Voices of the Dead hl-1

by Peter Leonard

  He leaned into the wheelchair, pushing it, got it moving, started running. Got to the end of the hall, went through the door, picking up speed again, racing past the nurses’ station, down another hall to the elevators, pushed the button. He looked back, saw someone running down the hall toward them. Saw the elevator coming up from the first floor. The doors opened. The runner was halfway down the hall. Harry rolled Cordell in and pushed the button. The runner, the young guy he’d passed earlier, had a gun in his hand, getting closer. The doors were closing as he got there, but he was too late. They were already on their way down.

  Buddy took the stairs to the first floor, lobby empty, rent-a-cop outside having a smoke. They wouldn’t have come this way, have to get by the guard. So where in the hell were they? Maybe down on the lower level, sneaking out another way. But the jig was in a wheelchair and that meant he couldn’t walk or he’d be walking.

  He took the hall the opposite way, ran all the way to Emergency, big room packed, crazy, out of control, people moaning, bodies on stretchers. Ambulances and black-and-gold Detroit police cars were pulling up outside. Orderlies wheeled a white guy in on a gurney, blood all over him, dude yelling.

  And then he thought — wait a goddamned minute — with all this going on, who’s going to notice somebody leaving in a wheelchair? Following his hunch he went outside, walked down the concrete ramp past the police cars to the sidewalk, looked right. Nothing. He walked around the corner to St. Antoine, looked left and saw them — suck my balls — just down the block, white guy helpin’ the colored guy into a car but couldn’t tell what kind.

  Buddy took off running but was still thirty yards away when the car started moving, picking up speed. He drew the .44, held it with two hands, aimed down the sight and squeezed the trigger, the big gun making a racket, fired four times but couldn’t tell he hit the car or not. It kept going.

  What the hell was he going to tell Mr. Klaus? Then he got to thinking. Why was it his problem? Far as he was concerned he’d taken the risk, earned the money. Fuck Mr. Gerd Klaus, the Nazi.

  Thirty-three

  Harry heard the gunshots and floored it. He got a brief glimpse of the shooter, a dark shape in the rearview mirror, before he turned the steering wheel right and then left, zigzagging out of the line of fire. Cordell was in the seat next to him leaning back against the door, letting out a breath.

  “You OK?”

  “Better now that I’m out of there. Harry Levin to the rescue once again. Not a moment too soon. How you do it? You clairvoyant? See the future, Harry? Tell me what the fuck’s gonna happen next. ’Less you see something bad.”

  “I had a feeling whoever shot you was coming back. But who was that? I wondered if he was someone from your days selling.”

  “Never seen him in my life.”

  “Maybe he works for Hess. But we know he isn’t German. You hear him say ‘How you doing’ when he passed us in the hall?”

  “Must’ve missed that.”

  “You can stay at my place tonight,” Harry said, “we’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

  “Don’t have to figure out nothin’, I know what I got to do.”

  “Let’s see what my lawyer says.”

  “That’s OK but I’m goin’ to see it from somewhere else.”

  “The way things are going I might be in the cell next to you.”

  “I doubt it. Nothin’ touches you, Harry. Shit slides right off your back.” He paused. “You don’t mind, got to run by the Ponch get my clothes.”

  Harry cut over to Jefferson, the Motor City dark and quiet just after midnight on a Wednesday night, parked in front of the hotel, turned in his seat. “Need some help?”

  “I need more than that. Listen, I’m hurtin’, you mind gettin’ my stuff? Best I stay here.” He let out a breath. “Go to the desk tell ’em you Mr. Sims, 521. Suite with a river view. You look presentable, Harry. They ain’t gonna say nothin’.” He closed his eyes.

  “You all right?”

  “Put my clothes in the duffel.” He paused. Harry could see he was in pain. “One more thing. I got money in the safe. Combination: right seven, left seven, right seven.”

  “Your lucky number, huh?”

  “I hope so.”

