A Changed Man Read Free Page A

though the air conditioner is set to maintain the climate control of heaven.
    Maslow’s on the phone, one elbow on the desk, cradling his head in his hand as he uses their entrance to end his conversation. “Come in! Excuse me, yes, of course, I’ll try to get there, Mount Sinai. Give my love to Minna, all right, see you later. Good-bye.”
    Bonnie’s jumping out of her skin. “Is something wrong? Is someone sick?”
    “Nothing serious.” Maslow’s lying. “An old friend’s wife needs a cheer-up visit.” Nolan imagines patients in ICUs all over the town, waiting for Maslow to arrive so they can yank out their tubes and die happy. But he can see why Maslow might have that effect. His presence is working on Bonnie like a Valium IV drip.
    “Meyer Maslow,” says Bonnie. “I’d like you to meet Vincent Nolan.”
    Maslow stands and extends his hand, not quite far enough, so that reaching for it throws Nolan slightly off balance. Nolan recognizes Maslow from the photos on his books. The same crisp features, untouched by the putty that old age likes to stick onto old guys’ faces. Maslow’s movements have a catlike grace. Useful, Nolan thinks. For all those times he had to get small and slip through the cracks and vanish.
    Maslow’s book-jacket gaze meets Nolan’s straight on. Does he look that way at everybody? Bonnie doesn’t bring everybody back into his office. Maslow gives Bonnie a funny look. An I-told-you-so look. As if Maslow had been…expecting him. A shiver runs down Nolan’s spine.
    The Warrior faces and analyzes the forces he has to deal with. And what is Nolan facing? It depends on which Nolan you ask. The old Nolan sees a fat-cat Jew with a million-dollar corner office. The new Nolan sees a hero who survived Hitler to fight for justice and tolerance, to write books and start this foundation. According to their Web site, Brotherhood Watch has saved thousands of lives worldwide. Nolan can only hope that Maslow will step up to the plate and save his.
    Maslow’s hand is dry and powdery, and like the rest of him, perfect. Every white hair clipped to perfection, like the mane of a show dog, and his eyes are the eyes of the Lassie or Rin Tin Tin you tell all your little-boy secrets. That face will wait forever for Nolan to explain why he’s come. If Nolan had a dog like that as a kid, he wouldn’t be here now.
    “Thanks for taking time,” says Nolan. “I read about you guys on the Web. And in the newspapers. I read all your books. I especially liked The Kindness of Strangers. And Forgive, Not Forget. And the new one, One Heart at a Time. ”
    Maslow wasn’t expecting that. Score ten points for Nolan.
    “You read the new one?”
    “I read them all,” Nolan lies. “And reading them really changed me. They made me think that I should come in here and…offer my services. See if you guys wanted to, like, debrief me. There’s a couple of things I could tell you from the years I spent in ARM. The American Rights Movement?”
    “Yes. We know what ARM is. And we know its other name: the Aryan Resistance Movement.” Maslow’s eyelids flutter shut. He can hardly stand the thought. Nolan doesn’t blame him. Considering what he survived—escaping the Nazis, in hiding for years, half a dozen close calls and near-death experiences, and after all that they caught him and sent him to the camps—how’s the guy supposed to feel about a bunch of white punks stomping around and giving each other the Hitler salute? Nolan wouldn’t blame Maslow for hating guys like him. Once again he hears Raymond’s voice: To the Jew, we’re all the same.
    The hate stuff was never what Nolan liked about ARM. Of course, he agreed that the big bucks weren’t going to honest working men like himself, but he was never fully convinced that his tax dollars were being raked in by the eight Jewish bankers who secretly own the Federal Reserve. Anyway, the ARM guys got steamed if they so much as heard the word hate. They claimed