The Hated: A Detective Jericho Single

by Walter Marks

  “You sure?” Danny said. “Tell ya the truth, you got one of the best head o’ hairs I’ve ever worked on. Be a cryin’ shame to...”

  “I think it’ll look sexy,” Jericho said bravely. “Hey, maybe I can get some girl to run her fingers through my scalp.”

  Danny snorted a laugh. He grabbed a cotton pinstriped barber cloth and expertly whipped it over Jericho’s body.

  In the wall mirror Jericho could see Danny plugging in an electric hair clipper.

  “Last chance to back out.”

  “Go for it, Edward Clipperhands.”

  Jericho closed his eyes when he heard the buzz of the clippers. He couldn’t bear to watch.

  The device seemed to be snarling, as it plowed through the detective’s crowning glory. He could feel hanks of hair falling down his neck and over his face. Danny occasionally whisked the hair away with a sable brush. The whole process didn’t take very long — maybe five minutes.

  “Take a look.”

  Jericho opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. There was some weird looking guy staring back at him. It wasn’t a whole person — just a closely shorn head, poking up out of a striped cotton shroud.

  Jericho groaned.

  “Okay,” Danny said. “It’s shave time.”

  He pulled a lever and the barber chair slid backwards. Jericho closed his eyes again as he heard Danny rummaging around. Then he felt hot towels swaddling his head and pressing onto his face. It was a comforting and relaxing feeling.

  Next he felt warm water flowing over his head, and then firm, massaging fingers working shave cream into his scalp. He recognized the smell all barbershops seem to have. The old radio jingle played in his head, “By Mennen.”

  The barber chair was raised back to its upright position.

  When Jericho heard the sound of a straight razor stropping on leather he panicked. “Hey, Danny,” he said loudly. “Can’t you use a safety razor?”

  “Listen, I been usin’ a straight razor for twenny years now and ain’t lost a customer yet.

  ”What about nicks, cuts, and boo-boos?”

  “I don’t tell a detective how to detect — so you don’t tell a barber how to barb!”

  Jericho sighed and closed his eyes. “Just be fucking careful, okay?”

  “No worries.”

  Jericho worried throughout the whole procedure. Danny gave him some advice as he worked.

  “You can use a safety razor when you’re shavin’ at home. But not a disposable, they suck. Take a shower as hot as you can stand it, then rub some oil on your scalp — olive, canola, whatever. Then apply shavin’ cream and go to work. Always shave against the grain. Some people worry they can’t see the back of their head, but believe me you can do it by feel.”

  When the ordeal was over, Danny pulled off the barber cloth and held a hand mirror in front of Jericho’s face.

  “Take a gander.”

  Jericho opened his eyes and went into shock.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. My ears — they’re stickin’ out like Obama!”

  “Everybody thinks that at first,” Danny said soothingly. “Without hair, ears seem to poke out, but fact is — yours look perfectly normal.”

  “Yeah, right!”

  “I ain’t lyin’, Danny said. “You’re still a handsome dude. In fact, without hair, I’d say you look like a younger Bruce Willis.”

  Jericho looked into the mirror and shook his head.

  “Squint,” the barber said. “You’ll see.”

  Jericho squinted. “Yeah,” he said. “There’s a slight resemblance. But people don’t squint when they look at you.”

  “Hold on a sec’,” Danny said. He went to a nearby hat rack and brought back a baseball cap. He popped it on Jericho’s head. “You can borrow my Yankees cap till you feel more comfortable.”

  “That won’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a Mets fan.”

  Jericho went home wearing the Yankees cap. At least it says NY on it.

  In his bathroom he took off the cap and took another look at himself in the mirror. On second thought it doesn’t look that bad.

  It doesn’t look that good either.

  He reminded himself he’d done this as part of his job. And tomorrow was his interview with Sigheil. He spoke to himself in the mirror.

  “Hi. I’m Vernon Pettibone. Most folks call me Vern.”

  He grinned into the mirror, then turned serious.

  “You talkin' to me?” he said with calm belligerence. “You talkin' to me? Then who the hell else are you talkin' to? Well, I'm the only one here. WHO THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE TALKING TO?”

