"Don't trust this little bug," says Carlos. "Let me call the cops."
"No. If he knows about the knife, I want to meet the guy."
The skinhead says, "There's a car outside."
When he turns, I wrap my right arm around his neck and squeeze. I have the knife against the side of his throat.
"If you're lying to me, I'm going to cut out your eyes and cut off your balls. Then I'm going put your balls in your eye sockets and staple your eyes in your ball sac. So, let me ask you one more time, are you absolutely sure you're telling me the truth?"
The skinhead tries to nod. "He said he just wants to meet you and that no one will bother you."
I take off the Veritas and flip it. It lands showing a burning cross and Sieg Heil in phonetic runes.
"Okay, Princess." I put the knife back in my waistband under the hoodie. "But remember-no tongues on a first date."
THE NEW REICHSTAG is an abandoned furniture warehouse near Sunset and Alvarado. A dozen American junker cars with white-power bumper stickers are parked outside. Another dozen chop-shop Harleys are lined up just beyond the cars. At least now I know who rides in this town.
My Nazi best friend knocks on the door and a girl skinhead with a Luger in a shoulder holster lets us inside the clubhouse.
No one has opened a window in this place for ten years. The room stinks of beer, piss, and sweat. It's packed with roid rage Hitler Youth, but I can't take my eyes off the girl who let us in, fierce and skinny, sporting a wife beater, shaved head, and a gun. I want to tell her, Baby, you're my punk-rock dream date. Let's get drunk and break stuff. Then I remember that she's not like the girls I knew way back when. Proud to be scum. She's waiting to be swept off to Valhalla by goose-stepping Dolph Lundgren look-alikes.
She asks, "What the fuck are you staring at, asshole?" and moves a hand to the gun.
I smile at her. "Spank me harder, Eva Braun."
She spits at my boots but misses. My Nazi pal says, "Shut up, Lisa." He leads me to an office door marked private. He knocks twice and we go inside.
While the main room is a piss-soaked junkyard of broken furniture and overflowing garbage cans, the office is as clean and organized as an operating room.
Behind a gray metal desk, a blond man is writing with a fountain pen on a yellow legal pad. High forehead. Sky-blue eyes. Cheekbones like the prow of an icebreaker. A perfect Aryan wet dream. Hell, even I want to have this guy's babies.
His desk is surrounded by neat piles of white power pamphlets, slim books on how Jews and blacks are really extraterrestrial invaders, event sign-up sheets and CDs with pictures of bare-chested bands covered in swastika tattoos. At one corner is an impressive pile of weapons, knives, knuckle-dusters, and pipes wrapped in electrical tape. Mixed in the pile of metal, I'm pretty sure I see a couple of Hellion weapons that I used in the arena.
He looks up at me and gives me a smile that would melt a car salesman's heart. "Sorry. Just making some notes for a speech I have to give this weekend. Please, sit down."
I sit on a padded metal folding chair. My weight makes it squeak. Only the Fuhrer gets the good furniture. I've gotten used to being able to read people, their breathing and heart rate, but I can't get a fix on this guy. He's not even too calm to read. It's like he's not there at all.
"What's the story, Siegfried?" I ask. "Why are they all shorn sheep out there, but you get to have hair?"
"In the group, I'm called Josef. I'm the face of the movement. It's all about media these days, isn't it?" He points to a box of recruitment DVDs and tapes. "Tattoos and shaved heads scare people. Looking like the prom king brings the newspaper and local TV around, and gets our message out to more potential recruits."
"I know about your message and don't want to hear more. I've had enough crazy talk for this lifetime."
"I'm sure you have. They don't think much of the human race down in the pit, do they? I know Azazel doesn't." He watches me when he says it, waiting for a reaction. I don't give him one.
"How do you know what Azazel thinks?"
"Because I've talked to him. He's not happy with you killing him with his own knife. Tartarus is a bleak place compared to Hell."
"How could you talk to Azazel? You can't do a summoning on anyone as powerful as Azazel, and only Lucifer can walk in and out of Hell on his own."
"Who says I'm on my own?" He opens his hands in an expansive gesture, like something a preacher would do. "What's that old line from Luke? 'My name is Legion: for we are many.'"
"Who's 'we'? Not those idiots out there.">"Are they going to kick me out of the magic union? Take away my 401?"
"This isn't a joke." Vidocq slams the book closed. "These are powerful people. Medea Bava was here. She left this for you." He hands me a small white linen bundle tied with horsehair. Crow feathers inside. And wolf teeth spotted with blood.
"An Inquisitor? That's a fairy tale. They don't exist."