Read Online The Trinity by David LaBounty - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: David LaBounty
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Crowley invites Hinckley and Rodgers to his house for Christmas dinner. There is little Christian about it, but he does prepare a turkey and other traditional food for his young guests.
He makes sure there is plenty of wine and beer on hand, items that he purchases off base, as making alcoholic purchases on base would raise the eyebrows of anyone who witnessed him, the Catholic chaplain, doing such.
He makes sure Hinckley and Rodgers are drinking constantly while he slowly sips a glass of South African cabernet, wine forbidden to be sold in the United States due to the racist practices of the South African government.
Crowley plays Wagner as softly as possible in the background. He feels warm inside as the coal burns in his fireplace and as the young men become more intoxicated. This is his new family. These are his soldiers.
Hinckley and Rodgers are laughing amongst themselves, feeling powerful, befriended by an officer, and enlisted to fight a cause they find easy to believe in.
This violence they have been entrusted with has gone straight to their heads, and they love to boast. Which nigger they’re gonna get next. Maybe a spic.
They both have urges to talk to others on base, other young sailors they occasionally drink with in the club.
Crowley, not stupid, well versed in human nature, senses this and instantly hatches a plan to ensure their silence.
Smiling, he offers them more beer and asks if anyone would also like some scotch or rum. Both young men prefer the latter mixed with Coke. Crowley is pleased to oblige. It will be several more drinks before he puts his plan into action.
After dinner, the three sit in Crowley’s living room. Hinckley and Rodgers are too intoxicated to notice that the priest is loading a gun. It is an inexpensive Argentine copy of a Glock readily available on the streets of Houston and other cities. It was presented to him by a repentant parishioner, a young man who killed somebody with it. Crowley promised him absolution if only he would give him the gun. This occurred in his last weeks in Houston, and he knew what the weapon could and would be used for ultimately. He longed for the opportunity to use it. He took great care to sneak it into the country with him, as handguns are strictly controlled in the United Kingdom. He traveled to this country wearing his priestly collar, and he was waved right through customs.
Crowley sits quietly as the young men continue to drink and smoke.
He himself has only had two glasses of wine, enough to make him feel serene.
“Gentlemen,” Crowley announces, interrupting a one-sided conversation between Hinckley and Rodgers about college football, “let us go for a ride.” And donning their coats, the three step out into the quiet evening. It is about 9 p.m. and clouds lighten the dark sky. The motor of the Allegro at first knocks and then grows quiet as Crowley pumps the gas and puts the car into gear. They find themselves on the empty A92 heading south to Dundee, the headlights illuminating the curves and rises in the road.
Crowley tells Hinckley, who is sitting in the front seat, to retrieve a pen and notepad from the glove compartment. The priest dictates a note to Hinckley:
“Scotland is for the Scottish, a noble nation, white and pure. Signed, The Eastern Scotland Trinity of the Great White Brotherhood.”
In his travels, Crowley came across a small Pakistani neighborhood just outside the city center of Dundee. It is only a few square blocks with a few restaurants and shops and Pakistanis residing in multiple-family units.
Perfect, he thought upon finding the neighborhood while passing through on a clear and pleasant September evening. In a pub, he asked people about the neighborhood, who the dark skinned people were in Middle-Eastern garb. Pakistanis, he was told with a little disdain by a bent-over old man sitting at the bar, chain-smoking Crowley’s cigarettes and drinking slowly from a half-pint glass. Crowley hoped for more
He makes sure there is plenty of wine and beer on hand, items that he purchases off base, as making alcoholic purchases on base would raise the eyebrows of anyone who witnessed him, the Catholic chaplain, doing such.
He makes sure Hinckley and Rodgers are drinking constantly while he slowly sips a glass of South African cabernet, wine forbidden to be sold in the United States due to the racist practices of the South African government.
Crowley plays Wagner as softly as possible in the background. He feels warm inside as the coal burns in his fireplace and as the young men become more intoxicated. This is his new family. These are his soldiers.
Hinckley and Rodgers are laughing amongst themselves, feeling powerful, befriended by an officer, and enlisted to fight a cause they find easy to believe in.
This violence they have been entrusted with has gone straight to their heads, and they love to boast. Which nigger they’re gonna get next. Maybe a spic.
They both have urges to talk to others on base, other young sailors they occasionally drink with in the club.
Crowley, not stupid, well versed in human nature, senses this and instantly hatches a plan to ensure their silence.
Smiling, he offers them more beer and asks if anyone would also like some scotch or rum. Both young men prefer the latter mixed with Coke. Crowley is pleased to oblige. It will be several more drinks before he puts his plan into action.
After dinner, the three sit in Crowley’s living room. Hinckley and Rodgers are too intoxicated to notice that the priest is loading a gun. It is an inexpensive Argentine copy of a Glock readily available on the streets of Houston and other cities. It was presented to him by a repentant parishioner, a young man who killed somebody with it. Crowley promised him absolution if only he would give him the gun. This occurred in his last weeks in Houston, and he knew what the weapon could and would be used for ultimately. He longed for the opportunity to use it. He took great care to sneak it into the country with him, as handguns are strictly controlled in the United Kingdom. He traveled to this country wearing his priestly collar, and he was waved right through customs.
Crowley sits quietly as the young men continue to drink and smoke.
He himself has only had two glasses of wine, enough to make him feel serene.
“Gentlemen,” Crowley announces, interrupting a one-sided conversation between Hinckley and Rodgers about college football, “let us go for a ride.” And donning their coats, the three step out into the quiet evening. It is about 9 p.m. and clouds lighten the dark sky. The motor of the Allegro at first knocks and then grows quiet as Crowley pumps the gas and puts the car into gear. They find themselves on the empty A92 heading south to Dundee, the headlights illuminating the curves and rises in the road.
Crowley tells Hinckley, who is sitting in the front seat, to retrieve a pen and notepad from the glove compartment. The priest dictates a note to Hinckley:
“Scotland is for the Scottish, a noble nation, white and pure. Signed, The Eastern Scotland Trinity of the Great White Brotherhood.”
In his travels, Crowley came across a small Pakistani neighborhood just outside the city center of Dundee. It is only a few square blocks with a few restaurants and shops and Pakistanis residing in multiple-family units.
Perfect, he thought upon finding the neighborhood while passing through on a clear and pleasant September evening. In a pub, he asked people about the neighborhood, who the dark skinned people were in Middle-Eastern garb. Pakistanis, he was told with a little disdain by a bent-over old man sitting at the bar, chain-smoking Crowley’s cigarettes and drinking slowly from a half-pint glass. Crowley hoped for more
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