The Dead Don't Bleed: A Novel

by David Krugler

  “Dance?” she asked.

  “Sure.” I forced a smile and took a long drink of my Tom Collins. Had I pushed too hard, too soon? But hadn’t she asked me to come visit when she told me about her plan to move to the South Pacific after the war? And she’d told me I needed to get out of the Navy. What else could that be but an invitation to go with her?

  I pushed these questions out of my mind as we took the floor. Liv had come, she was happy to see me, we were having a good time. Just enjoy the moment, I told myself. A prisoner of Barston, I shouldn’t even be out as Ellis Voigt—Paslett would keel-haul me if he found out—so I had to remind myself how fortunate I was just to have an evening with Liv.

  Dexter Pierce and the boys were hot, ripping through “Hindustan,” “Hell’s Bells,” and a Woody Herman number. We’d broken a sweat by the time they slowed it down for “I’ll Be Around,” sung slow by a slender chanteuse in an ecru sheath of a dress decorated with glinting sequins. Couldn’t have weighed more than ninety-eight pounds soaking wet, but did she have pipes, a voice like scotch on half-melted ice. Liv wore a dark blue knee-length skirt and a black V-neck blouse with banded half-sleeves. No stockings, legs bare—wasn’t anything to like about rationing except the ban on nylon. We laced our hands together and I wrapped my left arm around her waist, slow-stepping like two kids at dance class. Too bad my stomach chose that moment to rumble, testily reminding me I hadn’t eaten since lunch.

  “Can I buy this gal dinner?” I murmured in Liv’s ear, her face pressed to my chest.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  The two hundred dollars Terrance had given me was burning a hole in my pocket. It was supposed to tide Ted Barston over for the rest of the investigation, but a vision of a T-bone on a platter surrounded by mounds of mashed potatoes told me otherwise. Plenty of restaurants close by. Olmsted’s on G, Alfonso’s on L; the Casino Royal was a stone’s throw away.

  The song ended, we gently parted, still holding hands. I led Liv back to our booth to collect her scarf and library book. The band started up, a foot-tapping, jazzy number I didn’t recognize, then the musicians abruptly stopped, the clarinetist cutting off a high note. From the bar, whooping and whistling. A fight, I thought. Good thing we’re leaving. But I was way off.

  Our cocktail server rushed over, her face flushed. “Did you hear?” she asked.

  Another burst of shouts from the bar drowned out my “Hear what?”

  “The Krauts surrendered!” she yelled over the noise. “The war’s over in Europe!”

  Liv squealed with delight and squeezed my hand tighter.

  “Jesus Christ, for real?” I asked.

  The server bobbed her head excitedly. “Now all we gotta do is finish off the Japs!” She darted away to spread the news.

  A hush fell over the ballroom as a bartender shot through the swinging service doors, a Motorola portable clutched above his head like a trophy. The news was on, but we were too far away to hear. No matter—whatever the broadcast said launched a raucous round of cheering and whistling. Dexter Pierce lifted his baton, the boys jumped into a Latin number. A conga line formed on the floor, people rushing from the bar and booths to join it.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said to Liv.

  “I knew we were close, but still,” she said, awe in her voice. “Know what this means?” She pulled herself close, breath hot in my ear, hand gripping my bicep. My mouth went dry.

  “What?”

  “Soon as we beat the Japs, I can go to the Pacific.”

  I can go to the Pacific. Not we, not you and I. Dammit, I had pushed too hard. Or was Liv just testing me? Maybe I was reading too much into her words, maybe she was just waiting to hear me say, Yes, I’m ready to take the plunge.

  “About that, Liv—”

  But she didn’t hear the rest of what I said. More cheering from the dance floor as two of the Lotus’s girls wheeled in a cart laden with champagne bottles in ice buckets, followed by girls carrying trays of glass saucers. The conga line effortlessly bypassed them.

  “Champagne! El, can we have some?” Liv spun around, her smile like a sunset, orange and rose-tinged and fleeting, her black curls bouncing against her forehead, a faint sheen visible in the “V” of her blouse, bracelet dangling from her wrist, fingers laced with mine as the crowd cheered the first bottle’s pop, a cascade of bubbles dousing bystanders, Dexter Pierce and his boys now raising the roof with a bebop take on “Stars and Stripes Forever,” the trumpeter blowing so hard it looked like he was about to flutter off the stage—if I ever forget everything and everyone I’ve ever seen and known, Jesus, let me keep that scene, that moment, that heat, that ache for the taste of the champagne we never got on the night of May 8, 1945.

