The Snow Angel by Michael Graham Page B

pulled out the picture of Darryl Childress and told the story. As he talked, Klemmer’s eyes were riveted on the photo.
    â€œTell me something, Ralph. What on earth makes you think an organization like mine would help you find a little mongrel African?”
    â€œMaybe a favor? Like a memorial. A favor to me, in memory of Billy.”
    â€œWhy would you think that? We’re the White Brotherhood.”
    Kane nodded. “I know. But I figured maybe you’d want to discourage white inmates from partnerships with niggers.”
    â€œNiggers?”
    â€œYeah. These assholes are salt-and-pepper, a white guy capering with a nigger.”
    Klemmer laughed. “I hope your Internal Affairs people never learn that you used that word. You do remember that unfortunate detective in Los Angeles, the guy in the Simpson case.”
    â€œWell,” said Kane, “there’s no one here but us kids. Not unless the feds have a bug in the furnace.”
    Klemmer shook his head. “So how do you know it was a white guy and a nigger? The kid must have had a lot of insurance, and the mother’s the only witness. How do you know the family didn’t arrange it? The kid’s a jungle bunny. You know the value those people put on human life.”
    What a sick fuck! “No, this was a righteous kidnapping,” Kane said. “Darryl was worth a lot more to them alive than dead.”
    Klemmer sat down and again examined the photo. “This boy represents race pollution at its worst. On TV, no less! I wonder what the Fuhrer would have done with the parents of such a child.”
    â€œForget the parents,” Kane said. “Think about the kidnappers. These guys get away with it, this’ll just encourage more white-black partnerships.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œKlemmer, you know how tight crime partners are with each other—it’s like a marriage. I don’t have to tell you that. So a mixed-race team is sort of like—what’s that old word?—miscegenation. And if they’re fucking each other, then it’s homosexual miscegenation.” Kane shook his head in disgust. “I hear that kinda shit’s going on all over in prisons these days.”
    Kane studied Klemmer’s face in the dim light. This psycho’s actually buying this bullshit!
    Klemmer took a Galil machine gun down from the wall and fondled it. “I’ll tell you what, Ralph,” he said finally. “I’ll see what I can find out. But there
is
a price tag.”
    â€œWe’ve been authorized a thousand bucks. It’s chump change, I know, but it’s all they’ll authorize.”
    â€œI’m not talking money.”
    â€œThen what
are
you talking about?”
    Klemmer grinned, savoring this. “See, from time to time we could use some help from someone inside the police. Nothing heavy, just a little information.”
    â€œRaid plans. Undercovers. That sort of thing.”
    â€œYes. And it also would be quite helpful to learn if any of our own members ever supply information to the authorities.” He smiled murderously. “You see, we have a very active counter-intelligence operation. For our own protection.”
    So that’s the deal. Billy’s asshole pal wants me for a spy. He wants me to endanger other cops.
    Kane almost laughed aloud. Klemmer hadn’t a clue that Kane was going to be a dead man as soon as this job was over.
    â€œIt’s a deal,” Kane said. “You get me something on these two scrotes, then you’ve got yourself a righteous snitch.”
1112 hours
    E asterly leaned against the wall of an interrogation room, frustrated. Her CCB captain, Nick Georgiades, and two of his female detectives, Alberts and Gregorio, were trying to coax information from a frightened Chinese woman whose command of English was limited. Next to the woman sat an interpreter, a young man with a worried frown.
    The