Back from the Dead hl-2

by Peter Leonard

  Brank came out with a bottle of Blue Nun and three stemmed glasses, wet hair combed back, beach towel wrapped around his waist, no shirt. “You’re going to love this. Famous som-al-yer in Boca turned me on to it.”

  He set a glass at each of their places and poured the wine. Hess was familiar with it, a mediocre Liebfraumilch he would have refused to drink in any other situation.

  “Tony tells me you’re an actress,” Hess said to Denise, trying to shift the conversation into gear.

  “And a good one,” Brank said. “Still is.” He winked at her.

  “I quit when Tony proposed.”

  “How long have you two been married?”

  “Seven years,” Brank said. He raised his wine glass. “To seven more.”

  They clinked glasses, sipped their wine and ate the shrimp salad that Hess had to admit was delicious. When they were finished Denise cleared the table. Brank and Hess smoked cigarettes and finished their wine.

  “Where is Florida from here?”

  “You kidding? That way.” Brank pointed at the horizon. “Due west about sixty miles. Latitude twenty-six degrees north, longitude eighty degrees west.”

  Of course, Hess was thinking, follow the angle of the sun. Easy to do on a nice clear day like this. “Don’t you use the Loran?”

  “Yeah, but you still have to chart your course. I thought you were a sailor.”

  At one time Hess had an Italian yacht he kept in Nice. “I have a captain.”

  “A captain? You pussy.” Brank grinned. “Kidding you, partner. Say, I never asked. What’re you doing in Freeport?”

  Hess didn’t answer because Denise came back on deck in the orange bikini, breasts bouncing in the skimpy top, long legs, flat stomach, barefoot, carrying a striped towel.

  “Ready?” Denise said.

  “We’re going to explore the island,” Brank said.

  “Come with us,” Denise said, throwing her towel on the chair next to Hess.

  “No, I’ll stay here and relax, if you don’t mind. Maybe take a nap.”

  “You don’t know what you’re missing,” Brank said.

  Denise climbed the stairs to the top of the transom and jumped. Hess heard the splash when she hit, got up and stood on the port side of the Hatteras, watching Denise floating on her back in the turquoise water. Brank removed his towel skirt, ran to the stern and dove over the transom, swam to Denise and the two of them held onto each other, treading water before swimming for the island. They made it to the beach, got out and started walking, stopping occasionally to pick up shells. When they were out of sight, Hess went to the bow, raised the anchor and felt the yacht start to drift.

  He climbed the ladder to the flying bridge, glanced in the direction of the island. From this higher vantage point he could see Brank and Denise strolling, holding hands like young lovers, coming back toward the stretch of beach closest to the boat. Hess sat at the controls, started the engines, heard the rumble of the exhaust, looked back, saw Brank running, Denise trailing behind him.

  Brank was in the water halfway to the yacht when Hess opened up the twin throttles and took off, the Hatteras picking up speed, and within a few minutes the island was fading in the distance. Hess went below and punched new coordinates into the Loran, and put the yacht on autopilot. His chest itched from the gunshot wound. He rubbed it and tried to relax.

  Three hours later he passed a freighter creeping along the horizon, and a couple of fishing boats before he saw the Florida coastline, Hess using a telescope in the salon to identify the twin spires of the Breakers Hotel, confirming it was Palm Beach.

  When he was five hundred meters from shore, Hess turned off the engines and lowered the boat, cranking it over the port side to the water. He went down the stairs, crossed the deck and stepped over the side into the dinghy. He started the outboard motor, unhooked the davit lines and cruised toward shore.

  Seven

  Kraut’s name was Albin Zeller. They said they’d meet him at a farmhouse on Crooks Road in Troy, the meeting arranged by Russell Gear of the American Nazi Party. Dink drove by in the pickup, Squirrel in the passenger seat, drinkin’ cans of Pabst like they were going to shutter the brewery, saw the white clapboard house set back from the road, cornfields surrounding it on three sides, barn in back, quiet and secluded for their purposes.

