by Dion Baia
The detective frowned, his eyes narrowing as he digested the information. “You mean the stuff at the Pier, in Icehouse number Four? They’re taking all that down to South America? Those bodies there?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Walter grabbed him by the collar again and pointed the gun at his face.
“I don’t, I don’t! I just know they have cargo to move. I don’t know what it is!”
“So what, you’re afraid that your OSS pals will put you away for good if they heard what you actually know?”
Laszlo stared at him questionably, as if the joke was on Walter.
“Then what?” Walter cocked his head to one side and asked, “You worried about your doctor friend? Oh, what do they call him…?”
Laszlo immediately stopped squirming. His eyes focused directly on Walter.
“Mengele. Was that his name?”
Laszlo’s expression remained unchanged, but Walt saw something unsettling deep within. His pupils had dilated and his breathing was shallow. “What did you say?”
“I said, are you worried about your doctor friend, Mengele?”
Terror appeared to overtake Laszlo, and Walter saw a frightened little boy deep inside him.
“How do you know that name?” He was almost trembling now.
“Doctor Mengele, the man in white. The one hanging around down at that Icehouse on the water. It’s where all the hip kids are meeting up these days. That ringing a bell for ya?”
A look of pure terror washed over Laszlo. He brought his voice down to a whisper, as if afraid that someone would hear them within the small, painted-over, brick-walled room. “He’s here? He’s in New York?”
Walter nodded.
The color quickly drained from his face. “Herr Doctor is here, in New York City? Now?” Laszlo exhaled deeply. “He wasn’t supposed to come here; he was supposed to get out by way of Italy….”
“I should let your friends Helms and Mathers in on this little double cross you’ve got going on, how you’re playing both sides. They’d put you and your Kraut friends on trial and away for the rest of your lives for what you’ve been up to.”
“Ha! Trial! Who do you think backs me being here in New York, you idiot? Your government! You call me a spy? I work for Uncle Sam, you asshole.” Laszlo threw his head back and laughed. “They recruited me. I am in this only because of them. I facilitate defections for your government, you imbecile!”
“What about—”
“Don’t you see? Helms and Mathers want to get Von Stroheim to get to the Angel of Death. They want him to work for your government! There will be no trial. They want the knowledge of the Third Reich before another country gets it first. They want to know about the technology, both medically and mechanically, the rockets and the bombs….”
When Walter spoke it was through gritted teeth, spitting as the words escaped. “But you’re playing both sides.”
“I have to. I have to! But if what you say is true and he is here, just—just please keep me away from Herr Doctor!”
Walter swallowed before he asked his next question. “What’s in the warehouse, Laszlo? What are those…things? The ones they’ve got in ice?”
There was a brief pause as both men locked eyes, silently assessing each other.
“They’re in ice?”
Walter nodded. Laszlo uttered something barely audible in German before saying, “Then it’s…”
“It’s what, Laszlo?”
“The totten core,” Laszlo whispered.
“English, mothafucka.”
“The death core.” Laszlo’s eyes were wide, his voice only a whisper. He subconsciously reached out for Walter’s jacket to hold onto for stability. He glanced away, dazed. “That means Von Stroheim was telling the truth when he said they walked with him here.” He looked back at Walter. “He has brought the totten waffe to this soil, Mister Morris. Hell walks the Earth. Right here in New York City.”
“What the fuck is the death core?”
There was a loud knock at the door. Both men jumped with fright, an unconscious reaction to the noise. From the other side of the door came the low husky voice of the club’s program director. “You’re up next, Laszlo.”
The men remained quiet.
There was another knock at the door. “Laszlo, you’re up. You alright?”
Walter leveled the .22 and pushed it into Laszlo’s gut.
He hesitated, but said, “Give me a moment, Tyrone, I’ll be right up.”
“Go out there and play just one song,” said Walter.
“What?” Laszlo frowned, confused.
