Back from the Dead (13 page)

Joyce could see cars zipping along on the turnpike in the distance. She and Cordell had adjoining rooms at a Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge, which Cordell had said was safe.

Joyce had said, “Compared to what, your apartment?”

“Colombians got what they wanted. They’re not gonna be comin’ back.”

“I’m not worried about Colombians, I’m worried about Ernst Hess.”

“You seen him on the floor with a hole in his chest and blood everywhere,” Cordell said. “Man’s still alive he a vampire.”

“A Palm Beach detective told me he was picked up by a fisherman in the Bahamas.”

“Bahamas is like seventy miles away. How you think he got there, the backstroke?”

Joyce said, “The same man escaped from a hospital in Freeport, hijacked a boat in Port Lucaya, left the owner and his wife stranded on a remote island, and headed for the Florida coast. That night he strangled a woman in her house in Palm Beach. The police say the prints they found in the dead woman’s house match the prints they found on the security guard’s car, gun and flashlight, and the prints found at my friend Lenore Deutsch’s house. I know you don’t believe me but I’m telling you I saw Hess in the lobby of my building earlier tonight.”

Cordell said, “Why don’t you think I believe you?”

“Maybe it’s that look on your face, that grin you can’t hide.” Joyce walked over, put the chain on the door, and wedged a chair under the door handle, a security precaution she had seen in a movie.

“Anyone try to get in, I be on the motherfucker,” Cordell said, pulling the gun he referred to as his nickel-plate.

They kept the doors between the rooms open, and Joyce had to admit, knowing Cordell was right there put her at ease.

Early the next morning he popped his head in her room, said he had to take care of some business. “You be okay? I’ll check on you in a while.”

Joyce, still in bed, yawned and said, “See you later.” Thinking he’d be back reasonably soon. She heard his door close and saw him walk by the window. Joyce locked the door between their rooms and called her office. Told Amy, the office manager, her aunt died. She was going to Baltimore to sit shiva.

Joyce showered, dressed and had breakfast in the motel restaurant, first looking out the window from the second floor, scanning cars in the parking lot, looking for Hess. Over cereal and fruit and coffee she paged through the
Palm Beach Post.
There was another article about the woman murdered in Palm Beach a few days before. This time there was an accompanying passport photograph of the suspected murderer. The article referred to him as Gerd Klaus. But it was Hess. The article went on to say he was considered armed and dangerous. Anyone with information about this man should contact the Palm Beach police immediately.

High-Step was barefoot and Cordell could see the left one was smaller than the right, it didn’t even look like a foot – all mangled and deformed as it was. Cordell didn’t want to look but it was so strange he had to, like looking at the alligator-skin girl at the state fair.

“Hey motherfucker,” High-Step said, “why you lookin’ at my feets?”

“I wasn’t,” Cordell said.

“What you mean, you wasn’t? I seen you.”

Cordell said, “Why don’t you put your special shoe on, you’re so sensitive ’bout your foot.”

“Why don’t you go fuck yourself.”

High was pissed about something, that was for sure. “We gonna talk about the Colombians?”

“Why didn’t you kick me in on the second deal? I was involved they never woulda pulled that shit.”

Now they were getting to it. “You made the intro. I took care of you, didn’t I?”

“Then what you doin’ here? You’s here ’cause you need High’s help. Well this time I don’t want no two hundred dollars, I want half.”

“Half. What you been smokin’?”

“It’s called wise-the-fuck-up weed, motherfucker.”

Cordell looked at him and said, “You’re fuckin’ with me, aren’t you?”

“How much you got right now? Nothin’. I’m gonna get the weed back and the money, and for that I want half.”

“How you gonna do that?”

High-Step was from Detroit, had lived on the same street as Cordell and his momma. High made his money selling firearms, assorted pistols and revolvers. One of his homeboys worked in shipping and receiving at the Anniston Army Depot in northeast Alabama, supplied brand new just-out-of-the-crate M16s.