  Because just as I was about to shout “yes, yes, yes” to Liv, I spotted Boy G-man across the ballroom, hat in hand, looking around frantically, trying to push his way through an impenetrable crowd blocking the dance floor like the Great Wall of China.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE TELEGRAM! I SHOULD’VE KNOWN THAT SLATER AND REID WOULD relentlessly track my steps—that’s why they’d kept the H & H manifest. After letting me go, they had visited all the clients I made deliveries to and had questioned them, searching for another spy. At every stop, they had surveyed the block, looking for places a courier for a Red spy ring might visit. Diners, druggists, taverns—and Western Union. Of course a photograph had been taken of me from behind the one-way glass while I was being interrogated; a technician had probably developed and printed it before Slater and Reid had worked me over. Sir . . . ma’am, have you seen this man today? You have? What did he do. . . .

  The idiot sent a telegram to his girlfriend while he was undercover, that’s what he did. How could I be so stupid, so reckless? Now Slater and Reid had Liv’s name and knew where she lived—for sure they’d gone to her rooming house. Where one of her gabby housemates immediately told them Liv was off to the Lotus Club to meet her beau. Had I ever sent her a letter, had she written my name down in her address book, had they searched her room yet, were they waiting on a warrant? But I had no time to think about the other mistakes I might have made, because if I didn’t get Liv and myself out of the Lotus pronto, my goose was cooked but good.

  “Liv, Liv, I’ve got to—I’ve got a better idea,” I shouted, tugging her hand.

  She looked up, perplexed.

  I pasted on a smile and said, “Live free, right?”

  Thank God—she finished the mantra for me: “And the rest will follow.”

  “So follow me.” I checked the urge to look in Boy G-man’s direction or at the bar, where Slater and Reid were likely scanning the patrons’ faces. No way Boy G-man was sent solo, not after losing me earlier. My only hope was that Slater and Reid hadn’t put a man on the club’s rear exit, that they’d expected to surprise us inside the club. Maybe later—say, in a half-century—I’d marvel at my good fortune. War ends, celebration throws off my shadows.

  Liv’s hand clutched, I took us to the back of the club, steering us around neckers, the tail of the conga line, and men and women queued up at the telephone booths, jabbering away as they waited their turn to call loved ones. I popped open the service doors with my free hand and hustled us through. Except for a teenager in a stained apron, the dishwasher I guessed, the area was deserted.

  “Go get some champagne, kid,” I shouted.

  He didn’t need any more encouragement. Stripped off his apron, shot out the swinging doors. I looked around hurriedly, hoping I’d guessed right. The girls had wheeled out the champagne from here, the bottles must have been stored in a cellar or locker, would the girls have thought to lock it? They hadn’t—the windowless door on a narrow room racked with wine and spirit bottles was wide open. I let go of Liv’s hand, darted into the dark room, grabbed a dusty wine bottle. I pulled out my roll and peeled off a ten-spot, dropped it where the bottle had lain.

  What gives? Liv’s expression asked.

  “Forget the Lotus and its conga, we’re gonna
celebrate in the street.” I tried to turn my panic into enthusiasm. “We’re gonna toast our way down Fourteenth to the Mall, straight to the top of the Washington Monument if we want!”

  “Oh, there’s gotta be so many people outside by now!”

  “Damn straight, let’s spill on out.” I pointed to the exit.

  We ran out, Liv first. I grabbed a wine key off a counter and pushed the door firmly shut. When Slater, Reid, and Boy G-man finally worked their way to the back, they’d find nothing but a dirty dishwasher’s apron to ask if a young couple had come this way.

  I led us down the alley. I thought we might need to keep to it for a few blocks, in case the Bureau had spotters outside the Lotus, but as soon as I saw the crowd on Fourteenth Street, I knew we were free. Street and sidewalks packed, joyous Washingtonians chattering, hugging, kissing, clapping each other on the shoulders. We weren’t the only ones who’d thought to bring booze—whiskey, beer, and bubbly were being passed from one hand to another. All traffic halted, no one caring, a chorus of horns adding to the cheering, passengers and drivers getting out to join the party. A streetcar, beached like a shipwreck, was empty save for its operator, who leaned out his window, talking happily with the crowd.

