I didn’t even have to think about it. I kissed her forehead, said, “It’s well worth considering.”
Duff smiled and kissed me again.
Jimmy and Marie were finishing their goodbyes. Marie smiled sadly at me. She hugged me and said, “Please keep Uncle Jim safe. I don’t think he’s as tough as he thinks he is.”
I said, “Neither is Höttl, honey. Don’t you worry a bit. Jimmy and I will both come for you, and with a little luck, maybe sooner than you think.”
I handed her a slip of paper. “There’s an address on this. I want you to memorize it on the plane, then destroy it. If anything goes wrong, if you and Duff are separated or the like, then you go there, and tell the woman’s whose name is on that paper that Hector Lassiter asks you be allowed to stay until Jimmy or me comes for you. That lady owes me a big favor from a few months ago, so it won’t be a problem.”
Marie looked at the slip of paper. “Duff knows to go there, too?”
“No. Wouldn’t make good strategic sense for you both to know about this place,” I said.
Marie looked stricken. “So it’s still that dangerous, you think.”
I hugged her to me. “Until the moment Höttl’s in a box and deep in the cold, cold ground? Yes, I do think so.”
***
We saw the plane off, then headed back to the car. Jimmy said, “Where do we start?”
“We speed back to Los Angeles,” I said. “When we get there, I’m going to ditch this crap Ford and retrieve my Chevy. With the girls out of harm’s way, it’s time to standout again. I want this son of a whore to show himself, pronto. Once we have my Bel Air, we’re going to stake out a restaurant and see if Armand Vargas keeps a lunch date with Sam Ford and I.”
***
“The hours of my life I’ve lost with my ass planted in some car, staring at some building…? Jaysus.” Jimmy loosened his necktie and killed some time singing “The Minstrel Boy.” I found myself humming along:
“Land of song,” said the Warrior Bard,
Tho’ all the world betray thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee…
After a time, Jimmy said, “Why don’t we just take the chance and barge in? If Höttl is in there, we’ll drag him off to some place private and shoot his ass dead.”
There’d been no sign of Höttl going into the joint and we’d arrived at Boardner’s a full hour ahead of the scheduled lunch.
Sam, disarmingly punctual, had headed in fifteen minutes back. Another fifteen minutes passed, then the director staggered out onto North Cherokee, looking drunk and angry. I shook Jimmy awake and pointed. “There goes Sam. Would you say he looks stood up?”
“Stood up, yet about to fall down,” Jimmy said. “Really, he’s plastered. Oh, Christ, look, your pal’s jingling car keys. No way that lush should be driving.”
No, he shouldn’t. “Dammit,” I said. I opened my door. “Be right back.”
I slid out of the Bel Air, jogging through traffic and calling, “Sam! Sam, buddy, wait up!”
I was halfway across the street when a salmon-and-cream ’56 Buick Roadmaster tore off the curb, barreling straight for me. I threw myself across the bulbous hood of a parked Belvedere to keep from being run over. The Buick veered at the last minute, just missing tearing off its sideview mirror on the fifty-four Plymouth.
My Bel Air tore off in pursuit. I gave Jimmy a thumbs-up as he rolled by. Sam said, “Christ, Hec, that some pissed-off husband or boyfriend of some dame of yours?”
“Evidently some pissed-off something,” I said.
But it didn’t seem like a serious attempt on my life, somehow. More like a tantrum, maybe.
I took Sam’s keys from his hand, encountering token resistance. I said, “I’m getting you a cab back to your office so you can sleep this off. You get stood up, Sam?” I figured likely as not he’d course correct after I sent him on his way. Probably detour to some bordello.
Sam said, “Stood up? Yeah, cocksucker. First by you, and then by goddamn Armand.”
I held up my hands. “Whoa, there, buddy. I’m right here. Tardy, but present.”
Sam thought about that, then said, “A woman make you late?”
“Sure,” I said, “what else?”
Sam nodded. “Okay, then.”
45
I stood with my back to Boardner’s façade, standing under the canopy to stay out of the steady rain, smoking a cigarette and watching the street. As I savored my Pall Mall, I thought more about the car that had tried to run me down.
