Voices of the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  Harry picked up the phone and got an overseas operator. He gave her the number and listened to it ring a long time before he hung up. He tried her apartment and got her answering machine. He had a bad feeling. It was 11:20 p.m. in Munich. He thought about calling Huber but decided against it.

  Cordell got home at 5:25, opened the front door and went in the house. Looked the same as the day he enlisted, maybe worse. Shit everywhere in the living room, empty Popeye buckets, liquor bottles: pints and fifths scattered on the floor. Plaid sofa, fabric all tore, lamps without shades, holes in the plaster walls, ashtray overflowing with tan filtered cigarette butts, electric fan on, blade out of line. He could hear it scraping the mesh cover.

  “Momma, you home? Where you at?” Dropped his army duffel on the floor in the hall, walked down to the kitchen, saw more of the same. Lightbulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling, dishes piled in the sink, bottles on the floor, empty refrigerator. His momma was some kind of fucked-up homemaker.

  Cordell went upstairs, checked the bedrooms, found her lying next to some raggedy-ass nigger snoring loud like somebody working a jackhammer. She surprised him, opened her eyes, pulled the sheet up to cover herself. He moved to the foot of the bed, her eyes following him.

  “Spook, what you doin here?” She’d been calling him that since he was a little boy afraid of the dark, fuckin’ with him, makin’ fun of him. “What you doin’ home?” she said, slurring. “Suppose to be in the army.”

  “Got kicked out.”

  “Know what they goin’ do to you?”

  “No, what? You a lawyer?”

  “Don’t get smart.”

  “Not going to be around long enough to worry about it.”

  “Where you goin’?”

  “Who’s that?” Cordell nodded at the brother. Big man with a full ’fro.

  “Reginald.”

  “Reginald, huh? Sounds like royalty, looks like a street trash.”

  “What you ’spect?”

  He turned, walked out. Went to his old room, sat on the bed, stained mattress on a gray metal frame, no sheets or blanket. Sat, looked around. Had a desk and chair. Old beat-up dresser. Cracked shade covering the window. He pulled it up, saw the house next door, look about five feet away. He went to the closet, opened the door, all his clothes and shoes were gone. Must’ve sold everything to keep herself high.

  Cordell brought the desk chair into the closet, positioned it against the back wall and stood on it. Pushed up on a two-by-six board in the ceiling until it moved. Loosened it, pulled it out, put it on the floor.

  He got back on the chair, reached through the opening into the attic, felt around till his hand touched the shoebox. Slid it toward him and lifted it out. Took the top off, lookin at $32,550 and a nickel-plate .45. Proceeds from his time with Chill. Spent a lot on the bitches. Saved a lot, too.

  Cordell ejected the clip, checked the load and popped it back in. Next, he counted out five thousand, split the pile in two, folded the bills and put them in the front pockets of his pants, wads bulging a little under stretch polyester.

  He put the box back in the attic and replaced the board. He was in the hall on his way downstairs when his mother came out her room.

  “What you doin’, scratchin’ around in there.”

  “Lookin’ for my shit. Where’s it at?”

  “Gone, honey chile.”

  “So am I.” He wondered if she’d seen him in the closet, could figure out what was happening? Looked in her eyes, saw she was still fucked-up. “Can I trust you not to sell anything else?” He’d brought the duffel up and changed into the dark-green leisure suit with the matching shirt.

  “Can’t promise nothin’.”

  “Well, Momma, thank you very much.”

  She flashed a stoned grin. “Just playin’ with you. Your things be okay.”

  Cordell walked down 14th to the Boulevard, stood in front of the GM building, got a cab, took it to the Ponch, got a suite with a river view, could see the Ambassador Bridge and the Detroit city buildings. He went in the bedroom, stretched out on the bed, biggest one he’d ever seen, picked up the phone, called Bernita.

  “Hello.” Soft voice kind of sleepy like she was takin’ a nap.

  “How you doin’, baby?”

  “Who this?”

  “Who you think it is?”

  “Cordell?” Surprise in her voice. “You suppose to be in the army, ain’t you? Germany or some such place.”

