Back from the Dead (6 page)

Kraut’s name was Albin Zeller. They said they’d meet him at a farmhouse on Crooks Road in Troy, the meeting arranged by Russell Gear of the American Nazi Party. Dink drove by in the pickup, Squirrel in the passenger seat, drinkin’ cans of Pabst like they were going to shutter the brewery, saw the white clapboard house set back from the road, cornfields surrounding it on three sides, barn in back, quiet and secluded for their purposes.

Dink pulled over on the shoulder, waited for a couple cars to pass, and did a U-turn. He went back to the farmhouse and parked behind a green Camaro on the gravel drive. Saw a dark-haired guy come out the side door and stand at the top of the concrete steps. Dink glanced at himself in the rearview, brown hair comin’ out from under the Cat Diesel cap, hanging on either side of his face to his jawline, word
evil
tattooed on both eyelids. Lower lip stuck out, swollen with tobacco. He spit out the window. “You just drink your beer, let me do the talking,” Dink said, turning toward his sidekick, whose face was partially hidden by the brim of a Red Man cap.

Squirrel met his gaze but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t much of a talker.

They got out of the truck and moved toward the house, Squirrel, stomach hanging over his belt in a tee-shirt that said
The Devil Made Me Do It
in white type on the front, greasy brown hair under the cap, carrying three cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon in a plastic tightener. Only guy Dink knew could drink all day and still function.

“How y’all doing today? You must be Mr. Zeller. I’m Dink Boone, and this scarry-lookin’ east Tennessee redneck is Aubrey Ponder, answers to Squirrel.”

“You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago,” Zeller said, German accent, sounding pissed.

“Yeah, well, what can I tell you?” Dink said, not explaining or giving the Kraut an excuse. He spit tobacco juice, a brown gob that splashed on the gravel stones at his feet.

Squirrel pulled a beer out of its plastic ring, popped the top and took a pull. “Gonna tell us what you need done, or what?” Zeller held the door open for them and they filed past him in the kitchen, and sat at an oval Formica table with chrome trim, the yellow finish worn off in places. Dink’s momma had served his favorite dish, grits, pork scraps and trimmings, on one just like it.

“We was up this way not too long ago ended up stayin’. U.S. Court of Appeals upheld a district court order calling for busing as a way to achieve racial balance.” Dink met Zeller’s gaze. “Ever heard of a bigger crock of shit in yer life? They start busing white kids to nigger schools. We come up to burn the buses and beat hell out of the niggers. I talked to a boy was involved. Kid said, ‘Blacks is different. They have different personalities and all that.’ I said, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ One white momma chained herself to a bus rather than see her child put through that charade of integration. I know we’re not here to talk about that. But you bein’ from the Fatherland and all, I’m sure you can relate.”

Zeller told them about this German honey –
fraulein,
Dink thought he said – stayin’ locally with some Jew. Told them what he needed done.

“So we go to the house, get her, bring her here, right? Then what?”

“I will interrogate her,” Zeller said, sounding like Colonel Klink on
Hogan’s Heroes.

Dink said, “What if she don’t feel like talkin’?”

“Don’t concern yourself.”

Dink said, “What do you want to find out?”

“Bring her here,” Zeller said. “That is all.”

“She don’t tell you what you want to hear, give her to us,” Squirrel said, grinning, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

“I will handle it,” Zeller said, elbows on the table, turning a ring on one of his fingers with the opposite hand.

Dink said, “Where you from in Germany?”

“Berlin.”

“That’s where the wall is at, ain’t it?” Dink said. “What’s it look like?”

“What do you think?”

The Kraut was lookin’ at Dink like he’d just chugged a quart of bourbon.

“Hey, Herr Zeller, know how to stop a dog from humping your leg? Pick it up and suck its dick,” Dink said, holding back the grin that was trying to bust out.

Zeller gave him a sour look.

Squirrel drained his beer, pulled another out of the plastic tightener and popped it open. Glanced at Zeller and said, “Last one, want it?”

Zeller shook his head, reached in his shirt pocket and handed Dink a piece of paper with a name and address on it, Harry Levin in Huntington Woods. Yeah, he knew where it was at.

It was Dink’s idea to steal the carpet-cleaning truck, show up like tradesmen, pull in the driveway, ring the bell. How y’all doin’? We’re here to clean your carpeting. What do you mean, you don’t know anything about it? Look here. Says so right on the form. They’d boosted the truck from a lot over on Eight Mile Road, hot-wired her and drove back to the farmhouse.

