Voices of the Dead hl-1

by Peter Leonard

“Do I look like I shoot heroin?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “Never in my life.”

  “Do you use drugs, Mr. Levin?”

  “I smoked weed one time at an Allman Brothers concert. Got home, ate everything in the refrigerator.” He paused. “Where’s Cordell?”

  “You know who shot him?” Frank Mazza said.

  “No idea,” Harry said. “You didn’t happen to find nine-millimeter Parabellum shell casings at the scene, did you?”

  “Why would you ask that?”

  “Just curious.”

  Mazza combed his hair back with his fingertips. “But you don’t know who shot him, huh?”

  Harry shook his head.

  “Maybe you should come down to 1300, see if we can jog your memory.”

  “You’d be wasting your time,” Harry said.

  Bob Stark got him Cordell’s mother’s address on Lothrop. “Her name’s Gladys Jackson. Divorced Sims, married Melvin Jackson. Divorced him.”

  “She gets around, huh?”

  “You could say. Cordell’s at Detroit Receiving, where most of the inner-city shooting victims are taken, room 308, still listed as critical, but doing well considering he was shot three times.”

  Harry took Woodward to Grand Boulevard, passed the GM Building on his left and Fisher Building on his right, two Detroit landmarks. Drove to 14th Street, went right on Lothrop, found the address, parked and knocked on the door. The house was a mess and so was the woman who lived there. Bags, half-moon shapes under her eyes that were darker than her skin. Looked like she’d been in a prizefight and lost. She was wearing a stained terrycloth robe, and had curlers in her hair. “Mrs. Jackson, I’m Harry Levin.” He took out his driver’s license and handed it to her. She glanced at the photograph, seemed to study his face and gave it back to him.

  “’Nother white dude come by here saying he was you. Spoke Southern. Saying he from Chattanooga.”

  Harry still had the mug shot of Hess that Taggart had given him. He took out the paper, unfolded it and handed it to her. “Is this the man?”

  Her eyes opened wide. “That him,” she said. “Who is he?”

  “Could be the one shot Cordell.”

  “Why he do that? Shoot my boy three times. Kill the sister was with him.” She gave the mug shot back to him. “He gonna try again?”

  Harry drove downtown to Detroit Receiving on St Antoine behind the police station. Parked, went in and took the elevator to the third floor. The hospital was old and overcrowded. Not enough beds so patients on gurneys were lined up in the hall under gloomy fluorescent lights that cast a yellow glow. Nurses and orderlies running around amid the chaos. Harry had never seen anything like it.

  He walked around till he found room 308. Expected a cop in uniform to be sitting in a chair in the hallway the way he’d seen in movies. There to protect Cordell in case the assassin returned. He went in. A gray-haired black man was sleeping in the first bed. Cordell was in the second one, IVs in both arms. The machine behind him against the wall was making a whooshing noise. Cordell sensed his presence, glanced at him and grinned.

  “The fuck you doin’ here, Harry?”

  “Good to see you‚ too. How you feeling?”

  “Ever been shot?”

  “No,” Harry said. “You see who did it?”

  “Shape outside the car is all. Then metal was flying at us through the glass. I’m moving, ducking, tryin’ not to get hit. Five shots. Little sounds like pufft, pufft. Man had his gun silenced. Hit me here.” Pointed to his left forearm. “Here.” Pointing to the upper left side of his chest near the collarbone, a bandage bulging under the hospital gown.

  “Rochelle came out to smoke one, got smoked.”

  “She your girlfriend?”

  “Not any more.” He reached for a plastic cup on the table next to him, picked it up and sucked water through the straw.

  “Remember anything about the shooter?”

  Cordell closed his eyes for a few seconds and opened them looking at Harry. “Wore a hat. Just saw it like a blip, flash in my head.”

  “What kind of hat?”

  “Little motherfucker with a brim. Had a feather on the side?”

  “Sounds Tyrolean.”

  “Can see him now,” Cordell said. “Was a white dude.”

  Harry showed him the mug shot of Hess.

  “Might be,” Cordell said. “The Nazi, huh?”

  Harry nodded. “He stopped by your mother’s, told her he was me.”

