Cut and Run (30 page)

In the front of the shop, the doorbell tinkled again, and Catharina held her breath.

“Mother?”

No!
“Juliana—no, get out! Quickly!”

But Bloch was already swinging back around toward the kitchen.

Muttering in Dutch, Catharina grabbed a knife and sent it slicing toward the big gray-haired man. He dodged, swearing, as the knife stuck in the doorframe inches to his left. The younger man lunged toward her. Catharina began pulling pots and baking pans off their hooks and throwing them in their path.

“Juliana,” she screamed, “run! I don't need you!”

Catharina kicked a stack of baking trays onto the floor, blocking the younger man's path, and snatched up another knife, an eight-inch Sabatier. She flung it at the sergeant, who was circling around the cooking island toward her. The blade nicked his wrist as he put up a hand to keep the knife from striking his neck. Catharina felt herself going wild, as her wispy white-blond hair hung in her face. She'd never before felt as if she could kill someone.

“Feisty, aren't we?” Bloch said, grinning as he carelessly shook a spurt of blood from his hand.

“If you touch my daughter, Phillip Bloch,” Catharina yelled hoarsely, “I'll kill you. Nothing will stop me!”

“Get the girl,” Bloch said calmly to the younger man. “I'll take care of this one.”

Juliana appeared in the doorway, her face pallid with fury and terror as she held a wooden shoe above her head as a weapon. Catharina felt a surge of pride at her daughter's courage, but also a sinking sense of despair.

Doing as he was told, the younger man kicked his way over the baking pans, pulling out a gun in a holster over his kidney. Juliana wasted no time. As he swung toward her, she lunged at him and smashed the wooden shoe down on the side of his neck, clearly not expecting to have a second chance. The impact of the shoe on flesh and bone made a sickening sound. The man sank to his knees. His gun flew out of his hand and skidded across the floor.

Catharina was sobbing, adrenaline pumping painfully through her. “Good for you, Juliana! Now for God's sake,
run!
”

But the blow had only stunned the younger man, and he recovered enough to whip around and grab Juliana by the knee, toppling her over. Her head struck the doorframe, and she landed awkwardly, in a sprawling heap. Catharina saw that her daughter had instinctively protected her hands.

“Juliana!”

Catharina reached for another knife, but Bloch bounded over to her and smashed it from her hand, ignoring his flesh wound. He grabbed the baker's wrist and twisted it behind her, and she cried out in agony as she heard the snap of her own bone.

“You sonofabitch,” Juliana yelled, trying to pull herself up.

“Don't move or I'll snap another bone,” Bloch said.

Through her blinding pain, Catharina saw the young henchman strike her daughter across the side of the head, knocking her back to the cool tile floor. Catharina began praying in Dutch for strength and forgiveness. Her helplessness was the worst pain she had ever experienced.

“I should learn not to underestimate you Peperkamps,” Bloch said. He was breathing hard and bleeding significantly, and he coughed and snorted, catching his breath. “God
damn
women. Still, ain't this convenient? We got us two little birdies with one stone, don't we? Pick up the girl, Peters. We'll go out the back.”

 

Juliana's Burberry man had moved across the street to Central Park, where it was dark and getting very cold. Matthew trotted across the street and before the guy could do anything had him pinned against the tree, with a forearm pressed against his throat. “What's your name?” Stark asked.

“Paul—”

“Hello, Paul. I'm Matthew Stark.”

“Jesus Christ.” The bland eyes widened. “Steelman? Weasel's told me about you—shit. Look, I'm just following orders.”

“Bloch's.”

It wasn't a question. Paul tried to nod but couldn't. “Hey, look, he's okay. Just trying to get it together to go after some commies, that kind of thing, no big deal.”

“Then what's he doing have piano players and old women followed around?”

“He's just looking after his own interests. I got orders not to hurt nobody.”

“You haven't got the talent to hurt anybody,” Stark said mildly. “Those women have been running circle around you. What about me? Got any orders?”

Paula licked his fleshy lips. “Truth is, I can do anything to you. I mean, Bloch don't care what happens to you. But Weaze says you're okay.”

“Tell me about Weasel.”

“I ain't seen him in a while, I been up here.”

“Where'd you see him last?”

“I
can't…
”

“Where?”

Stark didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to. Weaze had been telling stories about Steelman, some of them probably even true. “Florida. Ryder's place on the Dead Lakes. Bloch knows I told you, I'm dead.”

“Is he there now?”

Paul didn't say anything. Matthew repeated the question. Paul licked his lips some more; they were purple in the cold. He looked like the kind of guy who considered standing in the cold watching a ritzy apartment building on Central Park West hazardous duty. “No.” It came out as a whisper. “He ain't there.”

Matthew waited.

“Man, I can't—”

“You'd better. I can think of lots of things I could do with you if you don't.”

“He's here in New York, okay? I think he's going after the women, first the baker, then these two, just to ask them some questions. They deal with him straight, he'll let 'em go.”

“You dumb fuck,” Matthew said, but he didn't waste any time or energy explaining to Paul that it didn't matter if you dealt straight with Sergeant Phillip Bloch. If you were a loose end, he cut you off.

He ran out into the street, and a cab screeched to a stop in front of him. It was occupied. He didn't care. He tore open the door and flashed his press badge. “It's an emergency—please,” he said, climbing in.

The woman already occupying the cab decided she wouldn't stay in for the ride and shot out. The driver, a fat, slow gentleman from Brooklyn, insisted on checking Stark's press badge before he went anywhere.

“Okay, fella,” he said, “where to?”