“Go out there, play a song, then you and I are going for a little ride.”
“I don’t understa—”
“I want you to pull yourself together, walk out that door, and perform as if your life depended on it because believe me, Strozek, it does. ’Cause at this point, honestly, I don’t even know who you can trust.” Walt shrugged, bluffing him. “From what I’ve seen, you’re on everyone’s hit list.”
Laszlo’s beady eyes widened to twice their size.
“So after your performance, we’re both walking out the stage door and leaving together. You’re not going to say nothin’ about our little talk, and if anyone makes a move, you’re the first one who dies. Meaning, if you say anything to anyone, you will be the first one who gets it, and not with your little baby gat here. With the heater under my arm.”
Laszlo’s eyes darted around the room, as though he was weighing his options. “I can’t do that. You’re—you’re mad! And why should I be worried?”
Walter smirked. “Oh you should be, believe me. You’re on their hit list.” The detective didn’t really know that to be true but knew Laszlo couldn’t confirm that. “So just shut up, go play your song, then meet me out in the hallway by the back door. Don’t make small talk with anyone. And hopefully, Mister Strozek, I can help save your life, savvy?”
There was a brief pause before Laszlo’s demeanor changed as he started to regain his composure. He pushed Walter’s hands away and combed back his hair with his fingers. He powdered his face to disguise any new discoloration, fixed his collar, straightened his shirt and jacket, and shot a glare of pure hatred at Walter. “Come along, Mister Morris.”
Chapter 23
SHOWTIME
The club was packed, with many standing in the aisles just waiting to get their chance on the dance floor. Up on the stage, Scatman was the master of ceremonies, warming up the crowds; his commanding presence on the microphone was electrifying. Everyone was smiling and laughing, and being the true showman he was, Scatman had the audience eating out of the palm of his hand.
“I mean we even got Bugs Morganfield hangin’ out at the club tonight.” He called down to a group of older women sitting at a table up front. “Can you imagine what Ingrid at bible study is gonna say about that when you see her tomorrow?” That crowd laughed and a huge smile spread across his face as he looked out around the room.
“So are you guys ready for the coolest, craziest, blackest-white cat you ever did see?” Loud applause erupted throughout the room. “Ladies and gentlemen, the man people say was standing right behind Robert Johnson the night he met the devil on the crossroads to sell his soul to play, the one and only… Mister Laszlo Strozek!”
There was a thunderous ovation and the spotlight immediately found Laszlo as he emerged from the shadows to take a bow. The applause continued for a few moments, and he raised a hand into the air in appreciation.
Scatman stepped back and gestured to the RCA Ribbon microphone, offering Laszlo a chance to do his accustomed introductory banter, but unusually the schmoozer ignored Scatman’s offer and walked over to the piano instead. Scatman furrowed his brow, but like the adamant professional he was, he stepped back up to the microphone smiling. “Ladies and gentle
men, introducing the man from the Black Forest, Mister Laszlo Strozek!” He clapped along with the club and walked offstage.
Laszlo counted off and the band began playing a fast-paced, swinging version of “St. Louis Blues.” The entire crowd seemed to rush to the dance floor at the same time in an attempt to secure a spot to get down. Others moved their heads and grooved along to the beat from their seats or from where they were standing. Laszlo’s style was definitely different from what he played downtown. Here, there was less of the traditional swing and more of the pioneering sounds of what was becoming known in the community as Bebop.
Three large men walked in through the front entrance of the club. When they stepped under the harsh focus of the overhead lighting, their features were visible for the first time. The one up front was a tall, muscular blond named Maximillian, a huge scientifically engineered monster. The same one who lost its arm on top of the car in Long Island, but now had another in its place as if nothing had happened. It had gray, sickly looking skin and, like the others, wore black goggles that hid any glimpse of its eyes. Its collar was turned up and it wore a large Stetson hat that covered the rest of its face, successfully shielding it from any patrons in the club. The second was named Karl, another gray-skinned ghoul, but this one had dark-brown stubble on its head. It wore the same black goggles and was dressed the same way as its counterpart Maximillian.