It was early evening, sky overcast, getting dark as Harry passed the mall and the treeless subdivisions of Troy, the lots big and open now, farms here and there. He slowed the Mercedes, trying to see an address, get an idea if he was going the right way, read numbers on a mailbox and saw he was close. A couple minutes later he passed it, a white two-storey house with a wide porch in front.

Harry pulled over on the other side of the road, turned off the lights, got out of the car, closed the door and crossed the road, moving along a line of elm trees. No traffic. Slight breeze blowing, the smell of wood smoke in the fall air. He stood behind a tree, watching the house, lights on the first floor, Ford pickup parked in the driveway. The screen door swung open and a man in overalls walked out on the porch, glanced toward the road and spit. Now another man wearing a red cap came out, placed his beer can on top of the railing, moved down the steps and urinated on the lawn.

When they went back inside Harry drew the .357, moved past the house, and walked along the edge of the cornfield to the barn. Opened the door and went in. There was a white van that said
Acme Carpet Cleaning
on the side, looking out of place next to the farm equipment. He checked the rooms, went up to the loft, no sign of Colette or anyone else.

Harry moved out of the barn, crouching behind the green pickup parked next to the house. He waited, listened, didn’t hear anything, moved around the back of the truck. There was a rebel flag on the tailgate. He moved to the house, opened the side door and stepped into the kitchen. Heard a TV on in another room and laughter. Walked through the dining room, saw the two guys sitting on a couch, watching
The Beverly Hillbillies
.

ELLY MAY
: I wonder why they got two sets of steps.

JETHRO
: That’s easy! One’s for going up, and the other’s for going down!

ELLY MAY
: Oh.

They laughed with the laugh track.

Harry went back to the kitchen, opened a door that led to the basement, turned on the light and went down the stairs, saw Colette gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of a damp cinderblock room.

He could see tears in her eyes as he got closer, blouse ripped open halfway down her chest. Harry slid the gun in his pocket, and undid the bandana that was tied across her mouth and knotted behind her head. Held her face in his hands. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered. “They’re upstairs.” He untied the ropes, helped her up and she put her arms around his neck, clinging to him. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to walk out of here.” They went up the stairs, Harry leading the way, holding the big Colt in front of him with two hands, Colette hanging onto him from behind. The door was open a crack. He heard someone come in the kitchen. Heard the refrigerator open and close. Heard a bottle cap hit the floor. Then someone said, “Check on her?” in a heavy southern accent.

“Where you think she’s gonna go?”

Harry wondered what Zeller’s connection was with these rednecks.

“Why don’t you go down, have a look see just to be sure.”

“You mean to relieve your concern?”

“Here’s the way it is. We split the chores. I checked on her last time. So now it’s your turn. Get it?”

“Tell you what, when the TV show’s over I will do just that.”

“And keep your goddamn hands off her.”

Harry heard them walk out of the kitchen, apparently agreeing to suspend hostilities for the time being. He took Colette the rest of the way up and they went out the kitchen door, eased it closed and stepped into the yard.

“What’d they do to you?” Harry said when they were in the car, looking across the seats at each other.

“Scared me, Harry.”

He could see her cheek was bruised and swollen, and felt rage come on like a switch had been flipped inside him. Colette reached over, grabbed his hand and squeezed it.

“It’s all right now,” Harry said. “It’s over.” He started the Mercedes and did a U-turn, accelerating past the farmhouse.

“There is another one, a German. He came down to the cellar and asked questions about Hess. Did I know where he was? I told him I didn’t know anything, and he gave up but I could see he was frustrated and knew he wasn’t finished.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him?”

“And then what, Harry? You think he was going to give me a ride back to your house like nothing happened?” Colette leaned over and put her hand flat against his chest. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw you.” She grabbed his hand again and held it in both of hers. “These men looking for Hess are going to keep looking. They think he’s alive. And they’re not going to stop until they prove otherwise. Maybe he has something on other former Nazis. More photos. More evidence of politically connected Germans who murdered Jews during the war. It could be another story. Maybe even a book.”

“If you live to tell about it.”

“Well, I can’t just let it go, Harry. This is what I do.”

Even in the dark interior he could read her expression, see she’d made up her mind.

He drove back to his house, and kept going. Zeller’s car was gone. Of course it was gone. Harry had taken Zeller’s gun, but left his clothes and keys in the house. He debated whether to call the police, tell them someone broke in. Tell them Colette had been kidnapped. But he decided against it. What was he going to say? A German heavy came to Detroit looking for Ernst Hess, a former Nazi accused of committing crimes against humanity in a war that ended twenty-six years ago. “Was anyone hurt?” he could hear the cop asking. “Was anything stolen?”

