Voices of the dead

Harry looked at the cut of his jacket, a burgundy leisure suit with white contrasting stitching and gold buttons. The shirt had a pattern on it, light-brown illustrations of animals rampant on an African savannah. “You sure don’t.”

“Got it at Louis the Hatter on Livernois, Avenue of Fashion, if you recall? Know what color it is? Call it claret. Not burgundy, man, claret. Pronounce the ‘T.’”

“It’s a beauty,” Harry said. “Leisure suit, right?”

“Lei-sure rhymes with plea-sure.”

He showed his teeth again, couldn’t help himself, relaxed, having a good time, couple of guys from Detroit meeting by coincidence.

“I’m Harry Levin.” He offered his hand, and they shook.

“Cordell Sims.”

“What’d you do before the army?”

“This ’n’ that, how ’bout you?”

“I own a scrap yard on Mt. Elliot near Luce, you know where that is.”

“Other side of Hamtramck.”

“S amp;H Recycling Metals.”

“That’s catchy,” Cordell said. “What were the names didn’t make it?”

Harry picked up his mug, took a swig. “Levin amp; Levin Ferrous and Non-Ferrous Scrap Metal Recycling Incorporated.”

Cordell grinned.

“I’m kidding.”

“No shit.” Cordell grinned again.

The two loudmouth Germans to his right paid their bill, got up and moved through the dining room, which had thinned out. He looked down the bar, saw a man hunched over his beer at the end, all the seats between them empty. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to ten. The good-looking bartender came out of the kitchen, walked down the bar and asked them if they wanted another one.

Harry turned to the black guy. “Cordell, you ready?”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“I’m going to order something to eat, bratwurst. Interested?”

“Their ’wurst is their best,” Cordell said, grinning. “Yeah, I’ll have some.”

Harry ordered a couple of bratwurst plates with fried potatoes, another beer for him and a drink for Cordell. The bartender put their refills on the bar and took their empties.

Harry said, “You enlist, drafted or what?”

“Drafted,” Cordell said, “sort of.”

“What number were you?”

“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “But I knew a dude was three.”

“What’d he do?”

“You mean when he found out? Got fucked up. What you think?”

The bartender served their food and started cleaning up. He liked looking at her, liked watching her draw pints and serve drinks. Would probably like watching her do laundry, iron a shirt.

He cut off a piece of bratwurst, put it in his mouth. The brat was authentic, better than the one he’d had yesterday, tasted just like he remembered it, grilled meat with a hint of herbs and spices. He glanced to his left. “What do you think?”

Cordell, a napkin tucked in the neck of his shirt, nodded and fanned his mouth, sipped his drink to put out the heat. Harry glanced over for another eyeful of the bartender. She was wiping the bar top, but stopped, her attention fixed on something in the dining room. She dropped the cloth, walked quickly down to the end of the bar, and disappeared in the kitchen.

Harry looked behind him and saw two skinheads in black outfits with red armbands in the back of the room just standing there. The few remaining diners noticed them too, got up and moved out of the restaurant. What the hell was going on?

He turned to Cordell. “We’ve got company.” Looked over his shoulder again, and now there were six of them, reminding Harry of blackbirds on a power line. Look up, see one, then there are twenty. They were coming toward the bar, carrying lengths of wood that looked like ax handles.

They came at them fast, moving through the tables, gripping the wood like baseball bats. Harry slid off his bar stool, squeezed the handle of his beer mug, moving along the front of the bar. Cordell was on his feet, holding the heavy china dinner plate at his waist with two hands.

The first Blackshirt came at Harry, swinging for the fence. He timed his move, faked right, went left as the ax handle swished past his head and hit the bar top like a gunshot. Harry swung the two-pound beveled glass mug on top of his shaved neo-Nazi head, watched him crash into a barstool and take it with him to the floor.

To his right, he saw Cordell launch the dinner plate like a Frisbee into the face of an advancing Blackshirt, splitting open his forehead. Then another Blackshirt was on him, Cordell ducking, bobbing, weaving, throwing punches and connecting.

Harry, moving, grabbed the top of a barstool and flipped it behind him into a charging Blackshirt, trying to slow him down. He ran into the dining room, pulled a chair out from a table, picked it up and held it in front of him, blocking a blow from an ax handle. Harry gripped the back of the chair and swung into the man’s upper body. The Blackshirt went down on the floor, looking dazed.