“About what?”
“A delicate subject.”
“Come in. Get yourself in girl trouble?”
“No, sir.”
He closed the door behind me and turned the dead bolt, then cracked the curtain and looked through the window. The air conditioners were turned up full blast, the air frigid. “Where’s Saber?”
“He’s part of the reason I’m here.”
“If this is about the counselor job, it’s too late. Come in back. I’m lifting. Get yourself a soda out of the icebox.”
I followed him into a windowless room. The floor was concrete. There was a sweat-printed, leather-padded black bench in it, and a rack of barbells along the wall, and at least two hundred pounds of steel plates on the weight bar racked above the bench. On the wall were certificates of merit from booster organizations, a framed collection of military medals and ribbons and chevrons and a unit patch, a pair of women’s black panties pressed on pink felt under glass with a card that said “Liberating France one piece at a time,” a plaque with crossed cavalry swords on it, photos of Krauser bowling and performing on a trapeze and hitting softballs to young boys and playing with the Doberman, a letter of commendation from a group in Dallas called Patriots Unlimited, and a Confederate battle flag. In the corner was an old wooden desk with a lamp on it made from a German helmet and an artillery shell. There was an SS insignia on the helmet and a silver-smooth bullet hole an inch from that. A chrome-bladed dagger, the white handle inlaid with gold lightning bolts, lay on the desk blotter.
Krauser began curling a ninety-pound bar, his biceps swelling into white cantaloupes corded with veins. “Spit it out.”
“Saber and I have bad people on our backs, Mr. Krauser. The problem is, we don’t know why.”
“This is about those punks from the Heights?”
“I think it has to do with people in the underworld.”
“Oh, bullshit.”
“I don’t think it is.”
He continued to pump the bar, eight and nine and ten times, the steel plates rattling, sweat popping on his face, his odor blooming.
“Sir, I’m asking for your help,” I said.
“You think too much.”
“This isn’t just a beef with some rough guys from the Heights. I think we’re dealing with evil people, people with no mercy. There’s some things about you that don’t make sense, Mr. Krauser.”
He dropped the bar on a rubber pad, breathing deeply, his nostrils dilating. “What was that again?”
“Saber says you were following him.”
“What, I follow Mongolian idiots around town in my off hours?”
“Why would you come to my house and offer Saber and me jobs? You don’t like either one of us.”
“I tried to do a good deed, that’s why. I didn’t exactly get a warm welcome from your parents.” He picked up a thirty-pound dumbbell in each hand and began pumping, his eyes sinking in his face.
“Saber saw you at the Pink Elephant with Jimmy McDougal.”
Krauser inverted the dumbbells, lifting them straight out from his chest, counting to ten under his breath, a drop of moisture hanging off his nose. He dropped them heavily on the rack. “Get this straight. There’re kids who frequent that neighborhood because nobody else cares about them. Others go down there because they like beating up queers. Most of them are queers themselves but don’t know it. Jimmy McDougal is a kid with nobody to take care of him. I told the faggot who picked him up what I’d do if he ever tried it again. I even gave him a preview. By the way, the reason Bledsoe saw me at the Pink Elephant is that’s where he hangs out, even though he pretends he’s got some other reason to be there. Tell me if I’m right or wrong on that.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Good try, son.”
He gave me a threatening stare. I looked him straight in the face and didn’t blink. His stare broke. He blotted the sweat out of his eyes with the back of his wrist. “I got to shower. A lady friend is coming over. I don’t want you here when she arrives.”
“Why’d you bolt the door?”
“We have break-ins. Now get out of here.”