Dead and Gone - Andrew Vachss [77]
“You make Timmons for a hustler?” I asked Brick.
“Could be. When it comes to extremists on either side, it’s always hard to separate the true believers from the profiteers. He’s never stuck anywhere, but he’s been everywhere. Held rank in one of the Identity religions, worked security inside a couple of compounds. You’d think they would have made him for an agent, as many groups as he’s joined and left. But I guess his torch work’s been the credential—no undercover’s going to burn down a building with people in it, and they know it. Besides, he’s a fanatical polygamist.”
“What’s that got to do with—?” Byron asked.
“I know what you’re saying,” Brick cut him off. “You can be into polygamy without being a white supremacist. Sure, there’s all this ‘Breed an Aryan baby for the race’ stuff, but they’re not the only ones practicing.
“The thing about Timmons is, he’s supposed to have shot one of them over the guy’s daughter. Timmons claimed the girl had been ‘promised’ to him, so he wanted her handed over. The father said she wasn’t old enough yet—she was around twelve—and Timmons blasted him and tried to snatch the girl.”
“He wasn’t prosecuted for that?” I asked. Not suspicious, just trying to add it up.
“The guy he shot wouldn’t testify. Said it was an accident. And Timmons never got away with the girl, so there really wasn’t any pressure. Or any publicity. But it sure convinced them all that he wasn’t working for ZOG, you know?
“Anyway, he’s not the boss of that two-man team. That’d be Ruhr. Straight-up pure; hardcore, not some poser or wannabe. Timmons sports the typical ‘88’ tattoo, but Ruhr, the only number on his skin is ‘14.’ You following me?”
I nodded. The “Fourteen Words” of David Lane, a former leader in The Order. Right now he’s serving life-plus for murder and racketeering in pursuit of an Aryans-only America: “We must secure the existence of our people, and a future for White children.” Words so sacred to some White Night soldiers that they added “14” to their own signatures.
“Ruhr proved in with a prison homicide almost twenty years ago. It was a face-to-face shank job, one on one, so he only pulled time in the hole for it—that’s the way it was then.”
You think it’s different now? I thought to myself, but kept quiet as Brick continued:
“He’s a hit man. But not freelance. Only kills for the cause. We have it confirmed that he’s worked overseas. Trips to the U.K.—he’s a suspect in the assassination of an IRA official—and France, and Germany, for sure. Maybe others.”
“So no way they’re connected to the skinhead kids who tried to grab Gem?” I asked.
“We can’t say that,” he cautioned. “They’re not on the same level, no question. But every contract hitter has to make his bones sometime. Ruhr wasn’t any older than the kids you described when he started whacking people.”
“Sure,” I said. “Looks like he grew up Inside.” I pointed to the swastika tattooed on the side of his neck. “That’s a jailhouse job. And an old one—see how blobby the ink is?”
Brick just nodded agreement.
“And the connection to the Russians?” I asked him.
“Well, they’re not Russian Jews, so they wouldn’t be excluded, necessarily. You know, for years we’ve been hearing about a Stalinist organization, but nothing specific ever shows up.”
“You mean inside Russia?” Gem asked him.
“No. I mean, sure, there probably is something like that going on there; who knows? But I was talking about outside the country. Didn’t you