High’s real name was Carlos Bass, seven years older than Cordell, and successful. Never got busted in the Motor City, moved to Miami after the riot in ’67, police coming down hard on black entrepreneurs involved in illegal activities. High had a house in Coconut Grove with a swimming pool in back, and even with his fucked-up foot always had fine-lookin’ poon hangin’ around.

They listened to Motown tracks on the way to Greaser Town, and when they got there, sat in the car, lookin’ up at an apartment building High said was where Alejo and Jhonny stayed.

“What’re we waiting for, man?” Cordell already impatient. “Let’s go talk at him.”

“How you know he in there? And he is, who in there with him? What I’m sayin’, we don’t rush, we take our time, do it right. Now you met Alejo and Jhonny the kid, but they got two others, can’t think of their names. And they all armed. How do I know this, right? Is that what you’re thinkin’?” High lit a cigarette. “I sold them the guns that’s how I know.”

“What’d you sell ’em?”

“Two Colt .45 Commanders, stainless with black grips, one 870 Wingmaster twelve-gauge, and one Smith & Wesson .38 revolver,” High said like he was reading a sales order. “That’s why I want to know who in the apartment before we go up.”

It was almost one in the afternoon, car runnin’, engine workin’ hard with the air on, Cordell watching the Latin babes go by on the street, young ones in tank tops and short shorts, hard tight bodies, dark hair, long brown legs, and the older bitches with heavy legs and tits down to their waist. Cordell thinkin’ about age, wondering how many years before he got old and fat? His momma was already there but she’d had a hard life, smokin’ rock. Her only exercise, walkin’ to a dope house. Cordell only had fuzzy memories of his father, like photographs out of focus.

After a while, Alejo, Jhonny and two other greasers came down the stairs, all wearing those greaser shirts hangin’ over their pants, High said to hide their guns. They got in Alejo’s Road Runner and drove off.

Forty-five minutes later Cordell saw Alejo’s black Road Runner come down the side street and park. The four greasers got out and walked up the stairs to an apartment on the second floor.

“Okay,” High-Step said. “Let’s get it done.”

“What’re you gonna do?”

“What’re we gonna do? That what you mean?”

“Whatever.”

High-Step got out and opened the trunk of the ’66 GTO, came back with something wrapped in a nylon windbreaker, unwrapped it, showing Cordell a short compact sub-machine gun with a skinny black clip.

“I want my money back but I ain’t gonna kill nobody for it.” Cordell looked at the gun. “What you want me to do?”

“Stand outside, make sure nobody come in behind me.” There was a strap on the end High fit over his right shoulder, let the gun hang under his armpit. Put the windbreaker on, couldn’t see a thing. They got out of the car, High wearin’ a white sport shirt with epaulettes under the windbreaker, white captain’s hat with a black brim, and sunglasses, looked like a nigger yachtsman.

They went up the stairs, moved along the balcony, woman pushin’ a baby carriage on the street below, couple seagulls flew by overhead. High-Step was breathin’ hard and sweatin’ when they got to the apartment door. High looked back at him, nodded, knocked on the door, waited a couple seconds, knocked again. Door opened, Jhonny the kid, standing in the crack, eyes on High-Step then looking over at Cordell.

“Yo, how you doin’? My man Alejo at home?”

The kid turned looking in the room, said something in Spanish. Cordell heard a voice say something back.

Kid looked at High-Step, sounded like he said, “I doan thin so.”

“I can see it’s a big place – must have six hundred square feet – Alejo could be in there you don’t even know it.”

Cordell moved up behind High, saw two greasers on a couch looking at them.

Jhonny said, “Give us a moment, uh?”

The kid tried to close the door, but High-Step got his good foot in the way, blocked the door and pushed it open. The kid moved backward into the room. The greasers, alert, reached behind their backs for their guns but didn’t draw them. A TV was on, Cordell could hear the scratchy voice track of a Latin soap opera. And now Alejo appeared, right arm hanging down his wrinkled white pants, smiling. “Señor High-Step, man what you doing here?”