  “No, I in Dee-troit or some such place.”

  “What you doin’ home?”

  “Came back to check on my sweet potato girl.”

  “I seein’ Pony now,” she said, her voice sounding like she wasn’t sure.

  “What you doin’ with that midget nigger?” Pony was like five five, little sawed-off nigger worked for Chilly.

  “He around,” Bernita said. “Takes me places, buys me things.”

  Why was he wasting his time? She started to say something else and he hung up the phone. Fuck Bernita.

  Next he tried Rochelle. No answer. Tried LaDonna.

  Her voice said, “That you, sugar plum?”

  How’d she know he was back? “You got me.”

  “Cordell?” Straight-up surprise.

  “Who you think it was?”

  “No one.”

  “No one you callin’ sugar plum?”

  “What you doin’ home?”

  “Ain’t spendin’ nothin’ on no two-timin’ bitches is what I’m doin’.” He slammed the phone down. Called M’shell and Tifany. No answer. Nobody happy to see him. Leave town for two months, everyone forget about you. He called room service, ordered fried chicken, the whole dinner with yams and cornbread and two Courvoisier and cokes, feeling better, like his shit was comin’ back together now.

  “Way I see it you’ve got a couple major obstacles,” Stark said. “Number one, he killed your daughter, so you’re going to be perceived as a distraught father out for revenge.”

  “I told you about the woman, the other survivor.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Joyce Cantor.” Harry picked up his Stroh’s and drank from the bottle.

  “She credible?”

  “I’ve never talked to her but from what I’ve heard her story’s accurate, believable. She was there.”

  “You better get her on the phone, tell her what’s going on.”

  “I’ve tried. Her number isn’t listed.”

  “Where’s she live?”

  “Palm Beach.”

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  They were at the Lindell AC having lunch, burgers and fries, Harry glancing occasionally at the Detroit sports memorabilia on the walls. It was crowded and loud. Jimmy Butsicaris, the owner, making his rounds, talking to four guys in suits a couple tables away.

  Stark wiped his mouth with a napkin, took his cigarettes out, tapped one out of the pack and lighted it and left the pack on the table. Benson & Hedges 100s.

  “My biggest concern from a legal point of view,” Stark said, blowing out smoke, “you bring charges against Hess, a solid citizen, politician, successful businessman, Huber could tie you to the three neo-Nazis you shot. And he’s got the murder weapon.” Stark placed his cigarette on the edge of the glass ashtray.

  “How do you know they found the bodies? And what connects them to the gun?” Harry said.

  “That’s the chance you take.”

  “What about the mass grave?”

  “How do you put Hess at the scene?”

  “Joyce and me.”

  “It’s been thirty years. How can you be sure he’s the right guy?” Stark picked up his hamburger and took a bite.

  “I remember him.”

  “But you didn’t recognize him when the DC cop gave you the mug shot,” Stark chewing while he talked. Stuck his finger in his mouth and dislodged a piece of hamburger, looked at it and put it on his plate. “And you didn’t recognize him in the restaurant, sitting at the table.”

&
nbsp; “I was distracted,” Harry said. “Had a few things on my mind.”

  “You went to Munich to the man’s house and didn’t recognize him,” Stark said. “When did this light bulb of recognition go on?”

  “There was something familiar about him, but I didn’t put it together till I saw him in a Nazi uniform.”

  “I have to tell you, it doesn’t sound very persuasive.” Stark put his napkin over what was left of the hamburger and picked up his cigarette. “And since we’re on the subject, here’s another concern. Hess is a war criminal. He’s supposedly killed or had killed anyone with a connection to his past. Am I right? You think he’s just going to forget about you?”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “I hope so.”

  Harry brought the Colt Python out and laid it on the table next to his plate.

  “Jesus, put that away. Are you fucking nuts?”

  He picked up the gun, slid it back in his sport-coat pocket. “Here’s something I didn’t tell you. The night Sara was killed a Jewish couple were murdered in Georgetown, shot in the back of the head. I saw photographs on Taggart’s desk. Martz and Lisa were killed the same way. Nine-millimeter Parabellum shell casings next to the bodies. Fired from a Luger.”

