Burn Zone

24

ALEX DUARTE STOOD IN THE SMALL LIVING ROOM OF CAL LINLEY'S house. He wasn't sure if the big longshoreman realized yet that this interview was likely to fall outside the Department of Justice guidelines.

Linley had a nervous timbre to his voice now. "Look, I told you I didn't want to talk. I told you not to come inside. What the fuck is going on?"

Duarte didn't speak. Instead he let his gaze drift to a wall with photos and shelves filled with memorabilia. He purposely ignored Linley and stepped to the shelves for a closer look.

He had his left hand lightly holding his right fist in case he had to snap it out quickly, but he thought he had Linley right where he wanted him-nervous and confused.

Then Duarte realized what all the memorabilia was. The photo of Hitler in front of the Reichstag, a sketch of Nathan Bedford Forrest, the founder of the Ku Klux Klan, a photo of a much younger Linley receiving some kind of certificate from a man in a uniform with a swastika on the arm.

Duarte looked over at the smug, smiling moron.

Duarte said, "So this the kind of stuff you're into?"

"Ain't no law against it."

"I'm Hispanic."

"I'm sorry for you. But I ain't saying shit, and you can get your ass outta my house before you regret it."

Duarte smiled. Just enough to show Linley that he wasn't intimidated, but in reality he wanted the big man to give him a reason to break a few bones.

Linley backed away a step, the sixth sense of a street fighter kicking in. "What the hell does the ATF want with me anyway?"

"I told you. Information about a container out at the port."

"What container? The fucking port has thousands of them."

"You know which one. You opened it night before last." He leveled his eyes at the man.

Linley remained quiet and still.

Duarte turned to face him. "I have questions about that container and what was in it."

"I told you I ain't sayin' shit."

"We'll see."

"What's that mean?"

Duarte gave him a slight smile. "You'll see."

The music was a little loud to consider the sports bar "intimate," but it was cozier than Alice Brainard had intended. She thought that by telling Scott Mahovich that she'd have dinner with him and then suggesting McKenna's, he'd realize it was purely platonic. She knew that she was using the fact that he was attracted to her to get her own way and that it was wrong, but she had done it anyway. She knew Alex needed the information on the blood she'd scraped from the severed finger.

"This is nice," the DNA scientist said.

Alice smiled and nodded.

"We should do it more often."

She wanted to say that this was a one-time event, but she remained quiet.

"You like this place?"

"I come from time to time. Sometimes with my boyfriend." She hit the word "boyfriend" a little hard.

Mahovich looked stricken. "Yeah, he's an ATF agent, right?"

She nodded.

"That's who needed the analysis of the scrapings, isn't it?"

She hesitated and said, "Yes. Please don't say anything."

He didn't reply; he just seemed satisfied with himself.

She finished her grouper sandwich, enduring his stare and that stupid grin. He'd go on about how DNA science was going to be the next big frontier and that the sheriff's office wouldn't be able to pay trained personnel like him enough to stay.

Mahovich made a show out of pulling out a hundred-dollar bill to pay for dinner. "Does your ATF man take you out much?"

"Not too much."

"He doesn't know how to treat a lady."

"No, not really, but he's learning." That was one of the first accurate statements she had made during the entire evening.

As they left and walked out to their cars, parked side by side, she slowly brought up the one topic she was interested in talking to this jerk about.

"So, Scott. How long before you have a profile from the sample I gave you?"

He gave her a serious look. "Ya know, Alice, you can't rush this kind of stuff. I can't ignore one of the real cases brought to us by sheriff's deputies just so some hotshot ATF man can play detective."

She held her thoughts. "It's not like that."

"There is a way we could move things along."

She looked up at him as she leaned against her Honda. "How?"

He placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned down and nibbled on her neck. Just a quick bite.

It shocked Alice, but not as much as what he was inferring would speed things up. Without thinking, she balled her fist and swung at his goofy face, and felt the satisfying snap of her knuckles striking him in the left eye. He lost his balance and bounced off his Buick on the way to the asphalt parking lot.

Alice looked down at him. "You know what will move the case along? You saving your energy for the office."

Alex Duarte tried to look at life from other people's perspectives. That was one of the reasons he'd got along in Bosnia. He could see how the Croats and the Serbs thought they each had the high moral ground in the conflict. He'd come to support the Croats based on his personal relationships as well as on some of the Serb activities, but he understood how each side clung to their ancient hatreds. Back home, he listened to political debates and felt he had some things in common with Democrats and some in common with Republicans. At any time, one side or the other could make a decent point. That was why he was an Independent.

