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Page 26.
Chapter 20.
 Louis Beering was tense as he watched the Box-Is-U store. He stood in a doorway across the street while rain slanted down. He knew the police had the place under surveillance.
One thing had not changed in sixty years, Louis thought. And that was human nature. Greed, stupidity, everything was as it had been in his own time. He had read enough history by now to have a mechanical idea of how nationalist socialism had been defeated, but he was at a loss to explain the spiritual reasons for the defeat. He was especially embittered by the untimely end of Mr. Hitler, and could only sympathize with Hitler's last comments to the effect that Germany had failed him, not the other way around. Perhaps therein lay the clue. Something about the ignoble side of humanity defeating its higher instincts, such as the will to truly strive for the highest and best of racial power and purity. Louis regarded the sodden streets with disdain. No higher instincts anywhere in sight, only an unendurable chaos of mediocrity.
There would not be time for fancy ways of intimidating publishers into printing his work. He had miscalculated, he could see that now. Publishing was no longer the primary way of communicating exciting new ideas. These people were too dumb. They did not read anymore. They absorbed their information from radio and that zenith thing with the screen. The terrible experience with the Joe Ramo show weighed bitterly on his soul. His time was running out. Somehow he would have to figure a way to quickly accomplish what he had to, and still save himself.
A noise startled him and he reached for the Luger in his waistband.
"Hey man, it's only me," said the incredible person standing before him, a young man, little more than a boy really, with shaven head and denim clothing overlaid with studded leather.
Louis said: "You could get yourself killed."
The raw-knuckled young man grinned. "I may wear combat boots, but I specialize in treading like a cat." Turk added in a whisper, his eyes alight: "Heil Hitler, brother."
"Heil Hitler," Louis said. They ducked through an alley to the next street. The boy was nothing. A tool, that was all. But an eager tool, ready to be exploited. How many more like him were there in the underbelly of this world gone wrong? Louis said: "Are we ready?"
"Ready if you are," Turk said. "I brought the cleaning crew." A boxy van sat parked in a dark corner, shiny with rain, its windows opaque and lifeless.
Louis walked up and checked. The driver, a skinhead wearing white overalls, gave a thumbs-up. Louis gave him a palm-up salute, which seemed to impress the fool. In the back, amid cleaning supplies, were several dark figures. Illegals from South America, out to earn some good cash, who would never talk.
"Good job," Louis told Turk.
At Louis's signal, the van pulled out and headed toward Box-Is-U. Louis chuckled to himself. This would draw the police's attention.
Louis got into Turk's car. They drove to a prearranged meeting place several blocks away. An OverNight Express van pulled up. The driver, wearing a very businesslike uniform, but with shaven head, grinned. The transaction was brief. On the seat were two packets and a letter. The letter interested him the most. The driver had steamed it open. Louis read the letter: "Dear Mr. Armaday, I am pleased to inform you that your manuscript The Future of The Race has aroused considerable interest. I would like to meet with you to discuss possibilities of publication. World Anaconda prides itself on a liberal publishing policy based on true intellectual freedom. We apply three tests: (1) Sincerity--is the author motivated by noble and superior ideas? (2) Progressiveness--do the author's ideas represent positive views, however controversial they may be, about the progress of our nation? (3) Realism--do the author's views, again no matter how controversial, merit a forum based on the possible contribution they may make to progress? You manuscript, we feel, meets all three tests. Please inform me when we can meet. Best Wishes, Jeff Maxxon, Ph. D." Louis frowned. Something bugged him. He overcame his hopefulness, wondering if it could be a setup.
The two packets contained rejections. He noted the names of the signing editors, checking them against his notebook. One had been addressed to a Jay Pincus at Grace, but the note was signed by a Lexa Whiston. Louis wrote her name down with great precision. You will pay, he promised mentally.
"Thanks," he told the driver. "Good job, fellows." He was, despite himself, impressed with the industry and intelligence these freaks could muster when properly led. It all went to prove, again, the superiority of good leadership and nationalist-socialist ideology. The letter and packages were resealed, and the van departed for Box-Is-U, where, by now, Louis had no doubt the police were wasting valuable time checking the cleaning crew's papers.
"Ready Dude?" Turk asked.
"Not quite," Louis said. Turk at first looked puzzled. Then as they were driving through town toward the suburbs, and Louis explained his intentions, Turk broke into a broad grin. "All right, dude!"
They knocked on Mr. Pincus's door at two a.m.
Mr. Pincus, wrapped in a robe, sleepily answered the fiftieth or so loud knock. "What the hell--?"
Turk landed a heavy-knuckled punch in Pincus's face, immediately drawing copious nose bleeding. Together, they crashed into the living room. Somewhere a woman yelled: "Honey! What is it?"
Louis spotted a cuckoo clock on the wall, and tore it down, wrapping the chains and heavy weights around his fist.
"Call the po--" Pincus started to yell to his wife, but Louis let him have it over the head with the weights, just enough to stun.
Louis and Turk together grasped the dazed editor by his bathrobe lapels and walked him into his back yard. He stumbled splashing through puddles, too dazed to offer much resistance.
They came to the edge of his swimming pool. "For God's sake!" Pincus cried out, blood bubbling from his nose. "Are you crazy? If you want to rob me, just take it all!"
"Not so fast," Louis said, feeling a cold grin wrap itself around his face. "So you don't think it worth your while to read my manuscript that I spent money to send to you personally, eh?"
"Mister," Pincus sputtered, "what the hell?"
"Here," Louis said. With Turk holding Pincus, Louis wrapped the chains around his neck. "Let me give you some time to think it over." He yanked with both hands, and something snapped in Pincus's neck. Head at an odd angle, eyes sightless, Pincus plunged stiffly into the water and bobbed face down.
His wife screamed and lights went on.
"Let's get out of here," Louis said, but Turk was several boot steps ahead of him, crashing through bushes. The woman was really screaming now. Somewhere, distantly, a siren began to wail. Turk driving, the van skidded on loose gravel and made its getaway. Louis remembered with satisfaction the sight of Mr. Pincus drifting like a broken torpedo, twin cuckoo clock weights hanging under him in the aquamarine glow of underwater lights.
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