  “What’re you saying, Harry?”

  “Hang on, it gets better. Before Hess hit Sara he’d been at a strip joint called Archibald’s. Dancer named Coco said she was sitting next to him, touched his leg.”

  “Probably copping his joint,” Stark cut in.

  “Hess had blood on the front of his pants.”

  “Spatter from the Georgetown couple?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “You tell Taggart?”

  “Yeah. He thinks I’m crazy.”

  “I can see why.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered. Hess has diplomatic immunity.”

  A waitress came and took their plates, asked if they wanted anything else, another beer? Stark shook his head. “Just the check,” Harry said. “It’s on me.”

  “Okay, big spender, thanks.” Stark lit another cigarette. “Were the Georgetown couple survivors?”

  “Taggart didn’t know.”

  “How old were they?”

  “He was forty-five. She was thirty-six.”

  “Maybe the parents crossed paths with Hess at one time. Knows their names?”

  “Why would he go after the son or daughter? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “When did it happen?” Stark said, flicking his cigarette ash.

  “August 2nd, the night Sara was killed.”

  “All right. Let me see what I can find out.”

  Stark called him at the scrap yard the next day. “The Georgetown couple are Mitchell Goldman and Sherri Shore. He was a dentist, successful practice, recently divorced and engaged. She was his fiancée and former receptionist.”

  “Why would he get remarried so fast?”

  “Maybe she was pregnant. Or maybe he’s a glutton for punishment. I don’t know. Both the dentist and the fiancée were born and raised in Baltimore. Both sets of parents also born and raised there. I dug a little deeper. Mitch Goldman’s ex moved to Florida after the divorce and took her maiden name.”

  “What’s so unusual about that?”

  “Nothing unless her name happens to be Joyce Cantor. That the connection you’re looking for?” He paused. “She works for Sunset Realty, lives in the Winthrop House. Condo, corner of Worth Avenue and South Ocean Boulevard. Trendy neighborhood. Phone number’s 407-642-3655.”

  “She saw Hess coming out of a restaurant in Munich, recognized him, and went after him,” Harry said.

  “How come she recognized him, you didn’t?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Hess flew to DC to kill her. Shot the fiancée by mistake. Did the dentist, I’m guessing, ’cause he happened to be there. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s got the same thing in mind for you, Harry.”

  “We know Hess is good at shooting unarmed people,” Harry said. “Let’s see how he does against someone with a gun.”

  Hess flew first class Munich–London, London–Detroit with a passport identifying him as Gerd Klaus from Stuttgart. Going through United States customs, a dark-skinned agent—Hess would have guessed was Hispanic—studied his passport, taking his time, in no hurry even though there were many people in line behind him.

  “What is your purpose for coming to the United States, Mr. Klaus?”

  “Business,” Hess said, friendly and polite even though it was demeaning to be interrogated by this Mexican.

  “What type of business are you in?”

  “Automotive parts.”

  “Do you have a business card?”

  “Sure do,” he said in his best American English. Hess had come prepared, handed the man one of his freshly printed cards that said he was Midwest sales manager. He had been speaking English for thirty years. He loved American cinema and had even perfected a Southern accent.

  “Welcome to America,” the Mexican said, stamping his passport and handing it back to him.

  He had reserved an automobile at Avis, waiting for a bus outside the terminal with the other salesmen in suits and ties. He rented a silver Chevrolet Malibu, two doors and a long hood, that drove like a truck, the steering sloppy and loose. If this car was any indication of American innovation, they had a long way to go before they would catch up to the Germans.

  He drove to Detroit. He had booked a room at the Statler Hotel on Washington Boulevard, handed his car keys to the valet, checked in and was escorted to a room on the seventh floor. He made an overseas phone call to his secretary, Ingrid, asking if Rausch had phoned. Rausch had gone to Bergheim the day before to dispose of Colette Rizik and her mother.

  “No, I am sorry, Herr Hess, he has not.”

  That was unusual. But lately, Arno had seemed to lose his concentration. Hess gave her his phone number at the hotel.

