Back from the Dead hl-2

by Peter Leonard

  By process of elimination, he found the post office where the package was being shipped. It was on East Atlantic Boulevard in a crowded shopping center. He had parked, gone in and checked the numbers on the boxes, a wall of them, and found Hess’ number, 3456. Business hours were posted on the glass door: 8:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.

  The package was scheduled to arrive the next day, so Zeller decided to postpone his surveillance operation for the time being. He wondered if there was any significance to Hess using Max Hoffman as an alias. He went to the phone booth, checked the phone book and found two Max Hoffmans. One lived on NE 5th Street in Pompano Beach. The second lived in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, 4612 El Mar Drive.

  Zeller went to a petrol station and bought a map, located NE 5th Street, drove there and found Max Hoffman’s address and parked next to a vacant lot. The house, built on the Intracoastal, was pale yellow. A truck was parked down the street and a landscaping crew were busy trimming trees and cutting the lawn.

  With the window down Zeller smoked a cigarette and watched boats cruise by on the waterway. He waited and watched for thirty minutes, smoked another cigarette. He started the car, shifted into drive and turned into Max Hoffman’s driveway. Zeller got out, walked to the front door and rang the bell. Waited and rang again. He tried to see in the windows flanking the door, but the blinds were closed.

  He walked around the side of the house, looking in windows. The interior was dark. Zeller stood on the patio, watching a speedboat, with its long hull, rumble past. Felt the sun’s heat on his face and wiped sweat off his forehead. Noticed a mattress floating in the pool, and a woman at the house next door, sitting on her patio, reading a book. She glanced over at him and waved. Zeller waved back. He heard the drone of an engine and saw a biplane in the distance, trailing a banner advertising 2-for-1 Happy Hour cocktails at Mon Jin Lau. He tried to turn the handles on the French doors. They were locked.

  At 3:40 p.m., Zeller drove south on A1A to Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. The second Max Hoffman lived at Marine Terrace, a huge pink oceanfront condominium on El Mar Drive. Zeller parked in the lot, walked in the lobby and rode an elevator to the eighth floor. He found 8612 and rang the bell. The door opened, a woman with blonde hair, sixties, said, “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. And listen, you, there’s no soliciting here.”

  “I’m looking for Max,” Zeller said.

  “My Max?” The woman frowned. “And who’re you?”

  “What’s going on?” a short bald man said, coming toward them.

  Zeller said, “Have you talked to Herr Hess?”

  “Who?”

  “Ernst.”

  “I don’t know any Ernst.”

  “My mistake,” Zeller said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.” Zeller was back in Pompano Beach fifteen minutes later, driving on the beach road north past the pier. He saw a motel called Treasure Island, pulled in and looked around. It was built in a U-shape with a swimming pool in the center, rooms facing the ocean and a private beach.

  He checked in and slept till seven, showered, walked down the beach to a seafood restaurant. He went in, sat at the bar and had two vodka tonics and later ordered grilled mahi mahi, French fries and two glasses of Chablis. After dinner he walked back to the motel, and stood on the beach at the water’s edge, looking up at the stars. With any luck he would conclude his business in the next two days and be on a plane back to Germany.

  Sixteen

  Squirrel said, “You going to let him get away with that?”

  “I’ve got news for you,” Dink said. “He already did.” Police had located his truck in a strip mall across the street from the Rodeo Bar. Jesus lord, that had pissed him off something fierce.

  “What I’m sayin’ is, you going to just let it go? Man put a bullet hole in your floor board.”

  “What do you got in mind?”

  “Something, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Oh, now that’s helpful.”

  “You know what I mean,” Squirrel said.

  Dink sure did. He’d given it some serious thought too. This Kraut Zeller’d hired them and then poof he’d disappeared without payin’ them. Nothin’ they could do about that, so Dink turned his attention back to this Jew, Levin. His first instinct was to torch the man’s home, show him what happens you fuck with good ole boys from east Tennessee. But what the hell good would that do?

  His next idea was to clean out the man’s house, empty the place, call Harry, say, “Hey, seen your furniture and such?” Sell it all back to him. Squirrel pointed out a few flaws in the plan.

