A neo-Nazi starts to record the fight with his cell phone video camera. Moreau puts his Beretta to the man’s head.
Big Man is dumb, falls for the same fake and jab. Sweetness is fast. Now both eyebrows are split bad and his eyes are full of blood and flesh hangs down into them.
Moreau removes the memory card from the guy’s cell phone and hands it back to him.
Big Man is blind now. I count punches. One two three. Sweetness hits a little harder each time, to make sure Big Man can’t fight back, before throwing the big hard punches that will take Sweetness a little off balance and put him at risk. Four: nose breaks. Five: teeth come out and patter on the carpet. A glop of blood sprays the bay window. Six: jaw breaks and more blood and teeth fly. Seven: a right roundhouse crumples Big Man’s eye socket. He falls. His head bangs the coffee table. Cups turn over and spill. Big Man is on the floor, semiconscious. The eye bulges because there’s not enough solid bone left to hold it tight in the socket.
I pick up a cookie, take a bite and turn to Jesper. “These are really good. Did you bake them yourself?”
The room is corpse silent except for Milo. The looks on the neo-Nazis’ faces have given him the giggles. He takes a cookie. “You’re right. These are really good.” He asks Jesper, “Have you got any coffee left? Don’t make a fresh pot on my account.”
Jesper, in a daze, doesn’t understand that Milo is teasing him and goes to the kitchen. “Do you take milk and sugar?” he asks.
“No, black is fine.”
Jesper returns with a cup and saucer and Milo thanks him.
I say to Jesper, “Now, either we have a conversation, or you become that.” I point at Big Man.
I take a seat on the couch and pat the cushion beside me, gesture for Jesper to sit beside me.
“My friend needs medical attention,” Jesper says.
“And he can have it as soon as we’re through here. So please cooperate. None of this was ever necessary in the first place. Where’s your gun safe?”
“There are three. In my bedroom. The keys are on top of the middle one.”
Milo goes to check them out. He’s looking for the sniper rifle that killed Kaarina Saukko.
I say to Jesper, “My question to you is: Who killed Lisbet S?derlund?”
“I don’t know.”
“You sell heroin. Correct? This conversation is off the record.”
“We’re performing a public service. We wholesale to people who only sell to blacks, in an effort to sedate the nigger—well, actually, the entire immigrant population. And the proceeds don’t line our pockets, they go to political causes.”
“Such as donations to Real Finns?”
He doesn’t answer.
“I’m curious,” I say. “You don’t want immigrants in Finland, but why Nazism?”
“Because it offers societal protection. Is it too much to not want cultural diversity, to want to preserve everything I hold dear? To live in a country with others who share the same race, values and beliefs that I do? Jews, Slavs, blacks, Arabs—they’re genetically and culturally inferior. They hold beliefs antithetical to our own and would destroy the fabric of this nation. In fact, I’m glad we’ve had our little experiment with immigrants, so that our citizens can see the havoc it carries with it on even such a small scale. Look at Belgium. Immigrants overran it and their culture and way of life is destroyed beyond repair. Given the relatively few immigrants we’ve taken in, we can still get rid of them and correct our error.”
“You want another Holocaust?”
“There was no Holocaust. It’s a myth. Tell the truth, Officer. Don’t you want our race and culture preserved?”