  “Let me ax you something. You the star witness. Why’s he coming after me?” Cordell said.

  “He’s tying up loose ends. Taking out anyone knows something about him.”

  “Loose ends? Man, I don’t know nothin’. Don’t know shit.”

  Harry was wondering if Hess had come to Detroit first. Take care of them and go to Palm Beach? He had to call Joyce again and warn her. He saw Cordell’s right foot come out from under the blanket. His ankle had a leg-iron on it, chained to the side rail. “What’s that? They think you’re going to run out, skip your medication?”

  “Warrant for my arrest. Check it out. Charging me with felony firearm. Guess you can relate, huh? And I was just about to leave town.”

  “Maybe I can help with your legal problems.”

  “How you gonna do that? You a lawyer?”

  “I know one and he’s good.”

  “Tell him to work fast. Few more days, I heard a nurse sayin’, they gonna move me to the jail infirmary. Wayne County. Trust me, you don’t want to do time in there.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Harry said.

  Harry went back to the yard. Galina had called. She was cooking a brisket, and insisted on dropping some off for his dinner.

  “Don’t worry, Harry. If door is locked, I know where to find spare key.”

  He was going to call Galina and tell her not to bother, but he didn’t want to talk to her, get in a conversation. He was trying to avoid her.

  Thirty-two

  Hess pushed the button and heard the bell ring inside, waited, knocked on the door. The time was 4:57 p.m.

  He had parked the Chevrolet Malibu down the street. The sky was overcast and getting dark as he walked along the driveway to the rear of the house, glancing at the neighbor’s property. He didn’t see anyone in the yard. Harry’s garage was built on the north end of the property, a fence around the perimeter, empty slate patio directly behind the house. French doors that opened onto the patio were locked. He kicked in a glass pane near the handle, reached his hand through, unlocked the door and went inside.

  Hess stood in the dining room and listened. He heard a dog barking somewhere outside. He moved through the house, studying the furnishings in the salon, sleek leather chairs and sofa, chrome and glass end tables, antique rugs, Ushak and Tabriz, Mondrian reproductions framed in black metal, Bang & Olufsen sound system, antique deco clock on the fireplace mantel. White lacquered bookshelves built along the wall that met the fireplace, filled with encyclopedias, hardcover books. He moved to the Steinway grand piano that was positioned in front of the windows with a view of the street. A woman on the sidewalk passed by the house, walking a dog, a breed of poodle. A heavy truck rumbled by shaking the foundation.

  He went back through the dining room into the kitchen. There was a table in front of the windows that looked out on the back yard, an island counter with three high-back chairs behind it on one side. Across the room was a small television on another counter built into the wall. Next to the TV was a phone and answering machine.

  Hess pushed the message button and listened, skipping past sales solicitations until he heard a woman’s voice. “Harry, I did as you suggested. I’m still on the island but in a safe place. When are you coming to Florida?” Very soon, Hess said to himself.

  He walked into the foyer, stairs to the left, front-door alcove to the right. Behind him was a small wood-paneled room with a fireplace. He walked up the stairs to the second floor, photograph
s in frames on the wall, Hess stopping, studying them, the daughter, he guessed, in a series of pictures from a baby to a young woman. He entered the room at the top of the stairs. Still enough light to see this was where the daughter had slept. Thinking about her, the irony of it, the automobile accident bringing Hess and Harry Levin back together.

  He heard something and moved to the window. He looked down and saw a car, lights on, in the driveway, stopping next to the house. A woman got out carrying something, approached the side door and rang the bell.

  Hess ran down the stairs to the foyer. He heard the bell ring a second time and then the sound of a key in the lock. He was in the hallway moving toward the kitchen when the door opened and closed.

  “Harry, it’s me, are you here?” The accent sounded Russian. “I bring dinner.”

  He was in the foyer, looking through a doorway down a short hall into the kitchen. He saw her walk past him, carrying a tray covered with aluminum foil. She placed the tray on the island counter in the center of the room, removed her coat and draped it on the back of a chair. She moved to the left and disappeared from view. He heard a cupboard door open and close, and heard the clinking of glass bottles. She reappeared with a bottle in one hand and a cocktail glass in the other. She placed them on the island counter next to the tray.

