A Private Cathedral (Dave Robicheaux 23)

He shook off my arm. “There’s coke and weed all over this place,” he said to the two men. “These kids don’t need that. If you guys are doing security, it really blows.”

“We do what Eddy tells us,” said the man with the swastika. His pupils were tiny dots. He touched Clete as though they were brothers-in-arms. “Look around. This is a Caucasians-only environment. That’s because we do our job. If a little product gets in, we keep it under control.”

“I want to know what the German writing means,” Clete said.

“It means whatever you want it to mean,” said the man with the scar on his chin, gazing out the window at the squall. “It could mean haul your fat ass out of here, Bluto.”

“Bluto?” Clete said. “Like the guy in Popeye? That’s probably a compliment, right? Just tell me what the German writing means.”

“Or what?” said the same man, twisting his head.

“I could use a job. Maybe you guys could help me out. I was in the service.”

“Ou-rah,” said the same man.

“Say that again?” Clete said.

“I get sick of you assholes,” the same man said, sipping at his beer, not bothering to turn around.

“Let’s go over in a quiet corner,” said the man with the swastika. “Just us three.” He kept his gaze off me.

“I hate to be obsessive here,” Clete said, fishing in his coat pocket. “I want a translation.”

“Why?” asked the man with the swastika. His mouth moved slowly when he spoke, as though he were afraid to grin and afraid not to.

Clete removed a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He shook one loose and stuck it between his lips. “You might be Jews. Yo

u know, undercover.”

The man with the swastika flexed his mouth, almost like rictus. “Us?”

“Maybe you’re with the FBI,” Clete said.

The man with the swastika took a long swig from a beer mug that had been filled with Jack poured on crushed ice. He lowered the mug and looked sideways at Clete, his pulse fluttering visibly in his throat. “We’re trying to be nice, man. We’re a brotherhood. We ain’t out to hurt nobody. Unless we get pushed. My friend Klute here is pretty well known in the movement. He’s not a man you mess with.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Clete said. He tossed his unlit cigarette at a trash can behind the bar. “What’s tod mean?”

“That’s German for ‘death,’?” said the man with the swastika.

“How about für?”

“Come on, man.”

“What’s it mean?” Clete said.

“It means ‘to.’?”

“And Alle?”

“Like it sounds. It means ‘all.’?”

“What’s the whole thing mean?” Clete said.

“There’s a couple of people over there probably don’t need to hear this,” said the same man. “We got no beef with them. We’re for Aryan people. That don’t mean we’re necessarily against other kinds of people.”

“Don’t make me ask again,” Clete said.

“It means death to all Jews,” said the man with the swastika.