He helps Carlton through the tiny kitchen into the equally tiny bedroom, stopping along the way to grab a bottle of Scotch from a sideboard in the living room. Once Carlton is laying back in the bed he says, “I’ll get some glasses and ice.”
When he returns and pours he says, “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to deliver the package, just the way we were told.”
“But...”
“Shhh. Just the way we were told. We don’t have a choice.”
“He’ll kill us,” whispers George. He’s sitting on the side of the bed, sipping his Scotch from a glass filled with ice. The bedspread is blue and comforting in the dim light from the bedside lamp. George is feeling a sense of loss, like some important time in their lives is coming to an end. A single tear drops into his Scotch.
“Carl,” he says softly.
“I know, Georgie.”
“This isn’t going to end well, is it Carl?”
“No, Georgie. It isn’t.”
Lou and Cassidy have left on their mission to the Ambassador. Two pizza cartons are stacked on top of the trash can by the rear door. Beer bottles have been rounded up and ashtrays dumped and most of the lights turned down low. The Zenith radio, volume low, is playing ‘Sentimental Journey.’
In the bright glare of the kitchen overhead, Bonnie finishes drying the dishes, sets the towel on the rack. Monk’s putting the coffee grounds from the percolator on top of the stacked pizza boxes.
“That’s going to spill,” she warns.
He looks at it, studying the angles, the likelihood of a spill and he agrees. “Yep. Most likely.”
But he leaves it there and comes to her. “Living room?” he asks. “Would you like some wine?”
“Yes, please.”
They sit on the couch and listen to music and Monk’s in a rare mood where his brain isn’t overanalyzing everything. He says, “Do you have to go?”
“I don’t have to go,” she says, and the rational side just slams back at him. He hears the stress on the words have to go, and makes assumptions, wild guesses, crazed doubts about his behavior. Did I do something wrong? What did I do wrong? Why doesn’t she want to stay?
Until she says, “And I don’t want to.”
Larry says, “You’re kidding me.”
“Cross my heart,” says Lou.
Larry looks down from the heights at Cassidy. “He’s kidding, right?”
“Afraid not.”
“They’re coming here? To my hotel? The guys you were telling me about?”
“Yep. Them.”
They’re sitting in the bar at a corner booth discussing the unlikely subject of a Nazi plot.
Cassidy, with a Manhattan, says, “The list you gave us? Monk spotted a name quickly. A guy named David Ben-Gurian.”
Larry shakes a massive head. “Never heard of him.” He’s got a highball glass hidden in a massive fist.
“Neither did we. Monk says he’s the Prime Minister of Israel. Says the Nazis are going to try and kill him right here in the hotel.”
Larry’s angry, like a mountain about to become a volcano. You can almost see the smoke.
“We have to tell the manager.”
“Sure,” Says Lou. “Or, instead maybe we could do this...”
After listening for several minutes, Larry’s a lot more cheerful.
“Yeah,” he says. “We could do that. Still, I got to tell the manager.”
Cassidy says, “Bring him in.”
“Her,” says Larry. “Manager’s named Vakim. Tevia Vakim. I’ll go get her...”
He leaves and comes back with a middle-aged brunette in a professionally tasteful skirt, white blouse under a rather severe jacket. She has black framed glasses on a chain around her neck. She sits down after introductions, orders a drink and says, “Larry tells me you think there’s a plot against the hotel.”
“Not so much the hotel as one of your guests. David Ben-Gurian.”
“The Prime Minister? He’s here already! In the Hotel. You say there’s a threat to him?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” says Lou politely.
“We’ll have to move him immediately. Call the police. Notify the press.”
“Or not,” says Cassidy and Tevia stops just short of getting to her feet and racing away.
“What?” she says. “Why?”
“Because, if you do that, he’ll be safe...”
“That’s the idea!” Insists Tevia.
“He’ll be safe now,” says Cassidy. “But they’ll just try it again someplace else. Monk, our... associate... he thinks they’ve been planning this for a long time. If we can catch them now, the threat is over and done with.”