  “Where we gonna get a movin’ van? And let’s say one miraculously appears, who you gonna get to help you? ’Cause it ain’t gonna be me.”

  Dink said, “You got a better way let’s hear it. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”

  “Tail the man till an opportunity presents itself,” Squirrel said, tilting the beer can up to his mouth till it was empty. Then belching, filling the inside of the truck with the second-hand smell of sausage and gravy.

  “Jesus,” Dink said, fanning the air in front of his face with one hand and rolling down the window with the other.

  Squirrel grinned, showing brown front teeth parted down the middle. “Like havin’ breakfast all over again.”

  Eight hours later they were in Squirrel’s El Camino, with its gunmetal junkyard hood contrasting the original white paint color, just down the street from Harry Levin’s house. Squirrel had his side window cracked about an inch, hot-boxing Camels like he was going to the chair. Squirrel’d smoke one down to a nub, light a new one with it and push the nub through the opening in the window. Must’ve been fifteen on the street.

  Dink was dizzy sitting in the cloud of smoke. It was still dark out when they got there, watching the overcast sky lighten as the sun came up, looking at the dark shapes of trees that had lost most of their leaves.

  Squirrel said, “What do you know about this Nazi Zeller was tryin’ to locate?”

  “That’s about it,” Dink said. “Man was a Nazi.”

  “What’d Zeller want him for?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  “How’s this fella Levin know where the Nazi’s at?”

  “No idea. But what if we find the Nazi first?”

  “And then what?”

  “Sell him. Somebody’ll pay good money for a genuine Nazi.”

  “I thought you admired them.”

  “I do but this is commerce.”

  Dink saw Levin roll down the driveway and followed him along Woodward Avenue to the freeway and through Hamtramck where the Polacks lived to a scrap yard, mountain of metal rising up behind a low-slung cinderblock building on one side of the yard and a big two-storey warehouse on the other side. They had to get in there for a closer look and Dink had just the way to do it.

  They drove back to Dink’s rented house in Pontiac. The landlord had left an old icebox in the garage. It was white with gold fixtures and weighed enough to give you a hernia. Squirrel backed the El Camino up to the garage, lowered the tailgate, laid a tarp over the truck bed and they picked up that goddamn reefer and slid it in without too much room to spare.

  “Think this is a good idea?” Squirrel said. “Man knows you.” Dink pulled the brim of the Cat Diesel cap low over his eyes. “But he’s got to see me and then recognize me.”

  “What do you think this is, some great disguise?”

  “I call it the element of surprise. He’s not gonna be expectin’ me. You understand?”

  Squirrel, breathing through his mouth, looked at him with vacant eyes.

  There were two trucks ahead of them in line for the scale, colored guys sellin’, by the look of it, steel and copper pipes they’d yanked out of abandoned houses. When it was their turn, the man working the scale, whose blue work shirt had a white name patch that said Archie on it, told them to put the refrigerator on the scale.

  “Will you look at that,” Archie the scale man said. “What year is it?”

  He had lo
ng brown hair parted down the middle and held in place by a headband.

  “1926 Gibson,” Dink said.

  “Where in the world you get that?”

  “Garage,” Dink said.

  Squirrel said, “What can you give us for it?”

  “I can go twenty-eight dollars, but you can probably get more at an antique store. It was made out of copper, I’d go eighty-four.”

  Dink said, “How ’bout it was made out of gold? What would you give us for it then?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Oh, he don’t know,” Dink said to Squirrel.

  The scale man folded his arms across his chest in a gesture that said he wasn’t going to take any shit. “You want to sell it or not?”

  “Well we’re not takin’ it back home, I’ll tell you that.”

  “I need your name and address.”

  “Why do you want to know that for?”

  “We’re payin’ cash for scrap, IRS wants to know who we’re paying.”

  “Aubrey Ponder,” Dink said. “Sleepy Hollow trailer park in Pontiac.”

  Squirrel gave him the evil eye. Dink looked at him and grinned.