  It was a lousy DeNiro but it seemed to release Jericho’s tension.

  He went back into his living room and looked over his new ID material. Then he resumed the task of developing in his mind, the complex life story and mindset of his fake self.

  By the time he went to sleep, he had Vernon Thomas Pettibone down pat.

  And Vern was ready for his interview.

  CHAPTER 17.

  As Jericho entered the Hampton Bays McDonald’s, the smell of french fries brought back a childhood memory. He’d been raised on Big Macs and Happy Meals, but eschewed them long ago in an effort to eat healthy. Since fast food chains were forbidden in East Hampton and surrounding towns, an occasional pizza was his only indulgence.

  This McDonald’s had been renovated, converting it into a McCafé; in addition to the take-out counter, there were numerous plastic chairs and Formica tables, where people could “dine”, café-style.

  The late afternoon crowd was made up mostly of families and young people, many of them logged on to the free wi-fi. The availability of internet access and improved coffee quality reflected the ubiquitous influence of Starbucks.

  Through a wall-size window at the rear, Jericho could see a children’s recreation area, with kids climbing on giant hamburger shaped structures and cavorting on slides, swings, and tunnels guarded by concrete Ronald McDonalds.

  McPlayground, Jericho thought, as he scanned the restaurant looking for Sigheil.

  To follow The Hated dress code, the detective wore the only black things he had — shoes, socks, slacks, and tee shirt. Over this he put on a black FUBU hoodie he’d once worn in an East Harlem undercover operation. For safety’s sake he’d removed the “For Us By Us” label.

  He spotted a skinheaded man, dressed in black, grinning and waving at him. The guy was around 40, short, wiry, with stubble on his chin that hadn’t decided if it was a beard or not.

  Jericho waved back and walked towards him, wondering if his own clean-shaven head made him look as dorkish as this grinning White Supremacist.

  The guy was picking at some fries on a paper plate. “Hi, I’m Siggy,” he said. “Please sit down.”

  “I’m Vern,” Jericho said. “8-6-6-8!”

  “8-6-6-8,” Siggy said. “You wanna get some food?”

  “No. I’m good.”

  “Before we get started,” Siggy said. “I need to see some photo ID.”

  Jericho took out his drivers’ license and handed it to Siggy. “As you can see, I had hair when this picture was taken.”

  “When did you go skinhead?”

  “Just yesterday,” Jericho said. “But I’ve been wantin’ to do it for quite a while now.”

  Siggy scrutinized the picture, then Jericho’s face, then back and forth a few times. Finally he looked up and nodded.

  “You sure look like two different people,” he said. “But it’s that way with all of us, after gettin’ skinned.”

  “Well, I’m real happy I did it.”

  Siggy took out his cellphone. “Lemme just get some pictures.” He photographed the drivers’ license and the detective, then handed the ID back to Jericho.

  “Y’know, Vern. Some of us use our internet monikers, some not,” Siggy said. “Depends if you want to be anonymous. My
last name’s Siegenthal so with me it makes no difference. What’s your choice?”

  “You can call me Hass,” the detective said. “It means hatred in German.”

  “Cool,” Siggy said. “So, Hass — you may be wondering why I chose McDonald’s for this interview. Well, it’s close to my house, and me and my wife often bring the kids here after school. My two little ones — Tommy and Ginnie — they’re playing in the playground. My wife’s out there minding them. She loves this place ‘cause she knows all the other moms and it’s one big gossipy coffee klatch for them.”

  Jericho smiled. The banality of evil.

  Siggy smiled with his thin, purplish lips. “First, let me tell you a little about our organization.”

  Siggy went into a long diatribe about The Hated. It was clearly a speech he’d committed to memory and delivered many times:

  “We believe our people must unite, with the common goal of buildin’ a better race. Today, without racial singularity, we can’t focus our energies and achieve the great things that should be within our grasp. But once we’re united on the basis of common blood, organized and disciplined within our own social order, and inspired by a common set of ideals, there will be no stopping us, no enemy we can’t vanquish, no goal we can’t attain. We believe the first step toward this goal must be the gathering together of all people of our race who share our beliefs and who are willing to raise the consciousness of others by speaking out.”