The last one was Hans Von Stroheim, who didn’t seem that tall compared to his companions but still stood a slender six foot four. He bordered on being gaunt and was even paler under the lights, giving him the eerie appearance of a demon that was trapped in the form of a man. Tonight his shorter jet-black hair was slicked back and matted down. He didn’t bother to wear a hat but kept the collar of his long leather trench coat up high.
Stroheim surveyed the club and quickly spotted Laszlo performing on stage. He didn’t need to say anything to his companions, who followed his every move like two Frankenstein-like shadows on either side. They began to make their way through the large crowd, toward the stage.
Walter discreetly peered out at Laszlo from the wings backstage, staying hidden in the shadows. The audience danced, cheered, and moved to the music. Many of the crowd, Bugs Morganfield included, were mesmerized with Laszlo’s skill and speed while playing. They watched his intense concentration and incredible momentum, leading the tempo into a faster and faster rhythm. For those present who were musically inclined, his virtuosity made people’s jaws drop. The people fed off his energy, reacting with greater and greater intensity to his performance.
People witnessing tonight’s fevered show would remember it for the rest of their lives because of the groundbreaking and uncharted waters Laszlo was leading the band into musically, years ahead of its time.
As he began his solo, Laszlo glanced up and locked eyes with Stroheim, who was already over by the bar. Laszlo started to sweat, his playing becoming even more intense. He looked away, trying to keep his concentration and continue his fever-dreamed solo.
Stroheim and his companions were venturing through the crowds toward the club’s basement when he paused mid-step. Eyebrows raised, he turned to look at the stage, sensing something was wrong.
Laszlo’s solo began to increase in speed, as if the music was echoing his emotional state. He glanced around and spotted Walter watching from backstage and sweat trickled down the side of his temple. Stroheim was certain now that something was amiss.
“Karl. Maximillian.” He dispatched his two monsters to flank the stage from either direction. The music turned, hitting the bridge, quickly building toward a crescendo. The two giants on either side of the club stood taller than anyone as they edged closer to the stage, sticking out like two killer whales in an ocean of seals. Stroheim stared at Laszlo coldly, curious about his strange behavior.
Walter had also noticed the change in Laszlo’s demeanor. He seemed to be cracking under the pressure. He watched while he peered out several times, at something or someone offstage. The detective scanned the club to see what was captivating the piano player’s attention. He stopped when he spotted Maximillian on the other side of the dance floor, and Stroheim, further back by the bar.
“Oh ssshit.” Walter melted back into the shadows.
The crowd was hypnotized by the music, swinging and dancing, even in the aisles. Laszlo made eye contact with Walter. Stroheim saw their exchange and realized someone was offstage in the wings. He whistled, a very high-pitched sound that immediately got the attention of his companions. He motioned to Karl and pointed; the large ghoul diverted its course and headed toward the stage door leading to where Walter was hidden.
As Laszlo stared at Karl’s change of direction, alarm bells went off in Walter’s head. If one of Stroheim’s monsters was on the other side of the dance floor approaching the stage from that side, then what prevented another from being on his side of the room? He swung around just in time to see Karl come crashing through the door. Its mouth gaped unnaturally wide, exposing sharpened fangs and a dry, decaying mouth, and let out a banshee-like shriek that raised the hairs on the back of Walter’s neck. And much like a gorilla charging its prey, Karl rushed the private detective in the same fashion.
Walter’s right jacket pocket exploded as he emptied Laszlo’s .22 at point blank range, the sounds successfully muffled from being so close to the band on stage. The bullets hit Karl center mass but had little to no effect. Walter kicked it backward and drew Jacob’s Colt .45 1911, only to have the gun snatched out of his hand. Karl broke the slide off and ripped the barrel apart. Jacob was gonna be pissed.
