Murder in Foggy Bottom - Margaret Truman [55]
The boy turned to his father and said he wanted to go swimming.
“You listen to what Mr. Jasper has to say,” his father said sternly. “You heed his words. And there’s plenty of chores to do before you think about swimming.”
The mother shifted in her chair, avoiding Jasper’s eyes. She hadn’t wanted to leave their trailer home in Southern California, pick up what roots they had to come to live in this place, with these people. But her husband hadn’t asked her opinion or their son’s. He’d been fired from a job as an automobile mechanic for initiating a fight with a black mechanic whom he perceived to be receiving preferential treatment. Two days later they were on the road, heading to, as he told his wife and son, “a place where the damn niggers don’t matter and don’t get special treatment.”
“You go on out and take your swim,” Jasper said to the boy, who eagerly left the table and disappeared through the screen door. “Make no mistake about it,” he told the parents, “we’re in a war, and we’re getting ready for it. Luke 22:36 says, ‘He that hath no sword, let him sell his garment and buy one.’ ”
Two other men sat at the table during Jasper’s speech to the newly arrived couple. One was Jasper’s son, Zach, a surprisingly thin young fellow, considering his father’s girth. The other, Billy Baumann, was a squarely built man of approximately forty, bare-chested, with sculptured pectorals and abdominals, and hard arms. He wore camouflage fatigue pants with flap pockets, and high black lace-up boots.
“You see,” Baumann said to the couple, “Zachary is doing a remarkable thing in the interest of bringing Jesus Christ back into our lives and breaking the hold the Zionists and minorities have on this country. We’re affiliated with dozens of groups across the country, good, God-fearing white people like us who are tired of laying down like beaten puppy dogs. We’re getting ready for the grand fight, which will come. You can count on that and be a part of it.”
“Another book I’ll be giving you to read is Essays of a Klansman by Louis Bream,” Jasper said. “He’s got a point system in there for Aryan warriors like yourself, points for doing certain acts. Give you an example. A man will achieve special status in the eyes of the white God when he earns himself one point. You kill a Jew, that’s a sixth of a point, same with a nigger, and so on. Kill that lily-livered president we got, and you get your whole point right away.”
“Excuse me,” the wife said, quickly leaving the table and the house.
Jasper laughed. “Sometimes it’s hard for the women to get comfortable with what their men are fixing to do in the name of Jesus Christ. But she’ll soon enough come around when she realizes you’re doing what a good father should do, pull this country out of the gutter and get it away from the mud people.”
“She wants to leave,” the husband said, avoiding Jasper’s eyes. “Wants to go back to California.”
“Well, then, you tell her as the man of your household that she’ll be doin’ no such thing.”
Billy Baumann stood and slipped into a green T-shirt that had been hanging over the back of his chair. “I’d better make the run into town,” he said. “We’re running low on things.”
“Yeah, you do that, Billy,” Jasper said. “On your way, swing by that house owned by that connivin’ bastard, Howard. He still owes us for the help we gave him clearing that field. You tell him I want what he promised.”
“That’s twenty minutes out of my