The Last Good Guy

38

Alfred Battle took the stage just before one. The crowd overflowed the shade of the white tent, leaving scores of people standing in the muggy monsoonal heat of the afternoon. I found shade under the less-crowded red tent just as a barrage of heavy raindrops hit the canvas above me and sent a ripple of surprise through the unprotected rally crowd. A moment later it stopped.

Battle stood at the lectern in his heavy brown suit, silver-haired and gaunt. He looked uneasy. Said a few words about the white race ceasing to be the dominant race on earth and likely extinct within a century, perhaps two. This would be a “bleak and self-inflicted catastrophe.” And if you didn’t believe him, read his book.

Next, he had some advice for his beleaguered race.

“As my writings explain,” he said, “our solution is simple in concept, clear in design, and certain to be effective. SNR.”

I perked up. At last: the mysterious initials explained.

“Segregate, Nullify, Remove. The inferior. The infidel. The dark and savage, the addicted and addled, the perverted, the weak and the malformed. And so, too, their white enablers, these beautiful children of privilege and Hollywood and Satan. Segregate them. Nullify them. Remove them. Also.”

The applause was polite. He shuffled his papers nervously until the applause trailed off.

“But I am an old man,” said Battle. “Listen now to tomorrow. God bless you all, and bless this once great nation.”

Odysseus looked thirty. Wavy brown hair and a boy’s face. Sleek in a trim black suit and a skinny black tie.

“It’s difficult to retake and redirect the modern narrative,” he said. A clear voice with a measured tone. “But we’re going to have to. I’m Kyle Odysseus, a middle-class Orange County, California, boy. My real last name is Smith. But to best redirect one’s self, sometimes you need to rename yourself. An ontological fine point, but nonetheless true. We become what we imagine. When I got out of college I traveled the world. I didn’t just go to the places people think are pretty or important. I saw it all. I went through thousands of dollars and six pairs of boots. And when I came back I felt like Odysseus returning home from Troy. Kind of tired and pissed off. And like him, when I looked around at my quaint suburban home and tried to recognize the loyal girl who used to be my friend and partner, I was appalled. She had surrendered to sloth and narcissism. I saw the self-absorbed, money-stunned drones who used to be my friends, openly consorting with the black and the brown and the swarthy and the pederasts and the mad. I wanted to slaughter them all. Are you people listening? Do you even fucking hear what I’m saying?”

Whistles and war whoops.

“And slaughter them we must. With their own swords. Let’s start with the federal government of the United States of America...”

While Kyle Odysseus started in on “our hypocritically egalitarian one-party system,” I looked out past the crowd at the old yellow house falling to the ivy and a swimming pool with the patio furniture covered and the big sloping orange grove that continued all the way down the hillside to the road. I saw the cops turning cars away. The protesters were still at it. The old woman with the hat and gloves stooped out of sight for a moment, then rose again amid the scraggly trees, looking up. The rain again thundered into the tent top above me for a few seconds, then again stopped.

I sidled out the back, meandered down to the parking area like a disappointed rallygoer, then cut downslope and into the dripping orange grove. Slipped my sunglasses into my shirt pocket.

Midway to the woman, I took cover under a tree and waited to see if I’d been followed. Raindrops dripped from the trees, silver in the gray day. A distant blaze of lightning far in the south. A grumble of thunder. No one behind me. All fascinated by Kyle Smith, aka Kyle Odysseus, aka a voice for white America. I turned and saw the woman putting something into a white bucket.

I sidestepped down the hill toward her, calling out.

“Marie? Marie Knippermeir?”

She looked at me and set down the bucket. Put her white-gloved hands on her hips as I approached.

“Marie?”

“Yes?”

I took off my hat in a show of manners. “I was hoping I’d find you here. I’m Blake Hopper, with the Family Values Coalition, up in Fallbrook. One of Alfred’s groups.”

“I love Fallbrook.”

“So do I. I like this rain, too.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

We talked for a few minutes about rain and lack of rain, as Southern Californians often do. I saw that her bucket was about half full of reasonably good-looking oranges. I noted that the ground around us was littered with shriveled, squirrel-chewed fruit, some of it dried black and hard.

“Do you need some help?” I asked. “Looks like lots of fruit to pick.”

“I prefer to work alone. Do you enjoy the White Power Hours?”

“This is my first,” I said. “We’re hoping to get more funding from Alfred, but a lot of hands are out.”

“Hate is so expensive,” she said. “But worth it to Alfred. He loves his work. He’ll die at his desk. Or maybe in a tent. But that’s not a cheerful thought.”

Under the brim of her big hat, her face was plump and her complexion rosy. Eyes like little blue pools. “What does your group believe in?”

“Exactly that — family values.”

“I love family values. Pies and picnics and — when they list the American boys killed in action on PBS? I tear up.”