Just the Tabriz. It’s a rug, Harry could hear himself saying, and the cop looking at him like he was nuts.

Harry took Colette to Club Berkley for dinner. She was starving. They ate steak pan-seared in garlic butter, the house specialty, French fries, and washed it all down with bottles of Heineken. After, they checked into a no-frills motel on Woodward Avenue. Harry didn’t want to risk going home, have to deal with Zeller and the rednecks again tonight. He needed time to think, figure out what to do.

Dink thought he heard someone in the kitchen. Grabbed the .45, turned, leveled it and saw Zeller. “Jiminy goddamn Christmas, where in the hell you been at?”

“Where is she?” Zeller said.

“That a trick question?” Squirrel said.

“Go down and see for yourself,” Zeller said, hands on his hips. “She’s gone because you are here watching television, not paying attention.”

Dink was kind of embarrassed. “I tell you to go check on her, or what?” he said, throwing Squirrel under the bus.

“Well she didn’t untie herself,” Squirrel said. “I’ll tell you that.”

He had a point. That crazy-ass redneck knew how to tie a knot. For sure.

Zeller said, “It was Harry Levin.”

“How’d he know where she was at?” Dink said, gaze holding on the German.

“He had a gun,” Zeller said.

“So’d you, I thought,” Dink said.

“Whyn’t you take it from him?” Squirrel said to Zeller.

“ ‘Cause he ain’t Superman. What’s next on the agenda,
mein Herr?”
Dink said, looking at Zeller. “I think maybe you should fill us in. Looks like you’re in over your head, might could use some help.”

When he was within ten meters of the beach Hess turned off the engine and coasted to shore. The bottom hit sand in shallow water and the boat came to a stop. Hess stepped into the ocean halfway to his knees, dislodged the dinghy, and let the current take it back out to sea. Farther out, the Hatteras looked like it was drifting with the tide.

He was on a private beach, deserted in the early evening. Hess walked toward South Ocean Boulevard, wet espadrilles and trouser cuffs getting caked with sand. There was a huge Mediterranean villa straight ahead on the other side of the road, and to his right a beach house that matched the villa’s Italian shade of umber.

Hess had Brank’s watch, wallet, credit cards and $1,500 in cash. He also had Brank’s Smith & Wesson .38. The sun was fading, casting streaks of red behind the oceanfront estates as he walked the beach side of the road, saw the sign for Via Bellania and knew he was only a couple miles south of Worth Avenue.

He kept going, walked with purpose, arriving at Gulfstream Road at 6:40 p.m., and entered a seafood restaurant, went through the bar and dining room to the telephone that was in a hall leading to the restrooms. Hess opened the Yellow Pages, selected a taxi service, phoned and asked to be picked up at Charley’s Seafood. It would be fifteen minutes, so Hess found a seat at the crowded bar and ordered a Macallan’s neat.

“You look familiar,” the woman sitting to his left said. “You’re a character actor, aren’t you? Or maybe just a character.” She smiled, gliding her fingers up and down the stem of the martini glass.

“You must have me confused with someone else,” he said, glancing at her.

“What do you do?”

Hess studied her, a plain-looking brunette without a lot to work with, and yet, there was something appealing about her.

“I produce erotic films,” Hess said.

“So you’re not in front of the camera, you’re behind it,” she said, picking up her martini glass, taking her time before bringing it to her mouth, sipping the drink. “Dirty movies, huh?”

“I prefer to think of it as art.”

“Of course.” She speared an olive with a plastic sword and put it in her mouth, chewing slowly, savoring it.

“What are some of your movies?”

“Have you seen
Twat’s Up, Doc?

“No, but I’ve heard of it.” She shook her head and smiled. “You did that?”

“Largest-grossing erotic film of all time,” Hess said.

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you sure don’t look like the type.”

“Public perception is it’s a sleazy business.”

“Exactly, and you don’t look sleazy.”

She had good teeth and skin, and an outgoing personality. Late thirties, maybe forty.

“What’s another one?”

“Deep Six.
It was my ex, Denise’s, film debut.”

“Your ex was a porn star?”

Hess nodded, picked up his drink and took a sip.

“What’s that like? I mean watching her doing it with all those studs.”

“Why do you think I’m divorced?”

A valet in a red vest came in the bar and said something to the bartender. “Somebody call a cab?” the bartender said, heavy New York accent.