Looking at Cal Linley and then at the Nazi memorabilia on the shelves, he had a difficult time seeing his point of view.

"You a member of a racist group, too?"

The big man looked surprised by the question. "Why should I answer? So you can open a file on me?"

"Look, Mr. Linley, I swear to God there will be no record of my visit."

Again Linley was taken aback. Duarte didn't think he was smart enough to catch the subtle threat in the comment.

The longshoreman took a small step back. "What do you want, ATF man?"

"Answers. That's it. You tell me and I'll leave."

"What if I threw you out instead?"

Duarte didn't respond. He rarely did to threats. Instead he picked up a tiny statue of a woman holding a banner with a swastika. "This valuable?"

"More'n you could afford."

Duarte heaved it against the front wall, the small figurine shattering almost into dust."

"You crazy? What kind of federal agent are you?"

"One that needs answers." He leaned toward the shelves and then flicked a ceramic Black Sambo playing a banjo off the shelf and watched it break into a dozen pieces on the hardwood floor.

"That's Americana. It's art. I spent my whole life collecting it."

Duarte looked at the shaken man and said, "The Mona Lisa is art. That thing was insulting. Especially how you look at it." He bumped the shelf, and two candlestick holders with German writing on them clinked together then fell over.

Linley shrieked, "Dammit! Cut that out."

Duarte didn't acknowledge him. Instead he reached over and picked up a beer stein with a glass bottom.

"No, not that. It's engraved to me personally."

"From who?"

Linley hesitated, then said, "The commander of the Aryan Army."

Duarte shook his head. "What was in the crate?"

"I told you, I don't know."

Duarte dropped the stein straight to the ground. He heard the man say "Okay," and in a lightning-quick flick of his hand and bend of the knees, he caught the mug an inch off the ground.

Duarte said, "I'm listening."

"I did take something from the container, but I swear I don't know what it was exactly."

"What do you think it was?"

The big man scratched his chin as he formulated an answer. "I just saw the metal and some wires, but I was thinking it might be some kind of machine."

"To do what?"

He hesitated and finally said, "I think it has something to do with oil wells."

"Like how?"

The tall man shook his head. "I ain't sure, but I think it might be a drill head or maybe even something to fuck up the oil flow."

"How'd you figure that out?"

"I ain't stupid. I know the folks bringing it into the U.S."

Duarte had a lot of questions, but decided to go with "Where'd you take it?"

"A motel over in Metairie."

"Who'd you give it to?"

Linley paused, appraising the ATF agent again. Duarte lifted his hand with the engraved stein.

"Okay, okay. I gave it to a young fella from Omaha."

"Look, you're dragging your feet. Just tell me the whole story, and I'll be out of here. Keep stalling, and I might have another accident." To emphasize his comment, he lowered the stein, but flicked a cast-iron tank a little bigger than his hand off the shelf, then while it was still in the air he kicked it hard. It flew in a straight line directly through a windowpane on the side of the house. He hadn't meant to aim for the window, but he wouldn't admit it to this moron.

Linley yelled, "Would you cut that out? I'll tell you." He took a breath and said, "His name was 'Ike' and I called him on a pay phone in Omaha. The president of the National Army of White Americans, Mr. Jessup, hooked us up. All I did was deliver the crate to him. Mr. Jessup spent his whole life in the oil business."

"The NAWA? You're kidding me, right?"

"Nope. We're allowed representation."

Duarte sighed, then said, "How much they pay you?"

"Nothin'."

"Then why'd you do it?"

"To help my country. They is gonna use whatever it is to help build a stronger country."

Duarte eyed the man. "A stronger country for whom?"

"Americans, you dumb-ass. You seen what's going on in this country? We need to do something, and I done my part. I ain't ashamed of it either. Figured the association has some way to set things straight."

"Like what?"

The big man's eyes shifted, then he said, "Maybe taking control of oil production. Hell, I don't know." Sticking to his same story.

Duarte questioned him some more about "Ike" and the motel. At least he had a lead.

When he had all the information he could use, Duarte said, "Look, Mr. Linley. Give me the phone number to this Ike and whatever else you know, and you can forget I was ever here."

"But I'll know by my smashed stuff."

Duarte looked at the remains of the few items he'd broken and at the hole in the window. Then he looked up at Linley. "Believe me, you got off easy."