  Forty minutes later he pulled up in his driveway, stopping behind Galina’s Nova. Pictured her upstairs in his bed, naked, waiting for him. It was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now. He shook Cordell and his eyes opened. “We’re here.” Harry got out of the car, went around and helped Cordell in the house, Cordell’s arm over his shoulder, taking short steps down the hallway into the foyer, and into the den, sat him on the couch. Cordell groaning, making faces till he got settled. “Can I get you something?”

  “Water, Harry, you don’t mind.”

  It smelled like cooked meat in the kitchen, oven on warm. He could see a roasting pan on a rack inside covered with foil. Bottle of vodka on the island counter, and next to it a low-ball cocktail glass with red lipstick on the rim. He turned off the oven, left the pan where it was. Filled a glass of water and took it to Cordell, watched him drink it down without stopping. He put the glass on the coffee table, helped Cordell stretch out on the couch, and covered him with the hospital blanket.

  Harry went upstairs, his room was dark, bed made. No sign of Galina.

  He went down the hall into Sara’s room, turned on the light. imagined her standing in front of the full length mirror, getting ready to go out, trying on shoes.

  “Hey, Pops, which one do you think?” She said, pointing at a black flat on her left foot and a wedge sandal on her right.

  “The sandal,” Harry said, looking at her outfit.

  “Me too. Great minds, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Harry said, wishing he could see her again.

  He went downstairs, walked through the house, checked every room. Saw the broken pane in the French door, and drew the Colt from the waistband of his khakis. Harry moved through the dining room and kitchen to the back hall, opened the basement door and went down the stairs, holding the gun in front of him with both hands, expecting Hess to jump out.

  He moved through the basement rooms, eyes adjusting to the darkness, hearing the creak and groan of the furnace kicking on. Harry squatting, looking under the ping pong table in the rec room, checking the dark corners of the laundry and furnace rooms. He went back upstairs to the kitchen, theorizing that Hess had come, waited for Galina to leave, broke the pane and entered through the French doors. Hess then waited for Harry, gave up and left.

  But why did Galina leave her car? Maybe she’d had one too many. She wasn’t much of a drinker. Harry phoned her house. No answer. He’d try her again in the morning. Harry checked the answering machine, expected one from Colette. No messages. He turned off the lights in the kitchen. Checked on Cordell, eyes closed, sound asleep. He went up to his bedroom, laid on the bed. He had to be at the office early, set his alarm, put the Colt on the end table, and closed his eyes.

  Hess was thinking about the woman, attractive, well proportioned. He liked a woman with ample hips and breasts he could grab onto. Imagined the big woman on her knees, ramming her from behind.

  They talked and had a cocktail. She was from Riga, Latvia, a Jewess, not surprisingly. Her parents had been killed by the Nazis. Hess pretended to be sympathetic, furrowed his brow, patted her arm. “The Third Reich was a brutal regime. From what I’ve read on the subject, the Nazis were sadistic murderers.”

  She looked into his eyes. “You are a Jew?”

  Hess shook his head, trying not to smile, give himself away.

  “Do you know how many Jews were killed?”

  Hess was thinking, Not enough.

  “More than six million.”

  “Beyond comprehension,” Hess said. This could not have worked out better. Harry would come home and see her car in the driveway. He would walk in the house and smell the food. Seeing the woman would distract him. Hess would step back out of sight, pull the weapon an
d shoot them.

  They sat on high-back chairs at the island counter, drinking their cocktails. An hour later when Harry Levin had still not arrived he could see signs the woman was getting impatient. She glanced at the clock a couple times.

  “This is not like Harry. He should be home by now.”

  Hess, smiling, said, “Don’t worry. He will walk through the door any minute. Have another cocktail.”

  “One more,” she said. “But you must join me.”

  Hess took her glass and filled it with ice, poured vodka almost to the top and handed it to her. He refilled his glass with Canadian Club whisky.

  She frowned staring at the drink.

  “Ray, you trying to get me drunk?”

  “I am enjoying your company. Promise me you will not leave until Harry arrives.” He couldn’t let her leave, and hoped the alcohol would relax her.