“Never guess what happened. After my man met with y’all the second time, took the woo woo home, somebody come and stole it. You believe that?”

“I can see it happen,” Alejo said. “You friend got this good smoke, people hear about it, and human nature take over, huh?”

“Wasn’t your human nature takin’ over though, right?”

“No, not us.”

Alejo looked at the greasers like he was giving them a signal. High-Step brought out the Uzi, swung the barrel at Alejo as Alejo lost the grin and brought up a sawed-off pump gun, leveled it as High fired a burst from the silenced Uzi that sounded like a BB gun, cut Alejo down and blew out the TV, turned the gun on the greasers as they stood drawing, chewed them up along with the couch and the wall. Cordell saw Jhonny draw, but High-Step was already turning, firing.

Cordell stepped in the apartment, closed the door, saw four dead Colombians on the floor. He wasn’t thinking about the money or the weed now, just getting the hell away from there. But High wasn’t leavin’ till they got what they came for. There were two bedrooms. Cordell found two black plastic garbage bags in the closet, the ends knotted. He lifted them and both had heft, felt like twenty pounds at least. Opened one, got a blast of high-grade woo woo.

There was a nylon gym bag on a shelf over the weed. Cordell brought it down, sat on the bed, unzipped it, looking at stacks of cash held together with rubber bands. High came in the room. Cordell showed him the money.

“Hit the jackpot,” High said, flashing a grin.

He could see people looking out the apartment window next door as they passed by on the way to the stairs, and heard a siren as they were going down to the car, passing a police cruiser, lights flashing, on the way out to the freeway, and cut over to the Grove.

They had a couple drinks to calm down and split the money – $68,500, and the woo woo – fifty pounds. Cordell didn’t like it, knew this wasn’t the end. Somebody’d be comin’ after them. But he wasn’t gonna be around when they did.

When Cordell got back to the motel it was 7:15 in the evening. The doors between their rooms were open. Looked like Joyce had cleared out, took her suitcase and left. His first thought, the Nazi had come and grabbed her. But how’d the Nazi know where they were at? Cordell picked up the phone, called Joyce’s apartment – no answer. He’d screwed up, felt bad about it. He had to find her, but where was he going to start?

Seeing the police cars and ambulance parked in front of the Winthrop House, Harry assumed the worst. Joyce had gone home and Hess had shot her. He parked the rental car in the shadow of the building on Worth Avenue and went in the side entrance. The lobby was chaotic, dozens of elderly residents trying to get the attention of two police officers in tan uniforms, trying to find out what was going on, what happened.

Harry moved around the crowd, approached the front desk manned by a sullen dark-skinned Latino in a sport jacket, losing his hair on top.

“Sir, may I help you?”

Harry walked by him, stepped into a waiting elevator and rode to the fourth floor. The door to Joyce’s apartment was open. Detective Conlin was talking to a black maid in a light blue uniform in the living room. Harry walked in, looked around. Conlin saw him and stood up, said something to the maid and she got up and walked by Harry, black eyes staring straight ahead like she was in a trance.

“Another homicide, look who walks in the door,” Conlin said. “Poor girl found the body. I don’t suppose you saw or heard anything.”

“I just got here,” Harry said. “Came right from the airport. Where’s Joyce?”

“I was going to ask you.”

“She’s not dead then?”

“Not that I know of,” Conlin’s hard stare held on him. “No one’s seen her for a couple days.”

“You try her office?”

“Manager said Joyce went to Baltimore, her aunt died. I called, talked to the dead aunt who it turns out isn’t. She had no idea what was going on or where Joyce was at.”

Down the hall toward the bedrooms he heard voices and flashbulbs popping.

“Who is it?”

“Night manager. Shot twice in the chest. Been dead two days or so, accounting for the odor. Ever smell a body in decomp?”

“One or two.”

“Yeah? Where was that?”

“Dachau,” Harry said.

“The concentration camp?”

Harry nodded.

“I didn’t know,” Conlin said, sounding like he was apologizing. “How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

“Jesus. How’d you get out?”