Hess drank his single malt in a couple swallows, put the glass down on the bar top, and a $20 bill next to it. “I have to go,” he said to the brunette.

“I’ll give you a ride,” she said.

“Cab?” the bartender tried again. “Anyone?”

“I have a car right outside. I’m Lynn, by the way,” she said, offering Hess her hand. “Lynn Risdon.”

“Tony Brank,” he said, taking her hand in his.

“You don’t look like a Tony.” She finished the martini and placed it on the bar top. Hess raised his hand and the bartender moved toward him.

“Another round?”

Hess nodded.

“You get remarried?” Lynn said. “I don’t really care, but I guess it’s better if you didn’t.”

“Still single,” Hess said. “Until the right woman comes along.” He thought about Anke, his mistress. She had become demanding like a wife. Wanted a commitment, wanted children. That relationship was over as well, and Hess was relieved. “What about you?”

“Divorced,” Lynn said. “Best thing that ever happened to me.”

An hour and three martinis later, Hess escorted Lynn Risdon to the parking lot. She was drunk. He could feel her weight, the sloppiness of her stride as she clung to him. He had watched her transform to annoying from interesting, the alcohol making her stupid and clumsy. “Where’s your car?”

“It’s got to be around here somewhere,” she said, slurring her words, glassy eyes scanning the lot. “There ’tis.” She pointed at a white Ford Mustang.

Hess said. “Where do you live?”

“On Seabreeze.”

He had passed the street a number of times, remembered it was just north of Worth Avenue.

“Anyone in the house?”

“Whaaat?”

Do you live with someone?”

“Nooo … I told you, I’m divorced.”

“You better let me drive,” Hess said. “You can’t even stand up.”

“I drive sitting down,” Lynn said and laughed. She reached a hand into her purse, feeling around. It took a few minutes to find the keys, half a dozen on a silver ring. She handed them to Hess. He unlocked and opened the door, sat her in the front passenger seat, leaned in, brushed her cheek with his, buckling the seat belt around her.

She touched his face and said, “Is Mr. Scruffy growing a beard?”

He closed the door and walked around the car and got in. “What is your address?”

“Whaaat?” She was angled in the seat, leaning back against the door, eyes closed.

He reached over on the floor in front of her, picked up the purse, opened it, found her wallet and driver’s license. He drove to Seabreeze Avenue, checking addresses. Lynn lived in a single-storey house hidden behind a sculpted wall of hedge four blocks from the ocean. Hess parked on the circular drive. The front porch light was on and there was a light on inside.

He got out, went to the front door, tried several keys until he found the right one, and opened it. Went back to the car, picked Lynn up and brought her into the house and bumped the door closed with his hip. He heard voices in another room, sat Lynn on a couch in the salon, and went to investigate. A television was on in the kitchen. He turned it off.

Adjoining the kitchen was a utility room with a washing machine and dryer. On the opposite wall built-in shelves held tools, cleaning supplies, an assortment of items, including a coil of rope which he grabbed, and a knife. Hess walked though the house. There were two bedrooms off the salon, one obviously lived in, disheveled, and the other spotless. He went back in the salon. Lynn was stretched out, sleeping on the couch. Hess bent and picked her up, carried her to her bedroom, and laid her across the double bed. He cut lengths of rope and tied her ankles and wrists while she slept.

Hess had been in the same clothes now for twenty hours. He went into the master bathroom, undressed, turned on the shower and stood under the hot water. He dried himself with a pink bath towel, and wrapped it around his waist. Found a razor and shaving cream in the cabinet under the sink, and shaved in front of the fogged-up mirror he had to keep wiping clean with a towel.

He dressed, feeling better, checked on Lynn, still asleep. Went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, found sliced turkey in the meat drawer and made a turkey sandwich with Dijon mustard. He poured a glass of milk, sat at the table and watched TV, a program called
McMillan & Wife,
starring Rock Hudson. When he finished the sandwich, Hess turned off the TV and went to the guest room, stretched out on the bed and fell asleep.

Lynn Risdon’s head was pounding and her mouth was dry from the vodka. She’d have to slow down, take it easy for a while. She was drinking too much, getting drunk almost every night. She was on her side, couldn’t move her arms. They were tied behind her back, and her legs were tied together at the ankles. What was going on? Was the erotic film producer into S&M? At first she thought it was a dream. But her eyes were open staring at the red numerals on the clock in her dark bedroom. She remembered being at the restaurant, sitting at the bar drinking a martini. Talking to the guy. What was his name? Brank, that was it. They’d had several drinks, having a good time. Remembered offering him a ride home, the events of the night a little hazy after that. Lynn couldn’t remember how she got home. Did she drive? Or maybe he did. Then, in a flash of memory she saw herself hanging onto him leaving the restaurant. But he was a good sport, didn’t seem to mind. She’d picked up other men in bars, and brought them home, had sex and never heard from them again. Lynn liked being in control, liked initiating things. Guys picked up girls all the time. Why couldn’t girls pick up guys? It was 1971 after all.