  “Did Harry tell you about me?’

  “He spoke of you in the most complimentary way.”

  Her face lit up. “What did he say?”

  “You are a remarkable woman,” Hess said. “I can see that myself.”

  Now she was smiling. “Harry say that, really?” She sipped her drink, and glanced at the clock on the oven. The time was 8:45. “I don’t want to, but if he is not coming here in fifteen minutes I have to go.”

  “Do you have children?” Hess said, trying to change the subject.

  “Two girls‚ teenagers. Visiting their father in London.” She paused to drink her vodka and said, “You are married?”

  “Twenty-two years.” An eternity, Hess was thinking. Married in name only. They slept in separate bedrooms, rarely socialized together. What had he seen in Elfriede, a big unpolished, unsophisticated farm girl? He had married her because the sex was good and, at the time, he didn’t know any better.

  She finished the vodka and glanced at the clock again, slid off her chair, and stood leaning against the counter. She seemed intoxicated, unsteady.

  “Tell Harry I was here. Brisket is in the oven. Nice to meet you.”

  “No one is expecting you. Why do you have to leave?”

  At 1:22 a.m., Hess was in his car creeping along West Jarvis Avenue, a quiet tree-lined street in Hazel Park, a middle-class community with small cookie-cutter houses built in even rows. He found the address he was looking for, parked on the street and walked to the rear entrance of the house. The sliding glass door was unlocked. He entered a small room with mismatched furniture, empty pizza cartons and beer cans on a coffee table, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts. He walked through the house checking the rooms. Buddy was asleep on a mattress on the floor of a small cluttered bedroom that smelled of cigarettes and stale beer. The money he had given him was on top of the dresser still in the envelope. He picked it up and counted the bills. One was missing. He folded the money and slipped it in his shirt pocket. There was a beer can on the dresser next to car keys, billfold and cigarettes. He shook the can and heard beer slosh inside.

  Buddy was on his back, snoring. Hess stood over him, pouring beer on his face. Buddy thrashed and flipped over, and sat up rubbing his eyes.

  “What the fuck’s going on?” Surprised, angry until he saw Hess standing over him. “Mr. Klaus, that you? Jesus H Christ, you scared the shit out of me.”

  “Were you successful?”

  “Was I successful?” He smiled. “Let me put it this way — there’s one less coon you got to worry about.” He yawned, rubbed his jaw. “What’re you doing here in the middle of the night? Got another job you need done?” Buddy coughed. “Hey, hand me my smokes, will you?”

  “You don’t have time.”

  “Yeah. Why’s that?”

  Hess raised the Walther and shot him in the chest.

  The sun was coming up when Hess arrived at the scrap yard. Levin’s silver Mercedes was parked behind the building. He drove past the yard and parked on Luce, a side street, and crossed Mt. Elliot. He walked through the entrance past the scales into the empty yard. A semi rumbled in behind him, turning around, backing up next to the mountain of scrap metal.

  The door to the building was unlocked. He opened it and walked through the entryway and through another door, and down a short hallway, two small cramped offices on one side, an office and toilet room on the other side. There was another office at the end of the hall, this one appreciably larger than the others. It had a desk and furniture grouping behind it. The room was dark, shades drawn over the two windows. His eyes adjusted and he noticed someone asleep on the couch. Hess pulled the Walther, flipped the safety off, crossed the room and stood over Harry Levin on his stomach, asleep. He heard a car drive by, raised the weapon, finger squeezing the trigger.

  A woman’s voice startled him. “Harry, what are you doing here so early? Harry—”

  It came from the intercom on the desk behind him. Hess walked out of the office and moved down the hall. He heard the woman’s voice again and stepped inside the toilet room. He heard footsteps in the hallway and ducked against the wall, and saw the woman walk by. He closed the door, opened the window and hoisted himself up and through it to the ground.

  Hess was in the car when he heard the siren.

  Thirty-four

  “My God, Harry. I thought it was you,” Phyllis said when he came in the office, 6:30 in the morning.