  At 4:00 p.m. Hess drove to a bar in a town called Allen Park, a gray single-storey cinderblock building, paint peeling, pickup trucks outnumbering cars in the parking lot. The inside was dark and crowded, men lining the bar, loud rock music playing. He was approached by a man in his mid-thirties, long hair pulled back and tied in a ponytail, muscular arms exposed in a sleeveless denim jacket.

  “You Mr. Klaws?” he said, pronouncing the name wrong.

  Hess nodded. He could see Sieg Heil tattooed on his right forearm.

  “How was your flight over? I’m Buddy.” He extended his hand and Hess shook it. “So you’re the genuine article, huh? Never met a real Nazi before. Sir, this a real honor, I mean it.”

  He reminded Ernst of the Blackshirts, his own neo-Nazis, a generation that was missing something, a generation that would never measure up to the high standards or the high achievers of the Third Reich.

  “Ever meet Adolf Hitler?”

  “I was fortunate enough to make the Führer’s acquaintance, yes.”

  “What was he like?”

  “Charismatic, mesmerizing, a born leader.”

  “I’ll bet. He’s one of the greatest men that ever lived. I read Mein Kampf. Talk about a page-turner, I couldn’t put it down.” He glanced at the bar. “Want a beer or something?”

  “Do you have the weapon?”

  “Well, you bet. No time like the present, huh?”

  Hess followed him outside to a red pickup truck parked in the lot.

  “Step into my office,” Buddy said, grinning.

  Hess opened the passenger door and sat on the bench seat. Buddy got in and reached for the glove box, opened it and took out a blue steel semiautomatic with a suppressor on the end of the barrel.

  “Here she is,” Buddy said. “Silenced Walther PPK, exposed hammer, double-action trigger mechanism. Reliable and concealable. Magazine release button is on the left side of the frame, but as a former military man I bet you knew that. Holds seven plus one in the throat. And a box of extra rounds like your man Mr. Rausch specified. I m
yself prefer a higher-caliber weapon, something with knockdown power. What’re you huntin’, small game?” Buddy smiled again. “Extra ammo’s in the glove box. Total for everything’s eight hundred dollars.”

  More than twice what the gun was worth, the American Nazi taking advantage of him. Hess reached for his billfold in the inside pocket of his sport jacket, opened it, counted eight hundred-dollar bills out of a thick stack and handed the money to Buddy. He slid the gun in his right side pocket and put the box of cartridges in his left pocket. “Do you know a secluded area where I can fire the weapon?”

  “Sure do. Tell you what, you can follow me or ride with me. Your choice.”

  Hess followed him out of Allen Park on a two-lane road to a rural area with farms on both sides of the road. Buddy turned left on a dirt road that went straight into woods, slowed down and parked on the side of the road. They walked through the trees, reminding him of the Vonderer Forest in Bavaria, big mature trees, high canopy of leaves. They walked in deeper and came to a clearing, a stretch of open grass that was fifty meters wide.

  “Here you go. This is about as secluded as you’re going to get.”

  Hess was going to try the Walther out on Buddy. Kill anyone who could identify him. But he might need another weapon or even the man’s assistance with something. Keep your options open, Hess said to himself.

  Buddy’d read about the Blackshirts this neo-Nazi organization in Munich, Germany and wrote a letter: To whom it may concern, saying he would like to start a Blackshirt chapter in Detroit, Michigan, USA. And if any of them were ever planning a visit to the…f A‚ he’d be honored to show them around. He’d even put some Blackshirts up at his house in Hazel Park, a suburb of Detroit.

  He didn’t hear anything for months, then got a letter from some guy named Arno Rausch saying a famous Nazi, Gerd Klaus, was coming to town and he could use some help procuring a firearm, a Walther PPK fitted with a suppressor.

  Buddy knew just where to get it. He’d met Ed Stannard at the Gun & Knife Show at the Light Guard Armory a few years back. Ed, who everyone called “Ed the Head,” dealt guns both legally and under the table. Buddy’d called him, told him what he needed and drove out to his farmhouse in Saline that had tall bushy marijuana plants growing around the outside, looking like overgrown shrubs.