As Time Goes By

by Michael Walsh

  If Laszlo was nervous, thought Karel, he did not show it. Karel hoped that when his time came to strike a great blow against the oppressor, he would be as brave as Victor Laszlo.

  Breathlessly Karel told him what Ludmilla had said. So great was his respect for Victor Lazslo that he suppressed none of the details about Ludmilla's dalliance with the Frenchman, even though it shamed him. Victor calmly thanked Karel for his wit and loyalty in coming to him so fast, although his insides were roiling.“Speak of this to no one, do you understand?” he said.“No one. Make sure your Ludmilla does not, either.”

  Panicked, the boy jumped on his bicycle and disappeared back in the direction of the city.

  It was Renault; it had to be. The vain, strutting, pompous little fool. Could he not forgo the pleasures of a woman's body for even one day? For one hour? Damn him to hell.

  He thought furiously. The operation must go ahead; that much was certain. He had received Blaine's signal via the Underground, and his team was ready to move in the early morning. They had come too far to give up now. They had planned too carefully to let one careless slip stop them. Already they had risked too much to let one foolish little Frenchman interfere with the most glorious deed in Czech history. Tomorrow morning Reinhard Heydrich would die, just as surely as the sun would come up to witness his death.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  New York, October 23, 1935

  He made it to the intersection of Grand Concourse and McClellan Street, a few blocks north of the Bronx County Courthouse and Yankee Stadium, in no time flat. The building was a large, imposing, prosperous-looking structure that commanded the west side of the broad boulevard with pride; an immigrant's slice of American heaven. He parked his car right in front, ignoring whatever danger might be lurking.

  The door to the Horowitzes’ apartment was ajar. Rick drew his pistol and stepped inside.

  Irma Horowitz was sitting on the couch. The couch was the only place left to sit. The rest of the room—indeed, the rest of the flat—looked as if a hurricane had hit it. Furniture was toppled over, pictures had been knocked from the walls, drawers emptied and plates smashed. Smack in the middle of the floor lay a dead man, a bullet wound in the back of his head. He lay on the floor, spread-eagle, as if he had suddenly attempted a half-gainer on dry land. His gun lay a foot away from his outstretched right hand.

  In the eye of the storm, Irma was sitting quietly, talking to herself.

  “Mrs. Horowitz,” Rick said with urgency. He had never called her Irma. He was not about to start now. Besides, he wasn't even sure if she recognized him. Her eyes were open, but they were staring, unfocused, straight ahead.

  He bent close to the stricken woman.“Where's Solly?” he asked. Then he remembered she didn't speak English, not that well.“Wo ist Solly?”

  “Weg,” she murmured: gone.

  “Wo?” he asked again.

  She didn't answer. Maybe she didn't know. Maybe that was what had saved her life.

  Rick's practiced eye could tell at a glance what had happened. Hunting for Solly, a Salucci hit team had paid the Bronx apartment a visit. Even Salucci's boys, though, were not about to shoot an old woman in her own living room, so they had to content themselves with tossing the place and terrorizing her until they got bored and went away, leaving one of their number to stand guard. Solly must have concealed himself, or maybe had arrived just after the hit team, because clearly he had waited until the odds were more in his favor and then had shot the guard from behind and taken off to plot his revenge.

  He had a pretty good idea of where Solly was. Not cowering in fear in some crib even Rick didn't know about. Not holed up in a third-floor walk-up on the West Side with only a collection of weapons and a mattress for comfort. No, if he knew Solly, he was in the old blind tiger near City College, where he felt safe.

  Tick-Tock was probably with him, awaiting the arrival of Salucci. He had to get there before it was too late.

  There was not much he could do for Irma now. She was well taken care of financially—but what if something happened to Solly? What if something had already happened? He had a couple of grand in his pockets, which he pressed into Irma's unresponsive hands; it wasn't much, but it would have to do. Then he picked up the telephone and called the police, which was the first time he had ever done that. You never knew when Salucci's boys might come back.

  He kissed her lightly on the cheek. She paid him no notice at all. As he left he realized with a shiver that she was reciting the Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead.

  He raced back over the river to Harlem.