  “What happened?”

  “Somebody shot Jerry.” Phyllis started crying. “He wanted to be you, Harry. Even dressed like you.” She dried her eyes with a tissue. “What was he doing with your car?”

  “We traded. Jerry was supposed to take it in for a tune-up. Lives right near the dealership. He was doing me a favor.”

  “Police want to talk to you, the Eye-talian detective with the hair.” There were two Detroit Police cruisers and an unmarked Plymouth sedan in the lot when he pulled in, wondering what the hell was going on. Phyllis handed him a black coffee. He sipped it and walked down the hall, two uniformed cops standing outside his office. Went in, shades up, bright sunlight coming through the window on the east wall. Somebody was taking photographs of Jerry Dubuque dead on the leather couch, blood pooled on the beige industrial carpeting under him, two shell casings on the floor. Harry felt bad, he liked Jerry, felt responsible. Knew Hess had done it. Who else?

  “If I didn’t know better I’d say you were the intended victim, Mr. Levin,” Detective Mazza said, standing on the other side of his desk in the tan wash-and-wear suit he’d had on last time.

  “You sound disappointed,” Harry said.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “If I could,” Harry said.

  “Why don’t you try.”

  “Want me to make something up? ’Cause that’s what I’d be doing.”

  “First an acquaintance of yours, Cordell Sims is shot and now one of your employees.” Mazza took a pen out of his shirt pocket, squatted and picked up a shell casing with it, holding it up so Harry could see it. “But you don’t know anything.”

  Mazza smelled like a smoker and had nicotine stains on the index and middle fingers of his right hand.

  “What was Jerry Dubuque doing in your office?”

  “By the look of it, sleeping one off,” Harry said. “It’s happened before. Jerry occasionally hits the bars in Hamtramck after work. Has a few too many, comes back to the office. It’s the only couch in the place. I’d rather have him sleep here than get on the road.”

  “Mr. Dubuque have a drinking problem?”

  “He did, he doesn’t any more,” Harry said.

  “No sign of forced entry.”

  “Jerry wouldn’t have worried about locking the door. Wouldn’t have crossed his mind. The gate out front is locked at night. I’ve got a security man who keeps an eye on the yard, sits in his car and listens to music.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Columbus Fletcher. Phyllis, Miss Wampler can tell you how to get in touch with him.”

  “What time’s he leave?”

  “Bet
ween six fifteen and six thirty.”

  “What time do you usually get here?”

  “Seven.”

  “Shooter must’ve parked in front or on a side street across Mt. Elliot, waited for your security man to go. Came through the gate saw your Mercedes in the lot, saw Mr. Dubuque on your couch and shot him. Miss Wampler said she arrived at six fifteen, and I believe the perp was still here. Heard her and went out the bathroom window. It was still open.”

  The photographer finished and nodded at Mazza. “All set.” He put the camera in a black bag with a strap, and walked out of the room.

  “You keep money around, Mr. Levin?”

  “There’s ten thousand dollars in the safe. I told you the last time you were here, it’s a cash business.”

  “Do me a favor, check and make sure it’s all there.”

  Harry had a vintage Mosler bolted to the floor behind his desk. He turned the chair around, sat leaning forward and opened it. Saw banded stacks of fifties and hundreds. “Looks like it is.”

  “So,” Mazza said, “we can rule out robbery as a motive.”

  “Unless whoever it was tried to open the safe and couldn’t.”

  Mazza took out a pack of Camels, tapped one out, put it between his teeth and lit it. “I think it was planned. Perp comes here sees your car in the lot, sees someone on the couch in your office, thinks it’s you. Same type of gun used on Cordell Sims. There’s something you aren’t telling me. Quite a bit I’d say.” Mazza paused, taking a deep drag on the Camel, blowing out smoke. “This a dope deal gone wrong? You and Cordell in business together?”

  “Not even close.”

  “Laundering money through the scrap yard?”

  Harry frowned, let that one go.