  He heard the refrigerator door open and the rattle of ice. She came back to the counter and dropped a handful of ice cubes into the cocktail glass. She unscrewed the cap on the bottle and poured what appeared to be vodka over the ice.

  Hess had admired Harry Levin’s taste in automobiles, his furnishings and now his taste in women. In another situation he would have liked to join her for an evening cocktail, but whisky, not vodka. What was he going to do? She appeared to be settling in, expecting Harry Levin’s imminent arrival.

  The foyer was dark, he moved, bumped the open door with his hip and it hit the wall with a dull thud. The woman turned and glanced through the doorway in his direction.

  “Harry, is that you?”

  She placed her drink on the counter and walked toward the foyer as Hess retreated into the salon.

  “Is someone there?”

  She came into the room. It was dark but not completely. Sitting in a leather chair, he reached over and turned on a lamp that was on the table next to him.

  “I must have fallen asleep,” Hess said, using his Southern accent. “I thought I heard someone.”

  “You scare the hell out of me,” the woman said. “Who are you?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing. I’m Ray, friend of Harry’s, staying here for a few days. I’m in the scrap business. Yard down in Ohio.”

  “Harry did not mention you were here.”

  “He didn’t mention you either.”

  “Come have a drink with me.”

  “I don’t mind if I do,” Hess said, hands on the armrests, pushing himself out of the chair.

  “You hungry? I have a nice brisket and roast potatoes.”

  “Well this is my lucky night, isn’t it?” Hess said.

  Harry borrowed a bolt cutter from Jerry Dubuque, Jerry saying, “What the hell’re you going to do with that?”

  “Cut some bolts,” Harry said. “What do you think?”

  “Aren’t you the same guy that said the only Jew you know who uses tools is your dentist?”

  “This is an exception.”

  “You need help, call me.”

  When Phyllis left for the day Harry wrapped the bolt cutter in brown paper and put it in Jerry’s car. He had talked to Bob Stark earlier about Cordell’s legal problems.

  “Harry, it’s complicated. He was arrested for selling heroin, looking at five years. Would’ve ended up doing two and a half. But Cordell’s attorney was smart. He told the judge his client’s father had taken off and his mother was a drug addict. Cordell was a victim of circumstances. Wants to make something of himself. Offered to enlist in the army in lieu of incarceration. The judge agreed. But the felony remains on his record. When the police found him outside the nightclub he was carrying a concealed weapon, so they’ve got him on the weapon charge. And since he was arrested for selling heroin, which is a felony, they’ve also got him on felon in possession of a firearm. If convicted he’s looking at five to seven and a half.”

  “Can you get him out on bond in the meantime?”

  “That’s what I’m looking into. It’s going to take a little time. The court thinks he’s a flight risk. You would be too, you had that hanging over your head.”

  He drove to Lelli’s on Woodward for a late dinner. Had a bowl of their wonderful minestrone, spaghetti and meatballs, a green salad and two glasses of house red, lingered over coffee, paid his check and walked out at 10:45. He drove to Detroit Receiving, parked on St Antoine, the street quiet, deserted. Got out with the bolt cutter wrapped in brown paper, about three feet long, hoped it looked like a gift. And now wished he’d thought to put a bow on it. Would’ve been a nice touch.

  A black security guard was smoking a cigarette outside the main entrance. Harry walked in the lobby, nobody at the reception counter. A sign said, Admittance, with an arrow pointing down a hallway. He walked thirty yards and came to a reception area with chairs and couches. To the left was a bank of four elevators. He got in one and rode up to the third floor.

  The hall was dark. The only sound he heard was his shoes on the tile floor. The nurses’ station was straight ahead, three RNs standing there, one in front of the counter, two behind it. He ducked into the waiting room on his left. It was dark. The TV was on, a Western starring John Wayne, low volume. Black man stretched out on one of the couches, sleeping. Harry could hear him snoring. He sat in a chair with the bolt cutter in his lap, watching the nurses’ station. One by one the nurses disappeared, checking patients, going on rounds.

