SANDMAN SLIM

I go to the jukebox to see what's playing.

"Set me adrift and I'm lost over there And I must be insane, to go skating on your name, And by tracing it twice, I fell through the ice Of Alice…"

"Who put this song on?" I turn and look at the room. It's early enough that the place isn't packed yet. There are maybe a dozen people scattered at different tables. "Who put this song on?" Not a word. My heart is pounding. I go back to the bar, keeping an eye on the room, not sure what to do. I want to start throwing furniture and people, but two sets of civilian casualties in one day is probably two too many.

I ask Carlos, "Did you see anyone by the jukebox?"

"Sorry, man. No. I didn't even know we had the song. Never heard it before. The service guys change the tunes every now and then, when they come in to empty the coin bins."

"Next time one of them comes in, tell them to take it off."

"You got it. Here. Have another drink." Carlos starts to pour me one, sets down the bottle, and grabs a baseball bat from under the counter.

"Get the fuck out of here, rulacho. You got no business here."

I look at the door. One of the skinheads from the other day is there, black eyes and his arm in a sling. He comes inside and stands by the bar, tall and cocky, but his heartbeat says he's scared, and he's keeping an eye on Carlos and his bat.

"The Blut Fuhrer wants to see you," he says, nodding at me.

"The bloated what?"

"Blut Fuhrer," says Carlos. " 'Blood leader.' The boss to these Nazi bitches."

"Shut up, spick. White men are talking."

I have one hand around skinhead's throat and I'm squeezing the juice out of him. This is exactly what I need to work off some tension. When I let go, the skinhead falls on his ass on the floor. So much for tall and cocky.

"The Blut Fuhrer…" he rasps.

"Blood leader?" I say. "When did you guys start playing Dungeons and Dragons? Tell the blood fart to kiss my ass."

Himmler grabs a bar stool and pulls himself to his feet. "I told him about that black knife you used on Frederic. That's why he wants to meet you."

"Why do I care what he wants?"

"The Blut Fuhrer says he knows the original owner."

Azazel? A third-rate Colonel Klink impersonator knows Azazel?

"How does your boss know the owner?"

"I don't know. He just said he wanted to meet the man with the power to have that particular knife. He promises you safe passage in and out."

"Thanks, but I think I can find my own way in and out of your mom's basement."

"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.