  “What’d you buy us to drink?” Liv asked with an impish smile.

  I wiped dust from the label and read haltingly. “Vosne-Romanée, Les Chaumes, Nineteen twenty-eight.”

  “That a good year?”

  “Let’s find out.” I pulled the cork, with difficulty—it started to crumble as it came out, but eventually I worked it out and tossed it high over the crowd.

  “You forgot glasses,” Liv said, teasing.

  “Where are my manners?” I took a draught and passed the bottle to a giggling Liv. I’d worried I’d grabbed a dud, the wine was so old, but it was awful good, the best wine I’d ever had, with hints of fruits and a spice I couldn’t quite identify—

  “D’you taste nutmeg, El?” Liv asked, handing the bottle back.

  “That’s it!”

  We flowed with the crowd, south on Fourteenth, to F Street. Garfinckel and Co. had turned on all their lights, even though the department store was closed. Through the revolving door we glimpsed the cleaning crew leaning on their mops, grinning, waving. A stockboy was dancing with a store dummy in one of the display windows, spinning her around until her arm fell off, much to the crowd’s delight.

  “Let’s go to the White House, see if Truman comes out!” Liv shouted.

  “You got it!”

  Still holding hands so we didn’t get separated, we moved down F Street, sharing the bottle with one another, passing it to anyone who looked in need of a drink. By the time we reached the Treasury Department grounds, just east of the White House, the wine was gone. Snippets of excited chatter floated past, like leaves stirred by an autumn breeze. Six weeks tops for the Japs, you wait and . . . No way Hitler’s dead—betcha anything the Russkies got ’im, they’re just . . . Yeah, but do I want him to come home that soon (burst of laughter) . . . Y’all gotta be kidding, it’s the federal guv’ment, they’re a’gonna keep . . . We headed for the rear lawn of the White House—if Truman was going to make an appearance, it would be on the balcony of the residential quarters. As if to match the gesture of Garfinckel and Co., the spotlights on the grounds had been turned on, bathing the White House in brilliant light. “We want Harry, we want Harry,” we chanted with the crowd, but the new president didn’t step out.

  “Ready for that dinner I promised?” I shouted to Liv.

  “Who’s gonna be serving tonight?”

  “I know a place.”

  That place being the Willard Hotel, just two blocks away. Its twelve or so stories loomed over Fourteenth Street, the Stars and Stripes snapping from a flagpole atop a turret. Mansard roof layered like a wedding cake, the lobby a tribute to Versailles or the Winter Palace.

  “Here?” Liv asked, incredulous.

  “S’our lucky day, Liv, I came into a windfall.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, I counted it twice.”

  “Funny guy. You know what I mean.” Looking at me searchingly. Didn’t I know I couldn’t impress her with a fat roll and a fancy dinner?

  “S’what I want, Liv.”

  So we strode in past the marble columns and underneath the glittering chandeliers to the stately restaurant, where I greased a dour maître d’ ten bucks to convince him that I had a jacket, but an over-exuberant passerby had sprayed it with champagne just before we arrived, and he didn’t want me to ruin their fine upholstery by wearing it in the dining room, did he?

  More silver on our table than in my mother’s wedding set, menus bound in Moroccan leather, a head waiter trailing acolytes: assistant waiter, wine steward, bus boy, crumb collector, candle lighter. An orchid unfurling from a crystal vase, napkins rolled in gold rings.

  “I’ve never been in a place like this, have you?” Liv whispered. Except for an elderly couple bent over soup tureens, not talking as they ate, the restaurant was deserted.

  “Nope. S’why we should have the Maine lobster, don’t you think?”

  “For real?”

  “I’ve never had lobster, have you?”