  The front door of the hangout was open as he cruised by. Rick didn't see any cops outside, which meant if there had been trouble, it was extremely recent.

  Wait a minute. There was something. That oncoming car. The one with four occupants, all men.

  Rick nipped around the block and pulled off the road and into the park, where his car would not be seen, especially by downtown hoods who didn't know the neighborhood. He jumped from the car.

  The car, a big Chrysler CA brougham, parked right outside, its motor running. The wheelman was looking intently at the doorway. He never saw Rick come up to his window, which was open.

  Rick jammed the muzzle of his gun against the man's head and fired. He sprinted through the door right behind Salucci's men. This was what he saw:

  Solly at the back table, reaching for his gun.

  No Tick-Tock.

  The three gunmen drawing theirs as they charged.

  Solly shooting the first man in the face as he rushed forward.

  The second man firing as he advanced.

  His first shot catching Solly in the neck.

  Tick-Tock emerging from the back room.

  Solly, bleeding, continuing to fire.

  The second man falling, hit in the thigh by a low shot.

  Rick firing at the second man, but missing, because he was already down.

  Tick-Tock coming up with his piece and pointing it not at the gunmen, but at Solly.

  The third man firing, hitting Solly in the left arm, and starting to turn toward Rick.

  Rick firing in response, blowing the man off his feet.

  Tick-Tock firing at Solly, hitting him.

  Solly slumping in his chair.

  Tick-Tock firing again.

  Solly jerking as the last bullet hit him.

  Rick firing at Tick-Tock.

  Tick-Tock, with his brains decorating the wall behind his head.

  Horowitz lying with his head on the table. He was still alive

  “… bitches bastards,” snarled Solly through his bloodstained lips as Rick reached him. He was blowing blood bubbles, which meant a hole in his lungs, which meant the end.

  Horowitz's eyes struggled to focus on Rick's face.

  “Lois,” he said faintly, and his eyes formed the question. Rick didn't have the heart to answer it.

  “I’ll take care of her, Sol,” he promised.“I’ll take real good care of her from now on.”

  Solomon Horowitz shuddered once and died in Yitzik Baline's arms.

  Rick hugged his dead boss fiercely. He was dimly aware of shouts in the street beyond, of commotion.

  At the other end of the long room, faces peered in the window, black faces with curiosity and fear wrestling for control of their features. He looked at them blankly.

  A groan came from somewhere in the room. It was the second man, who was scrabbling for his gun, trying to get to his feet, but his feet wouldn't obey him. Rick looked at him and didn't recognize him. He didn't expect to.

  He put Solly gently to rest. He stood and, as he walked over to the wounded man, reloaded his pistol.

  “Where's Salucci?” he barked. The black children who had been gawking through the open doorway pulled their heads back.

  The gunman had almost reached his gat when Rick kicked it away and stomped the heel of his shoe onto the man's fingers. At least one snapped.

  “Where's your boss?” he asked
, pulling back the hammer and pointing it at the man's head.

  The dying gunman tried to force some spittle to his lips but failed.

  “I’m asking you for the last time,” said Rick.

  He spat. Rick fired.

  “Suit yourself,” he told the corpse.

  He went out the back way and was headed for his car when he heard a familiar voice.“Mr. Richard,” it said,“over here.”

  It was Sam, sitting in the Buick Series 50 two-door coupe that Rick had given him for Christmas. Little Ernie Cohen was in the backseat, excited and scared.

  “They ain't goin’ to be lookin’ for a colored boy, boss,” said Sam.“Get in and get down.”

  Rick did as he was told. Sam gunned the engine and the car flew away.“Where to?”

  “As far away as possible, Sam,” said Rick, slumped deep into the seat.

  “Good,” said Sam.“I always wanted to go there.”

  “Let's start with Mott Street.”

  Trying to nail O'Hanlon in his penthouse on West 34th Street would be pointless. O'Hanlon was far too smart to hang around, waiting for anyone to come after him. Having stirred the pot, he was no doubt enjoying the turmoil from a safe vantage point somewhere. Hell, Rick wouldn't put it past O'Hanlon to be sitting in the police commissioner's office on Centre Street, smoking a cigar with the chief and commiserating about the difficulty of keeping law and order these days.