The more I replayed it in my head, the more it seemed like a half-hearted effort. It was that notion that kept me out in the open now, exposed to a possible rifle shot or sidewalk snatching.
For the moment, near as I could tell, Jimmy and I were Armand/Werner’s only avenue to get at Marie—to get at Duff, if Höttl was indeed after her, too.
But then I started to second-guess myself. What if this was some improvised bid at divide and conquer? If it was, it was working all too well. Here I was, alone in the heart of L.A., while Jimmy was bound for parts unknown, chasing that Buick.
Rethinking the wisdom of standing out in the open, I was about to head in when I saw my Bel Air turn the corner. Jimmy rolled curbside, leaned over and rolled down the passenger side window. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Hector. I don’t know this Godless city. It took me a while to find my way back here. Getting in?”
“Nah,” I said, staying under the canopy to keep dry. “I want to head in there, anyway.” I pointed at the restaurant behind me. “Park her, won’t you?”
Jimmy pulled in behind one of the new Edsels. He tossed me the car keys and nodded at the new Ford parked in front of my Bel Air. “What do you think of that thing, Hec?”
“I think I’ll stick with Chevys,” I said.
“The bastard lost me,” Jimmy said, “But I did get a license plate number. I’ll get on the phone inside and call back to Ohio. Get one of my buddies to get L.A. cops to run a check on the thing.”
He held the door for me. “Why are we headed in here, anyway? Thought you said Höttl was an apparent no-show.”
“Probably he is,” I said. “But Sam doesn’t know what Höttl looks like. Maybe Werner actually beat us here and is just parked in some booth, waiting to see if I would show up. Besides, we’ve been on the road for hours. I’m starved. Lunch is my treat.”
I tossed my cigarette out the door behind me and said, “You are carrying, right, Jimmy?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’m licensed to do that. Assume you’re carrying, too, even though you’re not licensed.” He turned down his mouth. “Suppose it’s that old Peacemaker.”
“That’s right.”
“Someday, you’re going to need to trade up to an automatic, Hector. The young turks, and even most of the old ones, have upgraded their hardware, Hec. More bullets and faster firing are a good thing. It is 1957, after all.”
***
Boardner’s was a bust so far as Höttl went. Not even a detectable minion in sight.
I grabbed a booth while Jimmy worked the phone. I ordered us each a whisky, then scooped up a discarded newspaper from an adjacent table. I pulled on my spectacles and perused the front page. The usual current stuff: racial strife of various stripes. Atomic bomb handwringing. Political wrangling that made my soul hurt. I flipped to the literary section and read a nugget on this new novel called On the Road, made a mental note to look it up next time I found myself in a bookstore.
Jimmy was still taking his time on the phone. I began to browse the menu. He slid in across from me and pointed at his glass. “What brand are we drinking?”
I gave my glass this look. “Islay.”
“It passes.” Jimmy snapped loose his napkin. “If the food is good, I have a haunt.”
I passed him a leatherette menu. “Anything come of your call?”
He winked. “We did catch a break of sorts. A rookie cop I tr
ained back in the late thirties is out here, now. He’s risen in the LAPD ranks.”
The waiter was suddenly loitering; we both ordered steak and baked potato. When the waiter was gone, Jimmy flipped open his notepad. “Ever hear of a boyo name of Wesley A. Swift?”
I poured a little more water in my whisky; shook my head. “Rings no bells. Should I know the fella?”
“No, I’d be surprised if you did. Seems this Swift is some kind of radical cleric. He’s taking Methodism to new and fascist places. Lad seems drawn to Hitler and Jesus. Maybe in that order.”
“And that was his car that nearly ran me over?”
“No, the car belongs to one Frederick Brown. He’s some kind of acolyte of Swift’s. Brown’s even more the Nazi fanatic than Swift, they say. Brown splintered off and formed his own church. Local authorities believe it’s really more of a militia than a house of worship. They’re trying to stoke FBI interest for a federal investigation into Brown’s church. There are rumors of them collecting weapons. Beating up Negros, Jews and homosexuals.”