  Dink pulled over on the shoulder, waited for a couple cars to pass, and did a U-turn. He went back to the farmhouse and parked behind a green Camaro on the gravel drive. Saw a dark-haired guy come out the side door and stand at the top of the concrete steps. Dink glanced at himself in the rearview, brown hair comin’ out from under the Cat Diesel cap, hanging on either side of his face to his jawline, word evil tattooed on both eyelids. Lower lip stuck out, swollen with tobacco. He spit out the window. “You just drink your beer, let me do the talking,” Dink said, turning toward his sidekick, whose face was partially hidden by the brim of a Red Man cap.

  Squirrel met his gaze but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t much of a talker.

  They got out of the truck and moved toward the house, Squirrel, stomach hanging over his belt in a tee-shirt that said The Devil Made Me Do It in white type on the front, greasy brown hair under the cap, carrying three cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a plastic tightener. Only guy Dink knew could drink all day and still function.

  “How y’all doing today? You must be Mr. Zeller. I’m Dink Boone, and this scarry-lookin’ east Tennessee redneck is Aubrey Ponder, answers to Squirrel.”

  “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago,” Zeller said, German accent, sounding pissed.

  “Yeah, well, what can I tell you?” Dink said, not explaining or giving the Kraut an excuse. He spit tobacco juice, a brown gob that splashed on the gravel stones at his feet.

  Squirrel pulled a beer out of its plastic ring, popped the top and took a pull. “Gonna tell us what you need done, or what?” Zeller held the door open for them and they filed past him in the kitchen, and sat at an oval Formica table with chrome trim, the yellow finish worn off in places. Dink’s momma had served his favorite dish, grits, pork scraps and trimmings, on one just like it.

  “We was up this way not too long ago ended up stayin’. U.S. Court of Appeals upheld a district court order calling for busing as a way to achieve racial balance.” Dink met Zeller’s gaze. “Ever heard of a bigger crock of shit in yer life? They start busing white kids to nigger schools. We come up to burn the buses and beat hell out of the niggers. I talked to a boy was involved. Kid said, ‘Blacks is different. They have different personalities and all that.’ I said, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ One white momma chained herself to a bus rather than see her child put through that charade of integration. I know we’re not here to talk about that. But you bein’ from the Fatherland and all, I’m sure you can relate.”

  Zeller told them about this German honey — fraulein, Dink thought he said — stayin’ locally with some Jew. Told them what he needed done.

  “So we go to the house, get her, bring her here, right? Then what?”

  “I will interrogate her,” Zeller said, sounding like Colonel Klink on Hogan’s Heroes.

  Dink said, “What if she don’t feel like talkin’?”

  “Don’t concern yourself.”

  Dink said, “What do you want to find out?”

  “Bring her here,” Zeller said. “That is all.”

  “She don’t tell you what you want to hear, give her to us,” Squirrel said, grinning, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

  “I will handle it,” Zeller said, elbows on the table, turning a ring on one of his fingers with the opposite hand.

  Dink said, “Where you from in Germany?”

  “Berlin.”

  “That’s where the wall is at, ain’t it?” Dink said. “What’s it look like?”

  “What do you think?”

  The Kraut was lookin’ at Dink like he’d just chugged a quart of bourbon.

  “Hey, Herr Zeller, know how to stop a dog from humping your leg
? Pick it up and suck its dick,” Dink said, holding back the grin that was trying to bust out.

  Zeller gave him a sour look.

  Squirrel drained his beer, pulled another out of the plastic tightener and popped it open. Glanced at Zeller and said, “Last one, want it?”

  Zeller shook his head, reached in his shirt pocket and handed Dink a piece of paper with a name and address on it, Harry Levin in Huntington Woods. Yeah, he knew where it was at.

  It was Dink’s idea to steal the carpet-cleaning truck, show up like tradesmen, pull in the driveway, ring the bell. How y’all doin’? We’re here to clean your carpeting. What do you mean, you don’t know anything about it? Look here. Says so right on the form. They’d boosted the truck from a lot over on Eight Mile Road, hot-wired her and drove back to the farmhouse.