  Salucci, however, was not that smart and not that good. At least, Rick hoped he wasn't.

  Rick was wrong. A block away from Mott Street, he spotted Abie Cohen's car. Then he saw Abie in it. Abie was missing one eye and most of his nose, and almost all of his blood, which had escaped out the slash in his throat. He would get no help from Abie or, he realized with a sudden stab of insight, from any of his other boys. The Horowitz gang was through.

  Rick didn't want Ernie to see his dad this way, but it was too late. Ernie bit his lower lip hard, but he didn't cry. He was a tough kid; it was just too bad he had to do all his growing up in the space of two minutes.

  Rick put his hand on the door handle and started to get out, but Sam grabbed him.“You can't go in there, boss,” he said.“It's suicide.”

  “I’m in the mood for it, Sam,” said Rick.

  In front of Salucci's headquarters were a couple of his boys, watching out for trouble. Rick knew more would be inside. Maybe he could take the jokers at the door, but how was he going to get anywhere near Salucci before they blew him to bits? He'd seen Cagney try it in The Public Enemy, take on a whole gang, and look what had happened to him: ventilated. He gazed up at the building, knowing that Salucci was in there somewhere, probably with Weinberg, laughing their heads off and already starting to carve up the Mad Russian's empire.

  Sam kept one hand around Rick's wrist, his pianist's grip strong.“Boss,” he said,“no matter what kind a mood you in, I ain't lettin’ you go. You try, you gonna have to shoot me first. That's the way it is.”

  Rick turned to look at him.“What's it to you?” he asked.

  “It's a good job, is what,” replied Sam.“Good jobs is hard to come by these days, in case you ain't noticed.”

  Slowly Rick released his hold on the door handle.“I don't have a club anymore, Sam. Which means you don't have a job anymore. So I guess you're fired.”

  Sam shook his head again.“Heck, boss, that don't make a bit of difference. You'll get another club someday. It just don't have to be here, that's all.” He hit the gas pedal.“I ain't fired, neither. As long as you alive, I got me a job, even if it's just teachin’ you how to fish.”

  They had driven around the corner and had turned onto Delancey Street, heading east.

  “Maybe you're right, Sam,” Rick admitted as the car approached the Williamsburg Bridge. He twisted in his seat, looking back at Manhattan. He wondered if he would ever see it again.

  “Sometimes the good guys don't win, boss,” said Sam.“This ain't the movies.”

  Just before they crossed over to Brooklyn, Rick told Sam to stop the car. He jumped out, opened the trunk, and stuffed his pockets with as much cash as he could carry. He snapped the suitcase shut.“Get out, kid,” he said.

  “Ain't I coming with you?” asked Ernie.

  “No. You're the boss now. You gotta take care of things. Mostly, you got to take care of yourself. Here, take this.”

  Rick handed Ernie the suitcase. Whatever else Salucci might be looking for, he wouldn't be hunting for a kid with a suitcase.“Bring this to my mother,” he said.“Don't look inside, just take it and go. You remember where she lives, don't you?”

  Ernie nodded.“East Sixty-eighth.”

  “Right,” said Rick.“And this is for you.” He handed Ernie a thousand dollars, which would go a long way in the Depression.“Don't blow it on the ponies. Save it. Help out your ma. Go straight. You'll be glad you did.”

  “I will, Rick,” said Ernie, trying hard not to crack. The kid was all right. Rick patted him on the head, then shoved him toward the Third Avenue streetcar line.

  “One more thing,” he shouted.“Buy my mom a knish, will ya?”

  They drove all day, reaching Boston in the late evening. The next morning, on his way to the steamship company to a Hearst paper that would carry Winchell.

  EIGHT DEAD IN GANGLAND SHOOTOUT

  Senator Meredith, 7 Others, Perish in Mob Mayhem

  In an outbreak of gangland ferocity unequaled in the city's history, fast-rising State Senator Robert Haas Meredith, his wife, and six hoodlums died yesterday in a hail of gunfire.

  The shootings took place at two Harlem locations: the Tootsie-Wootsie Club and a social club near the City College of New York.

  In addition to Senator Meredith, the dead included his wife, Lois, and Solomon Horowitz, gang chief of upper Manhattan and the Bronx. The other victims are still being identified by police.