“I escaped.”

A patrolman entered the apartment and said, “There’s a colored guy named Sims downstairs, Detective, says he might know something.”

“Send him up.”

A few minutes later the same patrolman escorted Cordell into the apartment.

Conlin said, “Come out here,” and led Harry and Cordell through a sliding glass door to the balcony. It was bright and hot, sun reflecting off the white walls of the building, and the sounds of traffic coming up from the street. Cordell had his hands on the railing, looking down at the sunbathers on the beach. Conlin tapped a cigarette out of his pack, cupped his hands against the breeze and lit it with a silver Zippo. “Officer said you know something,” he said to Cordell. “Tell me.” Cordell turned, glanced at the ocean.

“Hey, look at me when I’m talking to you.”

Cordell turned his head back in Conlin’s direction. “Joyce came to stay with me for a couple days.”

“Why’s that?”

“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “We friends.”

“You two going steady?”

Cordell looked at him but didn’t say anything.

“You going to raise the kids Jewish?” Conlin paused. “She left the night I was here. Something scared her, didn’t it?”

“Maybe it was you. Talkin’ about some motherfucker comin’ to kill her.”

“Back to settle things with all of you is my guess. Night manager was shot. I’m sure we’ll recover bullet frags for ballistics comparison to the murder of the security guard and the real estate lady.”

Conlin tossed his cigarette over the balcony, walked back in the living room. Harry and Cordell followed him and Conlin closed the sliding door.

“Why don’t you tell me about the German.” Conlin looked at each of them. “And don’t say what German? Don’t insult my intelligence.”

Harry didn’t think it would take much.

Conlin went back at it. “Why’d you shoot him?”

Harry said, “Haven’t we been through this?”

“That’s the way you want it, huh? Well, you’re on your own then. Tell me who to contact when he kills you. Direct me to your next of kin.”

“Okay,” Harry said. “If there’s nothing else we’ll be on our way.”

“I may want to talk to you again. Where’re you staying?”

“The Breakers.”

Harry and Cordell walked out of the apartment and down the hall to the elevator. Harry pushed the button, glanced at Cordell. “Where the hell’s Joyce?”

“Yo, Harry, you not gonna believe this. I left Joyce at this motel, had to take care of business. When I come back, she gone.”

“Why didn’t you take her with you?”

“What I had to do, it wasn’t appropriate.”

“I asked you to help me out,” Harry said. “Come on.”

“I know, I fucked up. I’m sorry.” Cordell paused. “But you know we’ll find her, right? Probably stayin’ with a friend, someone from her office.”

“I guess that’s where we’ll start.”

“You’re not buyin’ this whole Hess is back from the dead bullshit, are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know? Harry, you the one took him out put him in the water. What’re you sayin’?”

“It’s possible he is alive.”

“This is fuckin’ crazy, Harry.”

“I don’t know what to tell you.”

Hess was on the beach in a rented cabana when he heard the sirens. This was what he had been waiting for. A Palm Beach police cruiser arrived first, lights flashing, stopping in front of the Winthrop House, followed by an ambulance, and a few minutes later by a beige sedan. The three vehicles parked one behind the other. Hess, partially hidden by the cabana, trained the binoculars on Detective Conlin stepping out of the sedan and disappearing into the building.

All the activity across the street, including TV news crews filming the action, attracted attention. Now a crowd from the beach stood behind the seawall blocking his view. Hess aimed the binoculars at Joyce Cantor’s balcony. The Negro, Cordell Sims, was leaning over the railing. Conlin, the cocky detective, was standing behind him, smoking. And to the right – this was his lucky day – he saw Harry Levin.

Hess had been here two nights earlier, parked down the street, got out, looking at the ocean, dark water meeting dark sky, a stiff breeze blowing in. He went in the lobby. It was quiet at 10:47, and deserted but for a gray-haired gentleman in a tie and blue blazer, seventy but clear-eyed and alert, behind the front desk. Hess had checked the directory on his previous visit, and knew that Joyce Cantor was in 412. He walked by the front desk, moving toward the elevator.