  Jericho was amazed at how benign and reasonable their mission statement sounded. But he knew that to a person filled with angry racial animus, this was coded language, which actually encouraged the hate filled vitriol that burst forth in The Hated chat room.

  “That sounds good,” Jericho says. “I’m so sick o’ the politically correct crap that tries to stifle us from tellin’ it like it is, and doin’ it like it needs to get done.”

  “Right on, Hass,” Iggy said. “Oh, I should mention one thing to you about violence. We don’t condone it and we don’t encourage it. Oh, there’s a few loose cannons in our group, who like to say ‘the sword is mightier than the pen.’ But it’s definitely not a policy of The Hated. You dig?”

  “I dig.”

  “So,” Siggy said. “Tell me a little about yourself. Why are you interested in joinin’?”

  “Well, it’s like this,” Jericho said. “I was once a successful construction worker. I had it all — a wife and three kids, a nice house, in a nice neighborhood. Then these Spic illegals hit town, willin’ to work for shit wages, and boom! suddenly I got fired. The union got pissed but in the end they did nothin’. I looked for work, but everywhere I went they told me the Spics had all the jobs and blah-blah-blah the bottom line, and tough shit, buddy.”

  ”Hold up, Hass,” Siggy said. “This is a family place, and we can’t have them hearin’ any profanity from us.”

  “Sorry,” Jericho said. “It’s just sometimes I get, y’know, kinda riled.”

  Siggy nodded.

  “Anyway,” Jericho went on. “What little savings I had got used up, and I had nothin’ to do all day, so yeah, I started drinkin’ a little, and my wife was bustin’ my balls all the time, and finally she took the kids and left me to go live with her mother. Now I’m fed up, just fucking fed up — sorry! — fed up with these illegals takin’ our jobs and movin’ into our neighborhoods, stinkin’ up everything with their salsa music and their disgusting Spic food. So when I read online about your group The Hated, I said — finally some people who feel my pain and my anger, and who want to fucking do something about it. (Sorry!)

  Thing is — I want my America back. That’s why I wanna join.”

  Siggy nodded, clearly impressed. “I hear ya,” he said. “It’s a story we hear all the time. Sounds like you’re exactly the kind of person we’re lookin’ for.”

  “And you’re the kind of people I’m lookin’ for.”

  “So — you have any questions about our operation?”

  “Um...not really,” Jericho said. “Just wondering — how many people are in the group.”

  “Well, there’s about fifty of us in the Eastern Suffolk chapter,” Siggy said. “We only got organized about a year ago, so we’re still small. But there’s four more larger groups in the New York-Jersey area, includin’ headquarters in Newark. That’s where The Furrier is.”

  “The Furrier?”

  “It’s a kinda play on words — The Furrier, Der Führer. Get it?”

  Ugh. “Does he have a real name?”

  “I guess. But nobody knows it.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “No. He keeps a very low profile,” Siggy said. “We get videos of his lectures. He’s got one incredible mind.”

  “Man, I can’t wait to start goin’ to your meet-ups,” Jericho said. “You have ‘em here in Hampton Bays?”

  “I can’t tell you where till I get clearance from the higher-ups. But I can tell you, you’re definitely Hated material. I’d say you’re a sure shot, and I oughta know. I’m head of regional recruitment.”

  “Wow! That’s great!

  “In the next coupla days, you’ll get an e-mail sayin’ you’re officially in, and tellin’ you ‘bout the next meetin’, ek-ce-tra, ek-ce-tra.”

  A dark shadow loomed over the table.

  “Hey, Sig.”

  Jericho looked up and saw a hulking, muscle bound guy in a brown uniform. It was the UPS delivery man who’d brought him his fake ID. Shit. There goes my cover!

  “Whatya say, Marty,” Siggy said. “Wanna join us?”

  “No time,” he answered. “Doin’ a late run today. Just pickin’ up some coffee before I head out.”

  “Marty, this is my pal Ver... er, Hass.”