  Shook her head. And order the lobster we did. The pleasure, the joy, the delight that animated Liv’s face as she took her first bite, golden and shiny with drawn butter—that alone was worth the cost of our entrees, and the bisque, and the Waldorf salad, and the Chateau Montrechet the wine steward recommended. Were we using the right fork, did we keep our napkins folded properly? Neither of us cared, happily lost in a conversation about books and plays and music. No talk of work, or friends, or even of the war. By the time we’d finished our coffee, and our discussion of a play Liv had volunteered to be a stagehand for, it was well past ten, the elderly couple was long gone, and the head waiter was gliding around the edges of the dining room, like a cutter on maneuvers, glancing at us constantly. I signaled him over, paid the bill, took Liv by the arm. We strolled into the lobby. V-E celebrants still flowed down the streets, but the crowds had thinned. The war in the Pacific was still being fought, tomorrow was another workday, like any other.

  “El?”

  “Liv.”

  “Take me home.”

  “We are home.”

  Her head came off my shoulder, eyes wide. “What, no—El, you can’t, we can’t . . . the dinner, that lobster, that was—”

  “Liv, please listen to me.” Looking her straight in the eye now. “I’ve been on this assignment, it’s a mess, it’s a snafu, it’s consuming me. I’ve given up everything, even my flat, and I don’t know when or how it’s gonna end. But I do know this—I’m free tonight, I’m free till the morning, and when I knew I’d have this night, all I could think about was how I wanted to spend it with you. I didn’t know the war was gonna end, but it did, and that’s gotta be some kinda sign, that I’m with you, so please, stay here with me.” I meant every word, down to my marrow, and for once wasn’t every word I’d uttered true?

  “Okay, El,” she whispered.

  I went over to the front desk and told the clerk I wanted a room.

  “No luggage, sir?” With a raised eyebrow.

  A fiver lowered it. One night in the Willard cost more than I made in a month, but it wasn’t my dough, was it? I counted out the bills, he whisked them off the polished counter, unhooked a key from an ornately carved mahogany rack. The bellhop took us up, not knowing what to do with his gloved hands without bags to carry. I still tipped him fifty cents.

  We wandered through the suite, as awestruck as two kids ogling Woodie’s Christmas window displays. Liv oohed the velvet divan and walk-in closet with sliding pocket doors, I aahed the veneered bar with a glass martini pitcher and silver ice bucket. Oil paintings of landscapes on the wall, fabric wallpaper, Persian rugs. Polished desk with blotter, embossed stationery, Mont Blanc pen set. Chandelier with adjustable lighting, Art Deco sconces on the wall. Leather-bound room service menu, two Bakelite tele
phones. Liv plumped down on the divan and kicked off her pumps, I checked out the bathroom. Marble walls and a vanity mirror with lights, like in a diva’s dressing room. Two sinks, upholstered chairs, soft thick towels stacked high on a padded footstool.

  “Liv, c’mere and look at this tub—there’s room for four people in it, easy, and there’s a radio built into the wall.”

  No answer.

  I turned around, starting, “Liv, you gotta—”

  Didn’t finish. She was standing in the doorway, striking a pose. Hands on her hips, elbows out, left leg straight, right leg slightly bent, toes forward. Chin turned slightly, to offer her face in profile, black curls brushing slender shoulders. Naked except for powder-blue lace panties and a matching brassiere. The chandelier bathed her in soft light, brought a golden hue to her smooth legs. A silver chain necklace nestled between her breasts, pale rose nipples visible through gauzy lace.

  She said, “The closet looked pretty bare, so I thought I oughta hang up my clothes.”

  “Good idea,” I said. But my clothes didn’t make it to the closet.

  AFTERWARD, WE DREW A BATH, LOUNGING IN PLUSH ROBES WE’D found in the bathroom closet, watching the bubbles mound, the steam rise. Liv stood first and let the robe drop to the tiles, her alabaster skin still damp from our lovemaking. She lowered herself into the water, arms outstretched and back erect, until the bubbles covered her breasts. I followed her in. A bath had never felt so good. Just like the shave I’d had earlier, the water, almost too hot to bear, leached away the dirt, the filth, that being Ted Barston left on me.

  For a long, exquisite moment, neither of us spoke. Mute, sated, happy, we had no need of words. Being in that bath was like being free of the past and the future, adrift in an independent present that if you’re lucky—no, careful—might never run out.

  “S’nice, isn’t it, El,” Liv murmured eventually. Head on my chest, knees poking through the suds, hand resting on the tub’s coping.

  “Yes.” All the words the English language has, and that was the only one that fit, right then. Yes. I started to drift off, a stir of water from Liv’s toes brought me back.