  Harry got up and made his move, crossed the hallway. There were half a dozen wheelchairs lined up. He grabbed one, put the bolt cutter on the seat and wheeled it down the dark hall lined with patients sleeping on gurneys. He opened the door to 308, pushed the chair in and closed it. The man in the first bed was on his back asleep.

  Harry stood over Cordell, touched his arm, and shook him. “Wake up,” he whispered. Cordell opened his eyes, blinked and yawned, staring up at him.

  “Harry, what time is it?”

  “Eleven thirty.”

  “What’re you doing here?”

  “I brought you a present.” Harry held up the package.

  “What’s that?”

  Harry ripped the paper off and held the bolt cutter up by the rubber grips, dull gray handles that had once been red.

  Cordell’s eyes sparkled, he grinned. “Harry Levin takin’ the law in his own hands. I see it, I don’t believe it.”

  “I’ve got to get you out of here before the shooter comes back.” Harry opened the blades of the cutter head, centered them on the chain hooked to the leg-iron, gripped the handles and pushed them together, felt resistance from the hardened steel, pushed through it and heard the metal snap as the blades cut the chain.

  “Harry, you never cease to amaze me. Suppose you were in the neighborhood again, huh?”

  There was a bandage wrapped around his left forearm where he’d been shot, and a plastic hospital bracelet on his wrist. Harry lowered the bedrail, brought Cordell’s legs over the side, Cordell wincing in pain, holding his bandaged thigh, exposed now as the hospital gown gathered and bunched at the top of his leg.

  “Round hit me banged around in there, surgeon had to go in find it,” Cordell said, face straining to get the words out.

  He was hurt bad. Harry doubted he could walk. How was he going to get him to the car? How was he going to take care of him? Harry slid Cordell off the bed and got him in the wheelchair, Cordell groaning. Pulled the blanket off the bed, wrapped it around him and wheeled him out of the room.

  Buddy was surprised when the real Nazi, Gerd Klaus, called saying he needed his help. Had a job for him, he didn’t mind shooting a coon
. Mind? Be a pleasure. They met at Nemo’s over by Tiger Stadium, sat at the crowded bar, had a beer while Mr. Klaus told Buddy what to do and handed him an envelope with ten one hundred dollar bills in it. Buddy would’ve done it for nothing but could definitely use the money. Mr. Klaus said he’d do it himself but he had a nosey Jew to take care of. “I can help you with that too you need me.” But Mr. Klaus said he didn’t.

  Buddy’d said, “Miss the Third Reich? Those were the good old days I bet.” Mr. Klaus looked at him but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t the most talkative person Buddy’d ever met. “You guys were so close, but you have to admit, you got a little greedy. Going for England and Russia at the same time. Spread yourselves a little thin, don’t you think?” Mr. Klaus seemed pissed now, wouldn’t look at him, stared straight ahead. “Subject’s still a little sensitive, huh? I understand. You don’t want to talk, that’s okay. It’s not a crime yet?” He grinned‚ thinking it was funny‚ but the Nazi didn’t react.

  That had happened earlier. He parked on the street, took the .44 Mag out of the glove box. Got out and locked the pickup. He went in the main entrance, boon security guard inside the door. “Evening officer,” he said, grinning at the rent-a-cop.

  Buddy walked down a hall to the elevators, went up to three, nobody around, walked to the end of the hall, the nurses’ station, opened a door and started down another hall that was dark and hard to see, walking by all these sick people sleeping on gurneys lined up against the wall. He passed a white dude pushing a colored guy in a wheelchair. “How you doing?” The white dude nodded at him.

  Buddy opened the door to 308 — he’d asked an orderly what room his good friend Cordell Sims was in — saw an old colored guy asleep in the first bed. The privacy curtain between the beds was pulled closed. He opened it and saw the second bed was empty, bolt cutter lying on the mattress. He went to the bathroom, opened the door, nobody there. And then it hit him. Cordell Sims was in the wheelchair. Had to be, right?

  At first Harry thought he was a male nurse. Who else would be walking around a hospital at close to midnight? Wasn’t part of the janitorial staff either. Not in jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket. Young, about thirty. Harry’s height, trim build, long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Harry looked over his shoulder and saw him go into Cordell’s room.