  It was early evening, sky overcast, getting dark as Harry passed the mall and the treeless subdivisions of Troy, the lots big and open now, farms here and there. He slowed the Mercedes, trying to see an address, get an idea if he was going the right way, read numbers on a mailbox and saw he was close. A couple minutes later he passed it, a white two-storey house with a wide porch in front.

  Harry pulled over on the other side of the road, turned off the lights, got out of the car, closed the door and crossed the road, moving along a line of elm trees. No traffic. Slight breeze blowing, the smell of wood smoke in the fall air. He stood behind a tree, watching the house, lights on the first floor, Ford pickup parked in the driveway. The screen door swung open and a man in overalls walked out on the porch, glanced toward the road and spit. Now another man wearing a red cap came out, placed his beer can on top of the railing, moved down the steps and urinated on the lawn.

  When they went back inside Harry drew the .357, moved past the house, and walked along the edge of the cornfield to the barn. Opened the door and went in. There was a white van that said Acme Carpet Cleaning on the side, looking out of place next to the farm equipment. He checked the rooms, went up to the loft, no sign of Colette or anyone else.

  Harry moved out of the barn, crouching behind the green pickup parked next to the house. He waited, listened, didn’t hear anything, moved around the back of the truck. There was a rebel flag on the tailgate. He moved to the house, opened the side door and stepped into the kitchen. Heard a TV on in another room and laughter. Walked through the dining room, saw the two guys sitting on a couch, watching The Beverly Hillbillies.

  ELLY MAY: I wonder why they got two sets of steps.

  JETHRO: That’s easy! One’s for going up, and the other’s for going down!

  ELLY MAY: Oh.

  They laughed with the laugh track.

  Harry went back to the kitchen, opened a door that led to the basement, turned on the light and went down the stairs, saw Colette gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of a damp cinderblock room.

  He could see tears in her eyes as he got closer, blouse ripped open halfway down her chest. Harry slid the gun in his pocket, and undid the bandana that was tied across her mouth and knotted behind her head. Held her face in his hands. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered. “They’re upstairs.” He untied the ropes, helped her up and she put her arms around his neck, clinging to him. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to walk out of here.” They went up the stairs, Harry leading the way, holding the big Colt in front of him with two hands, Colette hanging onto him from behind. The door was open a crack. He heard someone come in the kitchen. Heard the refrigerator open and close. Heard a bottle cap hit the floor. Then someone said, “Check on her?” in a heavy southern accent.

  “Where you think she’s gonna go?”

  Harry wondered what Zeller’s connection was with these rednecks.

  “Why don’t you go down, have a look see just to be sure.”

  “You mean to relieve your concern?”

  “Here’s the way it is. We split the chores. I checked on her last time. So now it’s your turn. Get it?”

  “Tell you what, when the TV show’s over I will do just that.”

  “And keep your goddamn hands off her.”

  Harry heard them walk out of the kitchen, apparently agreeing to suspend hostilities for the time being. He took Colette the rest of the way up and they went out the kitchen door, eased it closed and stepped into the yard.

  “What’d they do to you?” Harry said when they were in the car, looking across the seats at each other.

  “Scared me, Harry.”

  He could see her cheek was bruised and swollen, and felt rage come on like a switch had been flipped inside him. Colette reached over, grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

  “It’s all right now,” Harry said. “It’s over.” He started the Mercedes and did a U-turn, accelerating past the farmhouse.

  “There is another one, a German. He came down to the cellar and asked questions about Hess. Did I know where he was? I told him I didn’t know anything, and he gave up but I could see he was frustrated and knew he wasn’t finished.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell him?”

  “And then what, Harry? You think he was going to give me a ride back to your house like nothing happened?” Colette leaned over and put her hand flat against his chest. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw you.” She grabbed his hand again and held it in both of hers. “These men looking for Hess are going to keep looking. They think he’s alive. And they’re not going to stop until they prove otherwise. Maybe he has something on other former Nazis. More photos. More evidence of politically connected Germans who murdered Jews during the war. It could be another story. Maybe even a book.”