I rolled my head; felt neck muscles crack and pop. Even that last wouldn’t get an anti-semite, racist like J. Edgar Hoover off the dime, I figured. “So the car belongs to this Brown?”
“That’s right,” Jimmy said. “LAPD is watching the church, as it can. Seems there’s a new joker in that deck. Boyo with this nasty looking scar and a German accent.”
I looked up sharply. “Did they follow Höttl? Maybe have an address for the son of a bitch?”
“No, Hector. But this man meeting Werner’s description seems a bit of a fixture at this church. Seems maybe to be bunking there. I have the address for that place.”
It was tempting to tear over there, but it sounded like a suicide run if just the two of us charged in.
“Joint smacks of the consummate lion’s den,” I said. “And they sound like they’d have us well out-armed.”
“As always, the numbers are on their side, too,” Jimmy said with a sigh. “No, we can’t simply storm those gates. Not just the two of us, anyway.”
“But if the LAPD is watching, and if they saw us taken hostage?”
“Nah, Hec, they’ve had to redeploy resources. Since day-before-yesterday, the LAPD has pulled back surveillance on Brown and company. And this church site where Höttl’s bunking is in county sheriff’s territory.”
Well, that was just about perfect. I said, “Anyway, if that happened, we’d lose a shot at a clean kill of Höttl with no fingerprints.”
Halfway through our meal, a waiter appeared with a phone connected to a very long cord. He said, “You are Hector Lassiter, sir?”
I cleared some tabletop for the phone’s base. “That’s me.”
Jimmy asked the waiter, “This caller? Did the boyo give a name?”
The waiter sat down the phone and said, “Armand Vargas.”
Jimmy looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Ho-ho!”
I held up one hand to quiet Jimmy. With the other, I scooped up the receiver and said, “Werner. We miss having you at lunch. You should head right over.”
This pause, then that voice, all sneers and menace. Hearing it again, I couldn’t suppress a shiver. “Lassiter! Still glib and still ineffectual! Still a hick hack writer from Texas with delusions of literary worth. Remember when I promised you that you would sit in my chair again?”
Silence. He was waiting for an answer.
“Sure,” I said, finally. “I remember you saying it.”
“Not empty words, and that time will soon be upon us,” Höttl said. “And I’ll make it worse for you, this time. I’ve learned some new tricks. It will be much more unpleasant this time. You, and also your Irish policeman friend, will soon enough experience what I’m talking about.”
“Really, Werner, why don’t you come on over and eat with us? We’ll talk about all this over some meat.”
Höttl sighed and said, “Where has Fraulein Sexton taken my daughter, Lassiter?”
“The girl’s whereabouts are entirely at Duff’s discretion,” I said. “Really don’t have a clue where they’ve run to, and Duff is one resourceful woman. And, of course, if I did know where they are presently, I wouldn’t tell you anyway.”
“When I break you again in my chair—”
“I didn’t tell you anything back in Paris,” I said, cutting him off. “I didn’t do that when you had all your toys and sadism ranged against me, cocksucker. And while I’m sitting here in the City of Angels, savoring a fine steak and some single malt with my good friend the Irish policeman? Well, hell, you’ve got even less prospect of getting any gen from me over the phone. Dig down deep and find a pair. Come here and we’ll talk plenty.”
Höttl said, “I located her once, in that stupid Midwest state. I’ll do it again.”
“No, you won’t have the opportunity,” I said. “Soon enough, you’ll be dead. By the way, those first little Nazis you sent after me were not impressive, Werner. The one shot the other in the head and then turned the gun on himself. What the hell kind of strategy is that? Smacks of Hitler in the bunker. Though story I hear is his woman shot him because Adolph didn’t have the balls to do the deed himself.”
“The two you talk about proved to be the dregs of the European stock, as you say,” Höttl said. Sounded grudging. “These Americans I’ve recently met, they will do my bidding, zealously and without question. They’re exceptionally feral. I need only unleash them against you and—”
“Brave words from a voice on a phone,” I said. “All these years passed, and you still haven’t succeeded in breathing life into your lost cause, Höttl. Why do you keep hunting this girl? Can’t be about saving face as Germany remains divided and you Nazis have been routed.”