“But the Prime Minister. How do you know—for sure! —when this will happen?”
“Monk figures it like this...”
She listens, frowning a whole lot, and finally agrees. “But you must call in the police,” she insists.
“Well, damn,” says Lou.
Friday morning Erich is back on the phone again. This time he’s got the yellow pages on the bedside table, open to Television Stations. He dials, waits, talks his way past half a dozen secretaries and people and finally reaches an editor who says, “The Hell you say!”
“It’s true,” says Erich. “A demonstration, in front of the Ambassador Hotel. It’s a local hate group, styles themselves after the Nazi party. They’re protesting that man... that Jewish fellow...Ben somebody.”
The editor, disbelief flowing down the lines, says, “Ben-Gurian? David Ben-Gurian?”
“That’s him. He’s the President of the Jews or something,” says Erich. He’s playing this call, and the others that will follow, as Bill Kline, loyal American.
“He’s the Prime Minister of Israel,” says the editor. “Is this on the level?”
“Sure is. I fought in the big one myself, over in France, after D-Day? We beat them Nazi bastards back where they came from and I tell you, I can’t stand what these people are thinking, dressing up and pretending to be...”
“Sir? How do you know about this?”
“How do I know?” asks Erich, his voice expressing righteous indignation. “I know because they recruited my boy, my own flesh and blood. My son Petey, not the brightest boy, I’ll be the first to admit it. Never did well in school. A follower, you understand? Not a leader.”
“Sir, what about...?”
“But even Petey should have had the sense God gave a groundhog. How he fell in with these people, well, I can’t imagine. But there you are.”
“What? There I am where?”
“What I’m trying to tell you,” Erich sputters. “He’s one of them. The damned fool joined the Nazi party. You’ve got to tell the world about this. Tell them Petey’s story. He’s not a bad boy, only has those couple of incidents, so he can’t...”
But the editor is gone. Hung up, Erich knows, and is already shouting for a camera crew.
Friday morning, Lou and Cassidy are up early, showered, made up (her) and shaved (him) ready to face the world. Or at least that portion of it that contains their friend Dion Monkton. Lou’s got a one pound can of Chock Full O’ Nuts coffee under one arm and Cassidy has a bag of donuts from the corner shop. As they walk up the back stairs Lou starts singing the coffee jingle.
“Chock Full O’ Nuts is that Heavenly Coffee...”
“Shut up, Lou.”
He turns to serenade her, singing with feeling in a rich baritone.
“Better coffee a millionaire’s money...”
“Lou, stop it!” But she’s giggling.
“Can’t...” Big finish as they reach Monk’s door.
“Buy!” They sing together, holding the note in poor but heartfelt harmony until the door bursts open and Monk, dressed in a sheet, yells, “What are you doing?”
Lou holds out the yellow and brown can and Monk absently takes it as Lou slips around him into the kitchen.
Cassidy eyes the sheets, the mussed hair, the utterly relaxed
muscles and grins. “She’s here, isn’t she? Bonnie’s here!”
“No, she isn’t.” Monk, trying to hold the door and the coffee and the sheet, let’s Cassidy slip by him. “Not here,” he says to her back, following. “Nobody’s here. You’ve got to go now.”
Lou’s already at the sink pouring water into the percolator. He points to the pizza boxes covered in old grounds. “You shouldn’t stack them like that. They’re gonna fall.”
Which they do as Cassidy slips by Monk and bumps into them. The boxes skitter across the floor, scattering dry coffee grounds and assorted other trash and Bonnie walks in wearing a smile and a Chicago Blackhawks Jersey.
Lou, setting the percolator on the stove, looks over his shoulder. “Is that Stan Mikita? Monk, the jersey we got you for Christmas last year?” He does a double take at Bonnie. “Wow, you look so much better in it that he does.”
“Thanks, Lou.” She crosses the kitchen to stand and put an arm around Monk’s waist. The sheet tightens and Monk’s face turns a couple shades deeper. “But I look better in everything.”