  Yeterday's column reported allegations that the Senator was linked to mobster Lorenzo Salucci in a host of shady business dealings over the past several years.

  But we are pleased to report today that according to highly placed sources in New York and Albany, the documents were fakes, circulated by Yitzik“Rick” Baline, the disgruntled manager of the Tootsie-Wootsie Club, in a failed attempt to blackmail the Senator, steal his wife, and move in on Horowitz's crime empire.

  Police have named Baline the prime suspect in the shooting of Mr. and Mrs. Meredith, whose bullet-riddled bodies were found in Baline's office at the Tootsie-Wootsie Club. Police theorize that the Merediths went there to confront Baline personally and were murdered in cold blood.

  Baline is also the leading suspect in the death of Horowitz. Additionally, he is alleged to have stolen a considerable sum of money from the club's coffers to finance his getaway.

  “We'll get him,” said Police Commissioner Thomas J. O'Donaghue.“We'll hunt him down like a dog. There's no place in this great land of ours that's safe for him to hide.”

  Typical Winchell, thought Rick: he left out Abie Cohen and the yegg in the Bronx. He threw the paper away. He didn't need to read any further.

  “In what name are these passages being booked?” asked the steamship line clerk.

  Rick thought for a moment. If Isidore Baline the songwriter could reinvent himself as Irving Berlin, why couldn't he? The first name on his passport was Rick, and it would be a simple matter to reverse two of the letters of his surname.

  “The first one is for Mr. Samuel Waters,” he said.“The other's for Mr. Richard Blaine. And yes, that'll be cash.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  On the evening of May 26, a glittering promenade was taking place in the Protector's residence in the castle. The ball was in celebration of the Wehrmacht's advances in the Soviet Union. In little more than a year the German armies had rolled back the Russians along a front a thousand miles wide, had driven to the gates of Moscow and Leningrad, and were poised to smash the Red Army once and for all. The war would be over very soon, and then, their Lebensraum secured,
the Germans could turn their attention toward the real enemy: the Western democracies.

  Ilsa looked ravishing. Her shoulder-length hair brushed her bare shoulders, and around her throat she wore a spectacular diamond pendant, which Heydrich had given her for the occasion. Her dress, which plunged daringly in the back and came down to her ankles, was a deep russet.

  “But surely blue is your color, my dear,” said Heydrich as he greeted her.

  “No, not blue,” she protested.“Never blue.”

  Heydrich laughed.“Why not? Blue is the color of your eyes, the color of the Bavarian sky, the color of the North, the color of the Aryan. Besides,” he added,“blue is the color of my eyes as well.” He was standing very close to her, and she could feel his breath on her shoulder.

  Heydrich mistook her quiver for desire.“Yes, my dear,” he said,“I feel it, too.” He ran his hands over the bare skin of her back. Such delicious skin, which had so utterly beguiled him, and in such a short time. That flesh, which he had not yet sampled—but which he intended to, very soon.

  “Please, Reinhard,” she said, squirming gracefully away from him.“You want me to look my best, don't you?”

  “Of course I do,” he said, stepping back in his military way to admire her. What a magnificent woman she was! It was true that German doctrine held the Slavs to be Untermenschen, but there were exceptions to every rule, and Tamara Toumanova was certainly one of them. Besides, with a name like that, she wasn't really a Slav, but a noblewoman. Why, she could easily be related to Kaiser Wilhelm II himself. As he looked more closely at her, he was convinced he was right. Reinhard Heydrich prided himself on his ability to detect members of the Master Race, no matter where they were from.

  She was not like other women. He had no pleasure in taking them, and no challenge, because they could not resist. They were afraid of him, because they feared the worst should they deny him. He had imagined that an unending supply of willing women would be the highest form of pleasure, but how quickly it had turned to ashes in his mouth. It was like battling an opponent who wouldn't fight back, who surrendered so quickly that there was no time to enjoy his discomfiture, who sought to kiss your hand even as it was poised to strike him. Who deprived you of the pleasure of beating him. For such people, whether men or women, the Protector of Bohemia and Moravia had only the bitterest contempt. They were not human beings. They were animals and deserved to be treated as such.