  The UPS man stuck out his hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Jericho shook his hand, while subtly turning away his face.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Marty said. “Ain’t I seen you somewhere before?”

  Jericho’s stomach lurched. “I don’t think so.”

  “You look familiar.”

  “I got that kind of face.”

  “I’m lousy with names but I never forget a face.”

  Jericho remembered Siggy’s words — “You look like two different people.” Jesus, I hope to hell he’s right.

  Marty scrutinized the detective’s face. “I dunno. You look a little like Bruce Willis, so maybe that’s...nah! I met you somewhere.”

  He shrugged, and turned to Siggy. “So. How you doin’, pal?”

  “Can’t complain.”

  “Wife? Kids?”

  “Fine, they’re out there in the playground.”

  Jericho noticed the yellow name badge sewed into the UPS man’s uniform:

  Martin Diller — Delivery — We♥ Logistics.

  “Well, I gotta get goin’,” Marty said. He looked down at Jericho again. “Wish to hell I could place ya,” he said. “But it’ll come to me. Like I said, I never forget a face.”

  As he walked away, Jericho exhaled in relief. But what if he remembers later? Then he recalled the name of the man in the chat room, who wanted to solve problems with an AK-47: KILLER-DILLER. Was this the same guy?

  “Seems like a nice fella,” Jericho said to Siggy.

  “Yeah. Known him for years.”

  “Is he, um, a member of the group?”

  “Nah,” Siggy said. “Just a friend.” He bit sharply into his lower lip.

  A lying tell?

  Diller had been wearing his UPS hat both times Jericho saw him, so he couldn’t determine if he was a skinhead.

  Jericho gave Siggy a friendly smile. “Well, I sure enjoyed meetin’ you. You really think I'm in?”

  “Slam dunk,” Siggy said. “Oh, one more thing.” He pulled down his shirt collar. Right below the left clavicle was a blue tattoo: 8668. “We all get these. It’s part Hated pride, part security. You have to show this to the guards to get into our meetings. Even though they have your name, we have to be extra careful. We’ve had a big prob
lem with people tryin’ to infiltrate our group and bring us down.”

  “I gotcha.”

  “We get the tat below the collar bone, so you don’t broadcast your membership to the public. But if anyone sees it, just say it’s your lucky number.”

  “What about your wife?”

  “If she ain’t fine with it, get a divorce.”

  Jericho forced a laugh.

  “One of our guys decided to get the numbers tattooed on his forearm. We made him get it removed. He didn’t realize he looked like one of those so-called Holocaust survivors.”

  Jericho couldn’t even force a laugh on that one.

  He got up and shook Siggy’s hand.

  “Listen, better get that tat right away,” Siggy said. “Meet-up’s comin’ real soon.”

  “8-6-6-8,” said Jericho.

  “8-6-6-8.”

  Jericho headed for the exit door.

  He passed the take-out counter, looking for Diller. There was no sign of him.

  There isn’t much of a line and Diller was only getting coffee, so maybe he’s already gone. Or is he in the men’s room?

  Jericho hustled out the door and went to his car. He got in, glanced behind him with a wary look, then headed for home.

  About fifteen minutes later he looked in his rear-view mirror and saw a brown vehicle at a distance behind him. He slowed down and the vehicle drew closer. He knew for sure it was the slope nosed UPS delivery truck.

  Is Diller following me?

  Jericho stepped on the gas and made a quick left-hand turn on Scuttle Hole Road. Reaching in his glove compartment, he grabbed his Glock 37 service pistol, then dashed into the nearby woods and waited. He could see the road from his hiding place.

  After a minute or so, he saw the brown UPS truck pass by. He waited a while, then cautiously approached the main road. He looked both ways. No traffic.

  He walked back to his car. But tension still grabbed at him. Did Diller finally recognize me? Is he a member of The Hated? Was he following me, or was he just driving his regular delivery route? If he was trailing me, what did he have in mind?

  Infiltrating The Hated is now even more dangerous. The odds of my cover being blown have clearly increased. Should I keep on with it? I’ll have to think long and hard about this.