Page 35 of Hang on St. Christopher

“What are you doing, Jonty?” Pete asked the ladder man.

“It’s none of your business,” Jonty replied. He leaned the ladder against the telegraph pole, climbed up, and carefully began cutting down the SS banner.

“Is he making you do that, Jonty?” Pete said. “He has no right to do that. He has no right to make you remove that or any flag.”

“It’s none of your business, Pete,” Jonty grumbled.

“Don’t give in to the peelers! They can’t make you do anything. It’s a free fucking country, so it is!”

“I’m not making him do anything, Peter. He’s doing this of his own free will. Aren’t you, young Jonathan?”

“Yes. Own free will,” he said in a monotone.

He finished cutting down the SS flag and carefully brought it down the ladder with him.

“Give it to me,” I said.

“That’s my property, that is.”

“Give it to me,” I reiterated.

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I’m going to use it as the lining in my cat’s litter box. It’ll give me a lot of fucking pleasure knowing that my cat is pissing and shitting on a genuine Nazi flag.”

Jonty’s bug eyes bugged even more, and a vein bulged in his neck. Pete and his crew took a step toward us.

“The flag,” I insisted.

Jonty handed over the flag. “Thank you very much. Now, just to let you know, I’ll be driving through here later on this week, and if anybody five streets up or five streets down puts up any kind of Nazi flag again, I’m coming back to you. Do you understand?”

“I might not have done it!”

“No, you might not. But it’s going to be your job from now on to remove any Nazi flags that appear in the neighborhood. Do you understand? If I see any of them around here, I’m coming straight to you.”

Jonty nodded.

“Now, get the fuck out of my sight.”

Jonty picked up his ladder and carried it back to his house.

Scanlon was flabbergasted by all this. Jonty was clearly a man of parts around here, and he was leaving the scene like a whipped dog. I threw the car keys to McCrabban. “Turn the car ’round, Crabbie, will ya?” I asked.

“Will do,” Crabbie said. He looked under the Beemer for bombs and then got in the driver’s seat, put the key in the ignition, and did a three-point turn.

Pete’s eyes hadn’t left mine.

“Let me finish that poem for you. I’m sure you’re curious how it all turned out: ‘For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, and breathed in the face of the foe as he passed.’”

“I get the message. You think you’re a hardman,” Pete said.

“Last verse: And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail, and the idols are broke in the temple of Baal... You get the fucking picture, Petey boy?”

Pete got the picture. “What did you say your name was?”

“Sean Duffy, formerly and now again of Carrick CID. Here’s my card if you want to complain about me,” I said, and handed him my card.

“There won’t be any complaints, pal. But there might be a knock on your door in the middle of the night,” he said.

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