A cheer came from the crowd on top of the hill. As it trailed off, Odysseus’s amplified words cut through. Something about “the only meaningful thing Muslims have ever done in America is 9/11!” before the applause flooded over his voice again.

I looked up to see two chinos-and-golf-shirt SNR men staring down at me.

Time to nudge this along. “You like beautiful homes, don’t you?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Beautiful properties, like this one. And the House of Fallen Angels in Mexico.”

“Why do you ask?”

“We’re interested in renting the House of Fallen Angels for a Family Values Coalition retreat,” I said. “It has everything we need, except an affordable price. It’s one of the things I wanted to talk to Alfred about today.”

The two golf-shirted men had become three, still looking my way.

“It’s very expensive and far from here,” said Marie.

“True, it’s a long flight to Cabo. And the Fallbrook FVC isn’t exactly drowning in money.”

“So much comes down to money with these nervous little haters,” said Marie. “Last month at the White Power Hour, our keynote speaker was hawking autographed T-shirts and coffee mugs with his picture on them. Not just a logo. His face. But you seem different. Are you?”

I looked up for the men. Still there. “Something closer to Fallbrook would be less expensive, too. For our retreat, I mean.”

“When I was young I was idealistic,” said Marie. “I married the prettiest, loveliest man. He died of a disease they didn’t have a name for yet. He got his own lymphoma named for him and I got a dead husband. Alfred has been miraculous, though. I had no business marrying him at my age, and being crazy. Or so they say. He’s much kinder than he looks. Empathetic, too, which is unusual in someone who hates people different than himself. He was raped as a child. He still screams when he dreams. Don’t tell him I told.”

“Never.”

“What was it you were talking about?”

“Renting a beautiful property for a Family Values Coalition retreat,” I said. “It’s in April of next year. We have a respectable budget, but not a fortune.”

The men started down the embankment, heading for the grove, one of them on his phone.

“Come closer,” said Marie.

I stopped in front of her. I could hear the distant crunch of the men moving through dead leaves. Marie lifted a white-gloved hand to my face, put her thumb on the hollow of one cheek and stretched her fingers to the other, bridging my mouth with her palm. Her small blue eyes seemed to have iced over. Pupils like pinheads. She turned my face to the left. To the right. Then stared at me straight on.

“What do you want?”

“A good deal on a luxury property. To rent for our retreat.”

“I see no hate in you,” she said. “But someone has given you a good old-fashioned beating. I’ll bet you’re plotting something. What? Quickly, Mr. Hooper — what are you plotting!”

“It’s Hopper.”

“They’re coming, Hopper. Answer me!”

“Vengeance.”

“Is that a family value?”

“There are some family values in my vengeance, yes.”

She let go of my face, stood back, and picked up her bucket. I could hear the men closing in. A burst of rain. I put my hat on. The downpour swiftly turned to a drizzle. I shook the water off my hat, put it back on again.

“Rain in Eden,” said Marie.

“Do you have a rental for me or not?”

She looked hurt. “Possibly. I bought another lovely property just recently. It’s where a cotton field used to be, up north in San Clemente, I think. I was there for a while. But Alfred brought me back down here last week because he needed it for something.”

“I wonder what.”

“Alfred doesn’t tell me all his business,” said Marie. “I’m just his bank. And a good one I am. You two can talk about a fair price. But I am willing to rent our property to your group, Mr. Hopper. I do have some sway here. I like what I see in you. And what I don’t.”

Through the dripping orange trees the three golf shirts approached, well watered by the last monsoonal dump.

“Marie, is this man bothering you?”

“Not at all. We were just conducting a little business. You look familiar.”

“Jason, ma’am. And Bo and Miller.”

“Jason and the Argonauts! I remember you.”

They were young and fit, and their drenched shirts were tucked in, their half-soaked khakis pressed. I could see on their faces that they were eager to get at me. But no evidence that they knew who I was.

“Mister,” said Jason. “Alfred told us to keep the rally crowd in the tent area and off his private property. Last month there was some damage and possibly theft. So, please, let Mrs. Battle pick her oranges. And you come with us now.”

I put my hat back on and tipped it to Marie Battle. She smiled and gave me a little wave, brief, half secret.

I started back up the hill, surrounded by Jason and the Argonauts.

“What the fuck are you doing down here?” asked Jason.

“I’m with the Family Values Coalition of Fallbrook,” I said. “We’re looking for a retreat rental. Something nearby and afforda—”

“Talk to Alfred Battle. He runs the show. Don’t pick on Marie. She’s got enough problems without shitballs like you trying to pick her pockets. You want something special from Mr. Battle, go to 4chan and get in line with the other phonies. In fact, when we get to the parking lot, you get in your car and get the hell out of here.”

“Tell Mr. Battle I enjoyed the rally.”

“Beat it, asshole.”