That makes Lou crack up. “Sure, makes me want to see a hockey game.”
Cassidy hands the donut bag to Bonnie who opens it. “Ooh, a bear claw. Can I have that one?”
“Of course.” Cassidy’s smiling like she invented the couple herself, which she’s probably thinking she did. “You can have anything you want.”
“I already have everything I want,” says Bonnie.
Monk, looking at the ceiling as if there’s a non-stop elevator to Heaven says, “Take me now, Lord. Please. Take me now.”
Cassidy says happily, “I think she already has.”
Friday, eleven-fifty, Detective Fred Cassowary, without the customary Walt Bristol says, “Lou Fleener. The hell do you want?”
“Nice to see you, too detective. Mind if I sit?” Lou does without waiting for a reply. “Got to talk to you about Nazis, Fred. Mind if I call you Fred?”
“I very much mind. There are no Nazis.”
“Yes, there are, Fred. More than you can imagine. They will be demonstrating—very, very publicly—tomorrow on Michigan Avenue, right out front of the Ambassador Hotel.” Lou pauses to inhale smoke, both his own newly lit one and the Venusian cloud that fills the upstairs detective room.
“And you can be there, Fred, to arrest them or you can be here, pretending there are other crimes worth solving and miss the story altogether. Your choice.” He looks around. “Where’s Walt?” Walt being Cassowary’s partner. “I thought you guys were joined at the hip.”
“Do you ever wonder why nobody likes you, Fleener? Maybe because you’re a smart ass? You ever wonder that?”
“No, not really. Still, it’s better than being a dumb ass, don’t you think?”
Bristol returns with two tin-foil wrapped sandwiches that he sets on the desk before noticing Lou sitting across from him. “Oh, you,” he says, when he does. To his partner he asks, “What’s this one doing here?”
“Slumming,” says Lou immediately.
“More crazy Nazi theories,” says Cassowary.
“Not crazy,” says Lou. “Or theories. Truth. Is that a Rueben you got there?” He takes in a deep sniff, drawing in the aroma and enough cigarette and cigar smoke to ruin several people’s lungs, and sighs. “That smells wonderful. Where’d you get it?”
“Papa Gee’s down on State and Eighth,” says Bristol. He’s opening his wrapper and setting out little cups of dipping sauce and plastic utensils and he takes a huge wad of Double Bubble chewing gum out of his mouth—Lou’s thinking there’s maybe eight or nine pieces in there— which he sets on a napkin on the edge of the desk, presumably for later chewing.
“You’re a class act, you know that, Walt?”
“I am a class act, Fleener, and a much more understanding one than my partner here who’s looking at you like he’d like to find a can—a big can—of roach spray to douse you with.”
“Hardly be able to tell in this smog. Look, Walt. Fun as it is, I haven’t come here to crack wise with you. This Nazi thing is on the level.”
“Sure, it is,” Walt says around an enormous bite of his sandwich. His jaws extended until it could go around the bun and the meat and Lou’s thinking maybe it’s like one of the snakes in the Amazon that can swallow a cow.
Cassowary, from his side of the desk says, “Brouff.”
“Couldn’t agree more, detective,” says Lou. “Wanna try it in English?”
Cassowary holds up a finger—wait—swallows, nearly chokes from doing it too fast, waves the finger again—wait longer—says, “Too much horseradish.” His eyes are tearing up.
“I was gonna say—again—that there aren’t no Nazis, Fleener.”
“Please, call me Lou,” says Lou. “We’ve been friends so long.”
“We ain’t been friends ever,” says Bristol, the rest of his face getting as red as his eyes.
“And why is that, Fred? Didn’t we give you Duke Braddock a couple of years back? All wrapped up neat and easy? And didn’t you get your promotions from that? Move up here to this swanky place where you can eat sandwiches all day?”
Silence. Chewing, with jaws going in circles as both detectives try to ignore that yes, they did owe their present positions to the Duke Braddock situation.