  “If you live to tell about it.”

  “Well, I can’t just let it go, Harry. This is what I do.”

  Even in the dark interior he could read her expression, see she’d made up her mind.

  He drove back to his house, and kept going. Zeller’s car was gone. Of course it was gone. Harry had taken Zeller’s gun, but left his clothes and keys in the house. He debated whether to call the police, tell them someone broke in. Tell them Colette had been kidnapped. But he decided against it. What was he going to say? A German heavy came to Detroit looking for Ernst Hess, a former Nazi accused of committing crimes against humanity in a war that ended twenty-six years ago. “Was anyone hurt?” he could hear the cop asking. “Was anything stolen?”

  Just the Tabriz. It’s a rug, Harry could hear himself saying, and the cop looking at him like he was nuts.

  Harry took Colette to Club Berkley for dinner. She was starving. They ate steak pan-seared in garlic butter, the house specialty, French fries, and washed it all down with bottles of Heineken. After, they checked into a no-frills motel on Woodward Avenue. Harry didn’t want to risk going home, have to deal with Zeller and the rednecks again tonight. He needed time to think, figure out what to do.

  Dink thought he heard someone in the kitchen. Grabbed the .45, turned, leveled it and saw Zeller. “Jiminy goddamn Christmas, where in the hell you been at?”

  “Where is she?” Zeller said.

  “That a trick question?” Squirrel said.

  “Go down and see for yourself,” Zeller said, hands on his hips. “She’s gone because you are here watching television, not paying attention.”

  Dink was kind of embarrassed. “I tell you to go check on her, or what?” he said, throwing Squirrel under the bus.

  “Well she didn’t untie herself,” Squirrel said. “I’ll tell you that.”

  He had a point. That crazy-ass redneck knew how to tie a knot. For sure.

  Zeller said, “It was Harry Levin.”

  “How’d he know where she was at?” Dink said, gaze holding on the German.

  “He had a gun,” Zeller said.

  “So’d you, I thought,” Dink said.

  “Whyn’t you take it from him?” Squirrel said to Zeller.

  “ ‘Cause he ain’t Superman. What’s next on the agenda, mein Herr?” Dink said, looking at Zeller. “I think maybe you should fill us in. Looks like you’re in
over your head, might could use some help.”

  Eight

  When he was within ten meters of the beach Hess turned off the engine and coasted to shore. The bottom hit sand in shallow water and the boat came to a stop. Hess stepped into the ocean halfway to his knees, dislodged the dinghy, and let the current take it back out to sea. Farther out, the Hatteras looked like it was drifting with the tide.

  He was on a private beach, deserted in the early evening. Hess walked toward South Ocean Boulevard, wet espadrilles and trouser cuffs getting caked with sand. There was a huge Mediterranean villa straight ahead on the other side of the road, and to his right a beach house that matched the villa’s Italian shade of umber.

  Hess had Brank’s watch, wallet, credit cards and $1,500 in cash. He also had Brank’s Smith & Wesson .38. The sun was fading, casting streaks of red behind the oceanfront estates as he walked the beach side of the road, saw the sign for Via Bellania and knew he was only a couple miles south of Worth Avenue.

  He kept going, walked with purpose, arriving at Gulfstream Road at 6:40 p.m., and entered a seafood restaurant, went through the bar and dining room to the telephone that was in a hall leading to the restrooms. Hess opened the Yellow Pages, selected a taxi service, phoned and asked to be picked up at Charley’s Seafood. It would be fifteen minutes, so Hess found a seat at the crowded bar and ordered a Macallan’s neat.

  “You look familiar,” the woman sitting to his left said. “You’re a character actor, aren’t you? Or maybe just a character.” She smiled, gliding her fingers up and down the stem of the martini glass.

  “You must have me confused with someone else,” he said, glancing at her.