“What ya watching?”
The younger of them, large in the darkness, answered from the sofa. “The son of God.”
“Shit!”
“Careful now, Carl,” the third man said. “God’ll get ya.”
Carl grunted, stepped to the set, and squinted farsightedly at the digital display on the satellite tuner. Then he sat down on an easy chair and watched. Now and again he cursed. The program had been two-thirds over when he’d entered. When it finished, he got up and turned the sound off.
“Goddamn jigaboo!”
The large, younger man grinned. “That’s gigaton. Five gigatons.”
“What the hell you talking about?”
“That five-gigaton rock he’s going to call down to land on your roof. Drive you clear down to hell if you’re not careful.”
Carl swore again. “Lute, you listen to that Un-gunda enough, your brain’ll rot. It’s like smoking dope.”
Lute laughed outright. “Like that snoose’ll rot out your jaw? When dope comes in a bottle, I may get interested.” He got to his feet. “Right now, though, I’m going to freshen up my coffee and listen to you tell me why it’s worth my time and somebody’s money to kill the guru.”
He went to the kitchen. It was lit by a Coleman lamp, despite the generator humming in an add-on behind the house. The firebox in a hybrid wood and propane stove kept the coffee pot hot on the backburner. Luther Koskela poured from it into a mug, and sat down at the table. His uncles followed, the eldest hunched and limping, and sat down across from him.
“When he’s dead,” Carl answered, “people won’t have to listen to him anymore.”
“That’s it? Jesus Christ, Carl, it’s a hell of a lot cheaper and easier to change the channel.”
Carl’s voice was implacable. “It’s reason enough. The man’s an abomination to God. God’ll be glad when the sonofabitch is dead.”
“Huh! When he’s dead, people will declare him the second coming of Christ, and he’ll be on television from then on. They’ll replay every word he ever said! Every Sunday! That’s what makes someone a messiah. Leave him alive. After a while, people’ll get tired of him. Then he’ll die out on his own.” Lute paused, grinning hugely. “Leave be, Carl, and listen to him. Maybe he’ll save your soul.”
Carl swore at greater length, this time more angry than surly. Lute laughed. “Well, never let it be said I turned down fifty thousand.”
The swearing stopped. Carl stared. “Fifty thousand?!”
“A hundred maybe. I’ll have to pick my team and pitch it to them. Fifty might not be enough.”
“Why goddamn it, that’s robbery! I’d rather do it myself!”
Lute snapped his fingers. “Sounds like a winner. Go down there, knock on his door, and when he answers, shoot him. Come on, Carl, get real! This is a job for trained professionals.”
The third man spoke now. “Where do you recommend we get that much money?”
“The last time, if I recall the newspaper story, it came from SeaFirst Bank in Spokane.”
“That wasn’t us. You ought to know that.”
“Not you personally, I don’t suppose. And then there was that armored car heist down in Denver. A million something.”
Carl couldn’t restrain himself. “We don’t even know who did that one! Probably the Mexican Mafia.”
Lute laughed again. “And you want to kill him just because some stupid shits say he’s the second coming. What makes you so sure there was ever a first coming?”
“Don’t talk like that, Lute! You’re our nephew. Don’t embarrass your mother’s soul. She cringes when you say things like that.”
Lute stopped laughing, and the grin disappeared. His eyes gleamed in the lamplight. “When’s the last time you were in church?”
“Damn churches don’t know a thing. They’re all nigger lovers. Either that or they want to tell you what to do.”
Again Lute laughed. “That’s what really gripes your ass, isn’t it, Carl? Ngunda’s a nigger, a sharp brainy nigger with lots of money.” He paused. “I’m not Aryan, you know.”
Carl’s answer snapped. “Watch your mouth! Your mother’s our big sister!”
“And my dad’s a Finn.”
“Finns are Aryans!”
“You ever hear Finnish? It’s kin to Mongol. Finns are Asiatic.”