Now as her eyes adjusted she could see rope binding her ankles and wrists. Why would he do that? Why would he leave her like this? She was going to fuck his brains out. It didn’t make sense. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and tried to sit up. Now what? She couldn’t walk, couldn’t crawl. Lynn looked at the phone on the bedside table and slid along the bed on her knees, knocked the receiver off the cradle, and it went over the side of the table and landed on the floor. She pressed the 0 button with her chin, heard the operator’s voice say, “How may I direct your call?” and went down on the carpet, trying to get closer to the phone.

“I’m in my house, tied up. Call the police?”

“Where are you calling from?”

“Palm Beach.”

“What’s the address?”

He came in the room, standing over her, picked up the receiver, put it back and ripped the cord out of the wall. He picked her up and dropped her on the bed. It was the porno-movie guy from the bar.

“What’re you doing?” Lynn was afraid now. “What’s with the rope? You into bondage? I’ll try anything once. What the hell. It might be fun.”

He pushed her on her back, arms under her.

“Stop it. You’re hurting me.”

He reached for the pillow. She thought he was going to put it under her head.

“How’d we get here? You must’ve driven, right?” she said, trying to reconnect with him, but he didn’t respond. And now he put the pillow over her face, pressing down and she couldn’t breathe. Fought to get out from under him with everything she had, but he was sitting on her. Lynn thought about Larry, her ex, wondering why she’d wasted twenty years of her life with him. She pictured his face when he found out she was dead and he wouldn’t have to pay alimony. She thought about her parents and her brother, Chris. Would anyone miss her when she was gone? And then she was floating, looking down at herself, Brank, the porno-movie guy still holding the pillow over her face. He didn’t know yet.

Hess felt her body go slack but kept pressing the pillow on her face, watching the minute hand on the clock go around three more times, and let up, lifted the pillow and saw her eyes staring at him, an expression of fear or panic frozen on her face. He pulled the side of the bedspread up and covered her. He would have to figure out what to do with the body, but not now. Hess was tired. He went back in the guest room, laid down on the bed and fell asleep.

In the morning, Hess had two soft-boiled eggs and toast for breakfast, watched the news on the small TV in the kitchen. One story in particular piqued his interest. A somber female reporter was broadcasting live from a marina. “Last night the U.S. Coast Guard discovered an abandoned yacht half a mile off the Palm Beach coast. The names of the yacht owner and his wife are being withheld by authorities, pending a police investigation.”

Now the camera pulled back and Hess could see the white fiberglass hull of Brank’s Hatteras behind her. The reporter gave her name and the name of the TV station and signed off.

At 8:45, Hess drove Lynn Risdon’s car to the SunTrust Bank on Royal Poinciana Way, waited in the parking lot until the doors opened. Dana Kovarek, the assistant manager who had rented Hess the safe deposit box a week earlier, did a double take when Ernst walked into his office and said, “Dana, remember me? Gerd Klaus. I want to open my box.”

“I remember, but it can’t be. You died. I saw the death certificate.”

“Do I look dead?”

Kovarek was nervous, eyes darting around. “Your daughter came with the key, a death certificate and a court order claiming she was your rightful heiress. Don’t you remember, I explained the terms, conditions and procedures associated with having control over your safe deposit box,” Kovarek said, sounding defensive. “We talked about relatives of the deceased and their right to claim the contents of the box.”

Hess had no recollection of them discussing what would happen if he died.

Kovarek said, “Your daughter had to open it to get burial information, the deed to your burial plot.”

“Describe her,” Hess said.

“Your daughter?” Kovarek rubbed his jaw.

“She is not my daughter.”

“An attractive woman with blonde hair, five feet eight, thirty years old. She had the key and the rental agreement.”

Kovarek had just described Colette Rizik. “Was she alone?”

“No, sir, there was a dark-haired gentleman with her, six feet tall, fortyish.”

Harry Levin’s face flashed in his mind. Levin and the journalist. They had found the key to his hotel room, the keys to his briefcase and safe deposit box. They had obviously gone to his room before the police. “So you are telling me the box is empty?”