Voices of the dead

Hess turned around and drove through Hamtramck, a predominantly Polish town. He didn’t have much respect for Poles. Germany had invaded Poland in 1939, taking over the country in a couple weeks. He remembered seeing newsprint photographs of German troops goose-stepping through Warsaw. He stopped at a pay phone, dialing the number for S amp;H Recycling Metals, getting ready to use a Southern accent and a name he had seen in the Detroit News.

A woman’s voice said, “S amp;H, how may I direct your call?”

Hess said, “Is Harry there?”

“Who’s calling please?”

“This is Ray Meade.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Levin’s out of town. Sir, what did you say your name was?”

“Ray Meade, darlin’. When do you expect him?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. He’s driving back from Pittsburgh.”

Hess hung up the phone.

Fifteen minutes later he was parked on Lothrop near 14th Street in front of a brown two-storey brick house, the address Rausch had received from their contact at police headquarters in Munich. Hess was looking at a black-and-white photograph of Cordell Sims taken the night he was arrested. A big American sedan passed by him, moving slowly, three Negros in the front seat all turning, studying him.

He opened the door, stepped out of the Malibu, walked to the house and knocked on the door. Hess waited several seconds and knocked again. He peered in one of the front windows on the left, saw the decrepit condition of the interior and wondered if anyone was living there. He knocked on the door again and this time it opened. A hostile black woman, whose age he would have guessed at fifty, stared at him before she said anything.

“What do you want, get me out of bed I’m trying to sleep?”

“I’m looking for Cor-dell,” Hess said. The Southern accent to his ear sounding effortless, authentic.

“Ain’t here. You the dude he met over to Germany?”

“I am,” Hess said, using the information to his advantage. “Do you know where I can find him?”

“No, but he gonna come back later get his things and go.”

“Tell him Harry Levin stopped by, will you?”

“Yeah, you the dude he was talking about. Jewish fella, huh?”

“That’s me,” Hess said, smiling.

“Where you from with that accent?”

“Chattanooga, Tennessee originally.”

“Dint think they had no Jews livin’ down there.”

“There are a few of us.”

“Man name Harry Levin come by lookin’ for you,” Cordell’s momma said, wearin’ her stained light-blue robe, curlers in her hair.

“Harry Levin, you sure?” Harry didn’t know where he lived.

“That’s what the man said. You think I’m making this up?”

“What’d he want?”

“Asking for you. Did I know where you was at?”

It was strange. They’d only been back a few days, why would Harry be lookin’ for him? Cordell opened his wallet, took out Harry’s card, went in the kitchen, called the number and got the answering machine. A lady’s voice said, ‘You have reached S amp;H Recycling Metals. Our office hours are Monday through Friday seven a.m. to four p.m.’ He left a message.

Cordell went upstairs, got his things, put the shoebox in his duffel, told his momma he was leavin’. He’d picked up a Dodge Dart at a used car lot on Gratiot earlier that afternoon. Paid cash. $1,500. Ran like a top.

She said, “Leavin’ for where?”

“Don’t know that yet.” But in the morning he was going to head toward Chicago. Start over.

The Negro, Cordell Sims, got out of a dark-blue automobile at 6:30 that evening. He entered the house on Lothrop and came out ten minutes later carrying a green military duffel. Hess followed him on Woodward Avenue to the Pontchartrain Hotel. Sims went in with the bag and appeared thirty minutes later. It was 7:20 p.m.

The next stop was Sportree’s Bar. After that, a nightclub called the Parizian on Linwood. Hess parked across the street, watching the blacks, reminding him of an African tribe with their bright-colored clothing, high Afros, neck chains and jewelry. He watched them strut around like peacocks. Groups of them standing outside, men and women, smoking and talking, shaking hands in some ritual motion. A parade of automobiles stopping, two or three at a time, Negros getting out, moving toward the door, and when it opened he could hear the high-pitched scream of a trumpet or the thumping of drums.

Cordell Sims entered the club at 9:30 and came out at 11:15, escorting a woman with an Afro, short dress accentuating her long legs. Hess opened the door and got out of the Malibu, waited for traffic to clear, crossed the street and followed them, the sidewalk deserted. He saw them get into Cordell’s dark-blue Dodge. Hess drew the weapon, holding it at arm’s length down his leg, approaching the car from behind, crouching along the driver’s side, looking through the window. Cordell and the woman were kissing. He brought the Walther up and fired five times through the windscreen, shattering the glass.

Headlights were approaching. He slid the gun in his pocket and crossed the street.

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