  The scale man wrote everything on a small piece of notepaper and handed it to Dink. Squirrel moved the El Camino, parked next to the office. They went in the cinderblock lobby that reminded Dink of his cell at the Tennessee State Penitentiary in Nashville where he done eight years for robbin’ a convenience store, first and only conviction.

  There was a tinted double window on the inner wall that slid back and forth. It was open a couple inches and Dink could see a desk, file cabinets and a not bad-lookin’ girl with blonde cotton-candy hair, phone up to her ear. He tapped lightly on the glass with a knuckle. She slid the window open, held her hand over the part of the phone where you talk.

  “Can I help you?”

  “We’s here for our money.” Dink handed the piece of paper to her.

  The blonde brought the phone back up to her face and said, “Mother, I’m going to have to call you back.”

  She hung it up and opened a metal lock box on the desk. Dink could see it was full of money. She grabbed a few bills, turned and handed him two tens, a five and three ones.

  “Here you go,” she said. “Don’t spend it all in one place.” Dink grinned. “Well, I’ll try not to.”

  They walked out of the office, got in the El Camino. Squirrel said, “What’re you doin’ hittin’ on that smelly, you’re suppose to be playin’ it incognito?”

  “You’re givin’ her too much credit. There’s nothin’ about me she’s gonna be able to tell anyone.”

  Squirrel spun the El Camino around in the yard. Dink watched a crane with a grapple hook drop a load of scrap in a high-sided semi-trailer, shocks compressing, the trailer shaking.

  “What you should’ve noticed back there was the cash box full of money.”

  “Believe me, I seen it,” Squirrel said. “How much’s in it, you suppose?”

  “Enough to bother.”

  Squirrel gunned it past the scale man talking to a guy with a stake truck full of rusted farm machinery on the bed.

  They stopped at a bar in Hamtramck, had a few cold ones and grilled kielbasa on hotdog buns with mustard and dill chips, and came up with a plan. Well, Dink came up with the plan while Squirrel guzzled four PBRs and inhaled the kielbasa.

  After lunch they bought a couple six packs and drove to the trailer park where Squirrel lived. Squirrel had a chain cutter they’d use to cut the chainlink fence. Squirrel also wanted his .45. They sat around the trailer all afternoon and evening watching porno films from Squirrel’s collection, starting with Shoot the Goooo, then Masterbation Frenzy and Dink’s personal favorite, Twat’s Up Doc?

  They drove back to the scrap yard, arriving at 2:58 in the a.m., Hamtramck bars had been closed for an hour and the streets were deserted. Squirrel parked on a side street across Mount Elliott from the entrance, killed the lights. There was a car parked in the middle of the yard, looked like a bone stock two-door ’62 Chevy Biscayne. Somebody in it, smoking cigarettes, keeping the engine running, probably listening to the radio. Dink saw the night watchman step out of the Chevy, wander over to the warehouse and take a leak, and that’s when they made their move.

  Seventeen

  Hess glanced at himself in the rearview mirror, blue-and-red Cleveland Indians cap pulled low, brim hiding most of his face. He had a good feeling that today was going to be the day. He eased the big Chrysler out of Max’s garage, pressed the button on the remote and watched the door go down. He drove through the neighborhood, went left on Atlantic Boulevard and got stuck in traffic, waiting for the drawbridge to go down.

  When it did he drove to Oceanside Shopping Center. The parking lot was crowded and he took a few minutes to find a space, parked and went straight to the post office. Hess opened the box and saw a note saying he had received a package. The box could accommodate letters and small parcels, but larger items had to be picked up at the counter.

  He showed a clerk the note and Max Hoffman’s driving license. The clerk went into another room, found the package, asked Hess to sign his name and handed him a square padded parcel. He carried it under his arm to the car and started back to Max’s house.

  Using a paring knife, Hess cut through the packing tape, sliced through the top of the envelope and slid three shrink-wrapped stacks of blank paper out onto the kitchen table. If Ingrid had decided to keep the money, why did she go to the trouble of sending a package at all? It made no sense… unless someone had gotten to her, threatened her. The package was mailed so he would be seen picking it up and followed.

