Free Quarry in the Black by Max Allan Collins

position.
    I came around and opened her door, collected the keys from her, and walked her by the arm to the church’s back door, which was unlocked. Then we were in a little entry area lighted by a small bare bulb with a pull chain. A few uncarpeted stairs led up into a dark sanctuary, some street light entering through stained-glass windows, revealing empty pews. Down to our right were more uncarpeted stairs, a flight of them. She nodded that way.
    Hell, not heaven, then.
    We went down together, squeezed a bit as we shared the steps, which emptied into a linoleum-floored basement with folding banquet tables that had no doubt seen more than its share of potluck suppers. The fluorescent-light panels in the drop ceiling were off, but small rectangular windows let in enough street-level light to make things out.
    At the far end, a wood-paneled wall had various framed Sunday school-type prints and also two doors; under the one at right, light seeped out.
    She pointed to that door.
    Someone behind it was waiting for me to be brought to him. But no other bully boys in tan work shirts and chinos were waiting here for me, unless they were back there with my would-be host. Or were a bunch of them sitting in the dark upstairs, crouched down in the pews where I hadn’t seen them?
    I led her down the central aisle between banquet tables and when we stood at the light-seeping door, I whispered, “Knock.”
    She gave it three short raps. “Mr. Starkweather? It’s Becky. I have him right here, sir.”
    “Bring him!” came a radio announcer baritone. “Bring him right in.”
    She reached for the knob, her eyes querying me and I nodded for her to go ahead. She did and we went in.
    It was a decent-sized office, with more rec-room-type paneling and the same drop ceiling and fluorescent panels, though the latter were dark. The only illumination came from a steel flying-saucer-shade lamp with a grooved steel base on the wood-topped, military-green metal desk it rested upon. Many neat stacks of papers were on the desktop as well, beside a blotter and two phones.
    Behind the oversize desk sat a medium-sized man in his craggy forties smoking a General MacArthur-style corncob pipe, harsh tobacco smoke hanging in the air like a filthy curtain. As had his minions, he wore a tan shirt but also a black tie, his black hair short-cropped, his complexion pale. A rectangular face bore carved features—cheekbones, slash of black eyebrows, sockets with lamb-dropping eyes, hawk nose, thin wide mouth, prominent jaw—an Indian-chief courtesy of a mediocre wood-carver.
    In two seconds, I took it all in. On the wall behind him was an enormous sideways red flag with a swastika in a white circle—doesn’t every good church need a cross?—and left of that a framed print of the famous Sunday school Caucasian Jesus; at right was a framed original portrait in a smeary paint-by-numbers style of Adolph Hitler. A bookcase on the left side wall displayed German war souvenirs, helmets, knives, Lugers next to snazzy holsters; above was a display on blue velvet of Nazi medals.
    Consuming the right side wall was an enormous framed black-and-white Korea-era photograph of the man at the desk in a Marine colonel’s dress uniform with a number of medals. A great American soldier who just happened to be president of the Hitler fan club.
    His chin came up, and so did his pipe, as he said, “Rebecca—where are Sam and Dave?”
    I felt like telling him “Muscle Shoals,” but doubted he’d get it.
    “A friend of mine is babysitting them,” I said, answering for her. With the nine millimeter, I gestured to the two metal folding chairs opposite him. “Do you mind?”
    His head bobbed curtly, pipe in his teeth. “Not at all.”
    I directed Becky to sit, which she did. She was as nervous as on a trip to the principal’s office.
    “My friend will kill both Sam and Dave,” I said, “and dump them, on a dusty road…” Another gag lost on him. “…if I’m not back