“Nazis,” says Lou, following the evasions. “Let’s do a head count, shall we? One, I did you a favor and got you promoted. Two, you don’t believe me when I say there are Nazis and a poor old woman gets killed. Which you should be feeling so bad about that you’d offer me some of your sandwiches... no? Nobody? Damn, I thought for sure that’d work. You have any food around here? Vending machines or something? It’s killing me watching you eat.”
Bristol points to a rear opening hidden in the fog. “Down the hall, break room on the left. Candy and soda machines. Chips if they’re not gone.”
“Thanks.” Lou leaves and the detectives use the time to discuss, silently, with gestures and shrugs and raised eyebrows—the same language spoken by all couples, whether they’re partners or spouses—what they don’t want to say in words.
Cassowary: He’s right, we did ignore him.
Bristol: It was Nazis!
Cassowary: Still.
Bristol: Who knew the dame was gonna get dead?”
Cassowary: Nobody. Still.
Bristol: Fleener says she got killed.
Cassowary: Can’t blame us for that.
Bristol: Sure. Still.
Cassowary: But Nazis? C’mon.
Bristol: I think we gotta listen to him.
Cassowary: Shit.
Lou comes back with a handful of candy bars, a couple bags of chips and a can of Pepsi. “I like Coke better, but what are you gonna do?”
Bristol says, “Okay, we talked it over. We’ll listen.”
Cassowary adds, “Wha-da-ya got?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Hard to Believe, Aren't We?
––––––––
Friday morning. Erich is back on the phone, finishing what feels like a marathon of phone calls. The Tribune, Sun Times, Daily American, Daily News. The other three television stations.
What’s next? He consults a list and picks up the heavy black rotary phone, setting it on his lap. He leans back and stretches the muscles in his back, cramped from sitting here so long. The Daily Defender. It’s pretty much a negro only newspaper, but a story about Nazis ought to interest even them. Erich grins at the idea of his whites only demonstrators being confronted by a mob of Schwarzes. The police, many of whom are next on his list, would probably stand by and watch, indifferent to who might get hurt more.
He’s reaching out to dial when the thing rings in his hand, startling him.
Who knows he’s here?
“Yes?” He says with cautious suspicion.
“Colonel?”
Ah. Carlton. “What?”
“Colonel.” There’s a long pause and Erich pictures the small man, no doubt nursing his burn
s, trying to summon the courage to say... something. He decides to make it harder and waits.
“I... am calling... George is... sick. George is sick. He can’t take your package... with me... tomorrow.” Another long pause. “Sir.”
“Yes,” says Erich. “He will. Sick or not, injured or not, I expect both of you in the Hotel tomorrow morning precisely at ten.” He uses his command voice, the one he learned so long ago in training that he can barely recall not knowing it.
More silence. Erich lets it linger, knowing that the pressure will be on Carlton to say something.
“No,” he says.
An unexpected answer. “What?”
“I said... I said, no. I will be there. I will deliver the package as you require. George will not be there.”
Erich wonders at this display of courage. Carlton has never displayed any backbone, and is usually silent and timid around him, always agreeing to whatever he was told. That was one of the reasons Erich has kept him around so long, well after the need for financial accounting was finished. Erich, a sadist at his core, loves the attention of the weak.
“You...” he says, gathering steam to make a strong protest.
“I will pick up the package in the coat room. I will take it to room 1704. I will deliver it to whomever answers and I will leave.” Some second ticks by. “Or I will not.”
“What?” Erich couldn’t be more surprised at this turn of events than if a mouse suddenly rose up to challenge a lion.
“You heard me. I will do what you say. Alone. Or George and I will disappear. Run away. Vanish. And then what will become of your grand plan... Colonel?”
Erich, for perhaps the first time since becoming a Nazi, has no words. His contempt for the weak fights with his respect for the strong and Carlton is showing strength indeed, speaking to him this way. Threatening him even.
He wants to reach down the phone line and strangle the deviant little bastard, but his plan requires delivery of that package.
“Very well,” he says. “It appears you have me at a disadvantage. Go alone.”
The phone goes dead in his hand.
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