  Hess opened Der Spiegel, read the article, and now he had a better idea what was happening. The article mentioned his upbringing — father was a career soldier, mother a teacher and strict disciplinarian — and his Nazi party affiliation, suggesting his rapid rise was due to his relation to Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s deputy, which was patently untrue. The article mentioned Hess and his SS murderers slaughtering six hundred Jews in the woods outside Dachau in 1943. Two survivors had escaped and identified him, although the incriminating photos of Hess posing in front of the pit filled with dead Jews would have likely been enough to convict him.

  Hess walked around the house locking the doors and windows and decided, for the time being, to stay inside. The first question: who was after him? Was it Mossad? Agents from the Central Office for Nazi Crimes? The Federal Criminal Police, the Bundeskriminalamt?

  Another problem: the $50,000 was money he needed to live on. Then it occurred to him that Max Hoffman had assets he could tap into. Maybe not $50,000, but something. The third bedroom, Hess remembered Max telling him, was used as an office. He went in and sat behind Max’s dark heavy desk that had brass handles and looked out of place in the small room with turquoise walls and windows that let in a lot of sunlight.

  He glanced at the photograph of a woman in a wooden frame next to the phone, assuming she was Max’s former wife, a good-looking woman, late forties. Hess found Max’s bank statements and other financial information. For a teacher he was surprisingly well off, $28,000 in cash and $105,000 in bonds, plus monthly income from an annuity and a pension from the Ohio State Teacher Retirement Fund.

  With the driver’s license, Hess could travel to different bank branches and withdraw money from Max’s account. But depleting the cash would take time. He could also sell the house. According to the advertisements for similar waterfront homes in the newspaper, Max’s house had to be worth at least $60,000. But that would have to wait. His more immediate concern was staying alive.

  Zeller bought coffee and pastries at a bakery and arrived in the shopping-center lot at 8:15, parking with a clear view of the post-office entrance forty feet away. He sipped coffee and ate a cheese Danish, watching the shopping center come alive. At 8:30 a.m. a uniformed employee opened the post-office door. Zeller grabbed binoculars off the seat next to him, and trained them on cars pulling in, focusing on people: an elde
rly couple, two longhaired teenage girls standing on the sidewalk eating doughnuts, a mother pushing a stroller, shoppers pushing carts. A little after eleven, Zeller saw a stocky man in shorts and a red-and-blue cap walk along the concourse and into the post office.

  Zeller trained his binoculars on the same man as he came out, carrying a package stamped with West German postal indicia. Now convinced this was Hess, Zeller watched the man return to his car, a big green Chrysler, watched him drive out of the parking lot and turn on Atlantic Boulevard. Zeller followed, saw him turn right on NE 5th Street and knew where he was going.

  Zeller stopped at a hardware store on Federal Highway, bought what he needed and went back to the motel. He turned on the TV, stretched out on the bed and watched a western called Gunsmoke. From what Zeller could understand, it was about a lawman, Marshall Dillon, who had some kind of relationship with Miss Kitty, who ran a bordello.

  Just after midnight, Zeller took his hardware-store purchases out to the car. It was dark and quiet. He could feel a cool breeze blowing in from the ocean, smelling the salty air. He drove over the bridge and through the neighborhood to Max Hoffman’s house, parked on the empty street next to the vacant lot. Sat for a minute, looking around. All the houses were dark. It was so quiet he could hear himself breathe. He got out of the car, walked to the rear of the house, standing on the patio, looked through the French doors into the dark interior, saw the shapes of furniture. Behind him, a breeze ruffled the canvas awning. He saw a light coming toward him on the waterway and heard a boat go by, engine at low rpm. He took the supplies out of the paper bag and laid them on the patio stones.

  The French doors had lever handles, with a simple pin-and-tumbler lock. He slid the tension wrench into the keyhole, turned it to the right, inserted the pick and started lifting the pins. Could hear them click, falling into place, the upper pins going into the housing, the lower pins into the plug. Zeller opened the door, went in, closed it and listened. Silence until the air conditioner kicked on. He glanced down, noticed the floor was tile, unzipped his boots, slipped out of them and moved toward the front of the house, arm outstretched, left hand gripping the Makarov.