Voices of the dead

Cordell took out his sterling silver cigarette case, opened it. “Want one? That’s a Davidoff, world’s finest tobacco.”

“No thanks,” Harry said.

A police sedan pulled up in front of the building, two cops in uniform got out and escorted a handcuffed prisoner past them inside. They walked out to the street, saw a taxi pull over.

Harry said, “Want a ride?”

“My hotel’s just over there,” Cordell said, recognizing the museum, pointing. “By the Hofgarten.”

“Where you staying?”

“Pension Jedermann,” Cordell said. “Man, it’s no Ritz. Not even a Ho-Joe’s, but it beats the hell out of the barracks at Heidelberg.”

“You want to have a drink sometime, I’m at the Bayerischer Hof, on Promenadeplatz.” Harry took a business card out of his wallet, wrote on the back and handed it him. “Or call me when you get back to Detroit.”

“Be cool,” Cordell said. “Keep an eye out for Blackshirt motherfuckers and such.”

Harry got in and closed the door, and the taxi cruised down the street. Cordell took a step, something shiny caught his eye, glinting under the streetlight. It was a watch. He bent down and picked it up. Patek Philippe. Black gator band. Turned it over said:

To Harry. Yours forever, Anna.

Slipped it in his pocket.

13

Cordell walked to his pension, nice warm September night, nobody on the street, hot wearing the jacket, took it off, draped it over his arm. Stood in front of the pension, was about to go in, still thinking about the watch. Reached in his pocket, brought it out, looked at the time: 11:37. Watch was expensive and he needed money. Cordell thinking, wait, didn’t he deserve it for saving the dude’s life? Could sell it, travel for a while. But Harry was cool and the watch had to mean something to him.

He took out the man’s card: S amp;H Recycling Metals, turned it over, saw Bayerischer Hof, room 573. Where’d he say it was at? Yeah, Promenadeplatz. He walked down the street saw a taxi coming toward him, put up his arm. It stopped, he got in.

Cordell went in the hotel lobby, place quiet, practically deserted at close to midnight. Picked up a house phone, dialed 573. Busy. Waited a couple minutes, tried again. Still busy. Maybe Harry was calling home, talking to Anna, telling her he lost the watch she gave him. He tried the number a third time. Still busy. He decided to go up, surprise him.

He got in an elevator, rode up with three Orientals, watching the lights flash as they passed floors, got off at five, checked room numbers till he found 573. Door was closed but not all the way. He knocked. “Yo, Harry.” Pushed it open a crack, saw the phone on the bed, off the hook, two skinheads ripping the place up. Didn’t see Harry.

He went in. A skinhead with an ax handle came at him. Cordell went left, ducked, felt it swoosh by his head, and bust a hole in the wall. Cordell hit him and he went down.

Now the second one came at him. Cordell somersaulted over the bed, landed on his feet, surprised the guy. Moved in, hit him with a combination, left hook, straight right. Skin dropped the wood, ran for the door, first one just ahead of him. Cordell picked up the ax handle, chased them in the hall, watched them run for the stairs, open the door and disappear. Heard someone behind him, turned in a batter’s stance, arms cocked, hands gripping the skinny end of the handle, saw Harry.

“You taking batting practice, 12:30 in the morning?”

“You had visitors, Harry. Was just showing them out.” He lowered the ax handle. “Man, you are a popular guy.”

Harry walked into his room, Cordell right behind him. It smelled like paint and he saw why. There was a crude-looking black swastika sprayed on one of the white walls. Dresser drawers had been pulled out, clothes dumped on the floor. He went over to the bed, picked up the phone, put the receiver back and placed it on the end table. He’d left the photographs from Berman on the desk. They were gone.

“Two of ’em,” Cordell said. “Skinheads. Looked like the dudes come to the ratskeller. Same tribe. Missed ’em by a minute.” He paused. “What’s goin on?”

Harry looked at the swastika again. “I think they’re trying to scare me, convince me to leave town.”

“They doing a good job,” Cordell said. “Maybe you should listen.” His eyes scanned the room. “Who are they? Why they after you?”

“I don’t know.” Were they working for Hess? That was the logical explanation, but he didn’t want to get into it right now. Needed time to think.

“Come on, Harry.”

“What’re you doing here?” Harry said.

Cordell reached in his pocket, took out the watch. “Found it in the street outside the police station. Thought you probably want it.”

Cordell handed it to him. Harry, thinking he’d lost it, fit the band on his wrist and fastened it.

Cordell sat on the bed. “Who’s Anna? Will you tell me that?”

“My wife,” Harry said.

“How long you married?”

“Three years,” Harry said, turning the desk chair around to face him, sitting in it. “’50 to ’53. She died giving birth.”

“What happened?”