Jimmy was watching me intently. He was chewing so hard on his bottom lip he’d drawn blood. I sensed Jim was struggling not to rip the phone from my hand and tearing into Höttl, himself.
“It’s a matter of principle,” Höttl said. “Principle, desire, and revenge. And I haven’t yet abandoned my dream of a re-energized Nationalist Socialist Party, Lassiter. I’m destined to see that dream realized, I know it. Look around you—increasing numbers of your own countrymen are drawn to the cause.”
I remembered what Höttl had said when he was torturing me, his bragging about being a Nietzschean. I said, “What’s that cockiness based on—more ‘Will to Power’ bullshit?”
Jimmy blurted out, “Come here now, you Kraut cocksucker, and we’ll settle your score lickety-split!”
This shadow fell across our table.
The phone was ripped from my hand and racked, the connection severed.
A youngish guy in tan suit pulled back his jacket to show us his gun.
“Easy boys,” he said. “Scoot over please, Detective Hanrahan. I need to talk to you gents right now.”
46
The stranger slid in next to Jimmy.
I said, “And who the hell are you?”
He smiled. “I work for your Uncle Sam. Let’s leave it at that. Now, I want to have a nice, friendly chat with you gents.”
“Not without sharing a name, you won’t do that,” Jimmy said.
“We’re going to have a nice, calm discussion,” the stranger said, brushing Jimmy off. “We’re going to talk about why you’re not going to go after this man you call Werner Höttl.”
The stranger was sticking by his commitment not to reveal a name. He was six-feet, probably about two-hundred pounds. Looked like much of that weight was muscle. He wore his brown hair in a Princeton cut. He had hazel eyes and big hands. He likely fell just a shade of either side of thirty.
He wasn’t FBI: suit was just a tad too edgy to meet with J. Edgar’s approval. Same with the leather tassels on his spit-polished loafers. And cufflinks? Only foppish dumbasses sport cufflinks—gin drinkers, to a man.
CIA? Maybe. That, or some other goddamn Federal acronym.
The man whom I’d decided to dub “Agent X” said, “Mr. Lassiter, your military reco
rds make it clear this isn’t the first time you’ve been officially ordered to desist in your persecution of this person. Technically, you’re in danger of violating the terms of your military hearing waiver. You could be re-prosecuted in a Federal court for—”
“What? War crimes?” I smiled meanly. “Do it, kid. I’ll use my time on the stand to prosecute the U.S government for climbing in bed with a mass murderer like Höttl. I’ll laundry-list every one of Höttl’s war crimes and shame ‘Uncle Sam’ in the process.”
“That son of a bitch is still trying to kill my niece,” Jimmy said. “He just threatened her again, not two minutes ago.”
“We had the phone tapped,” Agent X said. “We were listening. We know all that. We heard every word of both sides of the conversation. That’s why I interrupted the call when I did. Before any more empty threats could be uttered by either party.”
“Empty threats?” I couldn’t help it, the words came in a snarl. “Empty threats? That bastard tied me to a chair and tortured me to try and get at that girl during the war. As Armand Vargas, he engineered things to get myself, my former wife and Jimmy’s niece out here to L.A. to kill us all at a stroke. Hell, as you heard on the phone, he admits sending two hold-over Nazi goons after me the other day. He—”
“He will soon be irrelevant,” Agent X cut me off. “He’s an asset. One determined to be of renewed strategic intelligence value by our government. That said, we are aware of his animus toward the four of you. You’ll be pleased to know we’re moving this man back out of this country, permanently. He’s being permanently moved back to a place he can better fulfill his strategic intelligence obligations to us. An ancillary result of his relocation will be his inability to pursue this presumed vendetta against all of you. He’ll never set foot on U.S. soil again, I promise you.”
“Bullshit,” Jimmy said. “I—”
Agent X held up a hand. “Enough. I’ve already detailed the legal risks to Mr. Lassiter in continuing his pursuit of the man formerly called Höttl. Let me outline for you your own precarious legal position, Detective.”
Roll the Credits: A Hector Lassiter novel Page 24