It sounded ridiculous, but Matthew said it anyway, “Catharina's Bake Shop on upper Madison.”

 

Phillip Bloch's henchman Peters bent down to haul Juliana to her feet, but she was ready for him. Ignoring the shooting pain in her head and the muted cries of her mother, she kicked out viciously, one of her three-hundred-dollar black Italian shoes landing squarely in his face, knocking him backward. He grunted in surprise and blinding pain, and Juliana seized the opening, scooting backward as far out of reach as she could and scrambling agonizingly to her feet.

Bloch growled. “Fuck it, do I have to do everything?”

From the front room came a crashing sound and, absurdly, the tinkling of Catharina's little doorbell. Matthew, Juliana thought wildly, hanging onto the doorframe, it's got to be him!

A stout, fair-skinned older man jumped behind the counter, brushing her aside as he went into the kitchen.

“Hendrik—help Juliana!” Catharina was sobbing as Bloch twisted her good arm behind her back and pushed her toward the storeroom and rear exit. “Never mind me—
for God's sake, never mind me!
”

“Don't follow me, de Geer,” Bloch said. He had pulled out a monstrous gun and looked ready to call the whole thing a wash and kill everyone in sight. Blood poured over his hand. “I'll kill her right now—and the girl. I'll cut my losses. You know I will.”

The Dutchman took a short breath and halted, his cold eyes giving Juliana a quick, appraising glance. The young henchman was coughing, climbing slowly to his feet. Juliana could see his eyes focus on his gun and shot out one foot, kicking it farther away. De Geer folded his hands together and brought them down on the stumbling Peters, hitting him almost exactly where Juliana had gotten him with the wooden shoe. He fell unconscious.

Phillip Bloch had seized the opportunity and had disappeared through the storeroom with Catharina.

“Come, you must get out of here,” the Dutchman said in a low voice, “before he changes his mind and thinks he can handle us both after all.”

Juliana lunged blindly toward the storeroom.
“Mother—”

“Bloch will kill her, and you, if we don't leave now. He means what he says.”

“Dammit, I'm calling the police!”

Hendrik de Geer grabbed her by the shoulders and held her, not ungently, against the doorframe. “No. Understand me, Juliana: he will kill her.”

She nodded dully, hurting everywhere, gulping for air as she tried to still her pounding heart and concentrate…
Mother.
But she knew the Dutchman was right. “He wants the Minstrel,” she said.

“Of course he does. Now come. I will get you somewhere safe.”

She looked at him. She had never seen eyes so piercingly blue. “You're Hendrik de Geer.”

“Yes,” he said, without pride. “I'm the man who betrayed your family and the Steins—
my friends
—to the Nazis. And, of course, you're wondering whose side I'm on.” He gave her a thin, wretched smile. “But that's very simple, Juliana. Everyone knows whose side I'm on: my own. Right now it suits me to help you. Now come.”

Betrayed…my friends…Juliana held back another wave of shock. She couldn't think about the past and all she didn't know right now.
Stay within yourself.
Shuji always said. “Wait—it's all right. I can find my own way.”

“Your mother told me—”

“I know, but go after her. You can do it.” She had the feeling he had to. “I'll be all right.”

The smile grew less thin, less wretched, and the cold eyes moistened and became almost warm. “You're a fine woman, Juliana Fall,” he said.

He waited until she'd gotten safely out to the street, past the unconscious Peters, the fallen gun, the fallen knives, the pots, the baking pans…the smashed box of cream puffs. The glass door was smashed, but she seemed hardly to notice. She was a strong girl, Hendrik thought. He reminded her of Catharina—and Wilhelmina. He watched her stumble out into the street and flag a passing cab and waited until she'd climbed in, safe.

Then he went silently through the storeroom.

 

“Juliana.” Shuji opened the door to his Upper East Side townhouse. “You look like hell.”

She managed a weak smile. “Jazz'll do that to you.”

“Bullshit.”

“I need help, Shuji.”

He sighed. “Get in here.”

Shuji's townhouse combined a Japanese sense of negative space with his flair for the opulent and dramatic. The entire fourth floor was his music studio. Juliana knew; she'd spent countless hours there. A warmth came over her, a nostalgia for those days, their security. She almost cried.

“What do you need?” he asked.

“A car and some cash.”

He managed a small smile. “The
New York Times
find out what you've been up to?”

“No, my mother's been kidnapped.”

He looked at her, uncertain that she was in fact serious. For almost twenty years he'd listened to her problems, excuses, fears, exaggerations. He knew her better than he knew anyone. Loved her in a way he could love no one else—as, he realized, she did him. She was unpredictable and outrageous, and he knew he was lying to himself if he believed he could ever walk out of her life, J.J. Pepper or not.

He handed her the keys to his Mercedes and all the cash in his wallet. “I presume you're in too big a hurry to answer any questions.”

“Later,” she said, throwing her arms around him as she felt the tears hot on her cheeks, and then she fled.

It must be a man, Shuji told himself, heading back upstairs to practice. Now at least he could. Since their argument he'd been able to do little more than stare at the keyboard, something, of course, he would never admit to her. He hadn't understood what happened to her. J.J. Pepper, dyed hair, turbans, outrageous clothes. Jazz. He shuddered. Yet now, while he still didn't understand, he did know it wasn't something he needed to address. It was Juliana's problem—something she had to confront and decide what to do about on her own. If she wanted his counsel, she would ask for it. The student-teacher relationship they had had for so long was over. It was one of those things that had been ending for a long time, gradually fading, not like a sunset into the night, but like the colors of dawn into a bright, beautiful day. Yes, that was how he would think of it.