“Sir, may I help you?”

Hess glanced at the man behind the desk. “I’m here to see Joyce Cantor.”

“I’m sorry sir, I saw Ms. Cantor leave yesterday with a suitcase, and to my knowledge she hasn’t returned.”

“I left my briefcase in Joyce’s condo the last time I was here and I need to get it. Do you have a key?”

“Sir, that would be against the rules. That could get me in a lot of trouble.”

“What’s your name?”

“Denny, sir.”

“Denny, if I don’t get the briefcase I’m going to be in a lot of trouble.”

“I don’t understand why she didn’t leave it for you,” Denny said. “It doesn’t make sense. Ms. Cantor is a very responsible lady.”

“Joyce was supposed to meet me for dinner and bring the case.”

“Why didn’t she phone you?”

Denny, the rule follower, was starting to annoy him. “I have no idea.” Hess brought out his billfold, opened it and slid two $100 bills on the desktop. “For your trouble.”

Denny glanced at the money, flustered now. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“You could use that, I’ll bet. Listen, nobody will know except you and me. I’m not going to tell anyone, are you?”

“Well, I don’t see any harm as long as we’re in and out quickly.” Denny reached out, placed his right palm over the bills, slid the money toward him, folded the bills in half and put them in his trouser pocket. Now earning his fee, he unlocked a cabinet behind him, opened the doors, selected a key and locked it again.

They rode the elevator up to the fourth floor in silence. Denny was nervous, agitated. The doors opened. They walked down the hall to 412. Denny unlocked the door. They went in Joyce Cantor’s apartment, Hess scanning the large open room, windows along one side, looking out at the ocean.

Denny said, “Sir, if you would please find that briefcase, I would really appreciate it.”

“First, I want to show you something,” Hess said. He directed Denny through the master bedroom into the bathroom.

“What is it you want to show me?”

“This,” Hess said, drawing the revolver, and pulling open the shower curtain.

“Sir, what’s this all about?”

“Get in,” Hess said. “I’ll tell you when it is safe to come out.”

Denny was shaking. He reached into a trouser pocket and handed the $200 to Hess. “Sir, I would like you to have this back.”

Hess took it. “Get in.”

Denny stepped in the bathtub. Hess pulled the shower curtain closed, looking at the outline of Denny’s body behind the translucent plastic. Hess wrapped a towel around the barrel of the .38, and shot him through the curtain.

Hess was thinking about the old man while he searched the apartment, regretted shooting him, surprised by the rare feeling of guilt. Hess couldn’t remember the last time he had actually felt bad for someone.

He found an address book in a desk drawer in the living room, a vase of flowers on the desktop, wilting in the darkness. Remembered Joyce carrying flowers the last time he had seen her. He sat paging through the book, a gooseneck lamp casting a bright circle on the open pages. He was looking behind the L tab and saw Harry Levin’s name, address, home and business phone numbers.

Hess picked up the phone and dialed the number. It rang several times before he heard Harry Levin say, “This is Harry. Leave a message, I’ll get back to you.”

Nothing else happened for almost an hour. The TV news crews had gone. The crowd had dispersed. At 4:20 a black body bag was wheeled out of the building on a gurney. Two men lifted it into the rear of a white van that said
MEDICAL EXAMINER
on the side in black type. The van drove off.

Hess collected the towel, binoculars, tanning lotion, stuffed everything in Max Hoffman’s beach bag, slipped into the Docksiders and moved along the sand-blown sidewalk to the Chrysler. The parking meter had expired. There was a ticket on the windshield under the wiper blades. Hess picked it up. The fine was three dollars. He ripped the ticket in half, slid the pieces in his trouser pocket.

Hess sat behind the wheel. He saw Harry Levin and the Negro come out the side entrance on Worth Avenue. They stood and talked for a few minutes. Then Sims started walking toward town and Harry got in a car that was parked on the street. Hess spun the big Chrysler around the corner, followed Harry to the Breakers, and watched him check in.