There was barely any room to maneuver backstage and before Walt could run toward the only conceivable exit, Karl leapt forward and seized him by his jacket, throwing the detective in the opposite direction.
Meanwhile, out front the song ended to a loud and thunderous applause. Laszlo immediately stood.
Walter took a few cleansing breaths and tried to keep his wits about him. He was trapped in a corner, and Karl was just a few inches from within reach. From the floor he spotted a large sandbag the size of a punching bag being used as a counterweight; it was hanging from a rope high above Karl’s head. Walter’s eyes darted up and over to see where the rope led. It came down along the wall and was attached to a large wooden board that held other ropes as well. They were all tied to different handles and secured the cyclorama in place that hung behind the stage. Walter jumped out of Karl’s reach and ran over to the wooden board. He pulled his switchblade from his trouser pocket and grinned gleefully as he cut the line. But nothing happened. He cut the other ropes…still nothing.
“Oh, c’mon!” Walter yelled to God above.
Karl lunged at him. Walter fought back and stabbed him right through the goggles, into his left eye. Stunned, it moved back, taking the knife with it. The detective looked around in a panic and saw a heavy lead pipe laying in the corner next to some workman’s tools. Karl staggered back and yanked the switchblade out from its eye socket. As it straightened up and turned back around, Walter grabbed the pipe and pummeled it hard against the side of its head. Walt landed another hit, then another, the force clearly breaking Karl’s neck and knocking its head almost completely to one side.
Walter was stunned to see it still standing, trying to regain its balance. He swung the pipe with all his might, coming straight down onto Karl’s head, knocking it to the floor.
Out on stage, Laszlo looked back and saw Karl on the ground struggling to get up, no longer able to support the weight of its own head.
Laszlo was horrified. “the Totten core….”
He bolted off the stage in the opposite direction and hurried toward the back exit. Walter followed close behind. From within the crowd, Maximillian saw the detective chasing after Laszlo and, in one smooth motion, leapt amazingly about ten feet into the air and landed onstage, sending some of the band members flying back off of their folding chairs. In the crowd,
people were startled, and a few women screamed.
Luther, who was out in the audience, signaled to his biggest and most loyal employee, the one Walter called Oak Tree, to follow after them.
Laszlo darted out into the alley and sprinted over to where his little MG Coupe was covered and parked. He ripped off the cover and jumped in. Walter was right behind him and tried to open the passenger side door but it was locked.
He banged on the side of the car. “Open the damn door, Strozek!”
Laszlo hit the gas just as Walter stepped onto the sideboard. They screeched around the corner. Right ahead of them, Maximilian was running down the alley in their direction. As the coupe bore down, Walter crouched low and it was all he could do to hold on. At the point of collision, Maximillian jumped up high, stepped onto the hood, then over them, coming down on the trunk, feet back on the ground within seconds.
“Holy shit!” Walter yelled.
Oak Tree appeared from out of the backstage door. He didn’t look before he walked into the alley and unfortunately, Walter turned just in time to see the MG hit him. His body flew up and bounced onto the right side of the car, knocking Walter off. Laszlo attempted to regain control, but the right side of the coupe was totaled, and the front end wasn’t responding. The car jutted left and slammed forcefully into the side of the alley wall, coming to a complete halt and incapacitating the MG.
There was an eerie silence as the sounds of the city came gradually back into focus. Walter rubbed his side and picked his head up off the ground. The car sat smoking at the mouth of the alley, and about ten feet away from him was Oak Tree. He was dead. A tangled mess of broken bones.
The club’s back door banged noisily open and out came Von Stroheim, followed by a severely injured Karl, who was bleeding from the ears, nose, and mouth. There was a gaping hole in the left eye socket, and it was somehow using its hands to keep the head upright. Despite this, Karl still followed Stroheim as they walked up to Maximillian.