, four of them. Bedrooms. A hyphen of light under one on the left. Muted sounds.
They approached the door, held their breath, listened. Conversation, Al Biyadi's voice rising in excitement. Talking Arabic, a female replying, the words unclear.
Shmeltzer and the Latamnik looked at each other. Shmeltzer motioned him to go ahead. The guy was younger -his legs could take the punishment.
The Latam man kicked in the door and the two of them jumped in, pointing their Berettas, screaming: 'Police! Drop down! Drop! Dropdown! Police!'
No murder scene, no blood.
Just Al Biyadi and two women standing open-mouthed with astonishment in a bright, empty room full of wooden crates. Most of the boxes were covered by canvas tarpaulins; a few were bare. Shmeltzer saw the words farm machinery stenciled on the wood in Hebrew and Arabic.
A crowbar lay on the floor, which was littered with packing straw. A crate in the center of the room had been pried open.
Filled to the brim with rifles, big, heavy Russian rifles. Shmeltzer hadn't seen so many at one time since they'd taken the weapons off the Egyptians in '67.
Al Biyadi was holding one of the rifles, looking like a child caught with his hand in the biscuit bin. The women had dropped to the floor, but the shmuck remained standing.
'Drop it!' Shmeltzer screamed, and pointed the Berettaat his snotty, sheikh face.
The doctor hesitated, looked down at the rifle and up again at Shmeltzer.
'Put it down, you fucking little rat!'
'Oh God,' said Peggy Cassidy from the floor.
Al Biyadi dropped the rifle, a second short of dying.
'On the ground, on your belly!' ordered Shmeltzer. Al Biyadi complied.
Shmeltzer kept his gun trained on Al Biyadi's spine, advanced carefully, and kicked the rifle out of the bastard's reach. He was to find out, moments later, that the weapon had been unloaded.
So pretty, thought the Grinning Man, eyeing the young cop's body laid out naked on the table.
Every muscle outlined in relief, like fine sculpture, the skin firm and smooth, the facial features perfectly formed.
Adonis. No hook-nose.
Hard to believe this one was kikeshit. He'd searched the dumbfuck's pockets, hoping to find a non-kike ID, something indicating he was an Aryan who'd somehow been duped into working for the kikes.
But there was no wallet, no papers. Just a Star of David on a thin gold chain stuffed into one of the pockets.
Hiding the kikeness. The dumbfuck was kikeshit.
It was wrong, an insult.
The dumbfuck was a genetic fluke, sneak thief of Aryan genes.
But pretty. The last time he'd seen anything male that looked this good was years ago, back in stinkhole Sumbok. Fourteen-year-old Gauguin Boy brought in dead to the Gross Anatomy Lab-sold for small change by his family, ninety pounds of medical research material.
Ninety pounds of prime protoplasm: coppery skin, smoky long-lashed eyes, glossy black hair. Little slant had died from acute bacterial meningitis; once he'd sawed open the skull and exposed the cerebral cortex, the damage was obvious, all that yellow-green mucus clogging the meninges.
But, despite the brain-rot, the body remained beautiful, firm, smooth as a girl's. Smooth as Sarah. Hard to believe he was a hundred percent slant-hard to believe he was male.
But rotten to the core, even in death:
