Voices of the dead

Buddy walked down a hall to the elevators, went up to three, nobody around, walked to the end of the hall, the nurses’ station, opened a door and started down another hall that was dark and hard to see, walking by all these sick people sleeping on gurneys lined up against the wall. He passed a white dude pushing a colored guy in a wheelchair. “How you doing?” The white dude nodded at him.

Buddy opened the door to 308-he’d asked an orderly what room his good friend Cordell Sims was in-saw an old colored guy asleep in the first bed. The privacy curtain between the beds was pulled closed. He opened it and saw the second bed was empty, bolt cutter lying on the mattress. He went to the bathroom, opened the door, nobody there. And then it hit him. Cordell Sims was in the wheelchair. Had to be, right?

At first Harry thought he was a male nurse. Who else would be walking around a hospital at close to midnight? Wasn’t part of the janitorial staff either. Not in jeans and a sleeveless denim jacket. Young, about thirty. Harry’s height, trim build, long hair pulled back in a ponytail. Harry looked over his shoulder and saw him go into Cordell’s room.

He leaned into the wheelchair, pushing it, got it moving, started running. Got to the end of the hall, went through the door, picking up speed again, racing past the nurses’ station, down another hall to the elevators, pushed the button. He looked back, saw someone running down the hall toward them. Saw the elevator coming up from the first floor. The doors opened. The runner was halfway down the hall. Harry rolled Cordell in and pushed the button. The runner, the young guy he’d passed earlier, had a gun in his hand, getting closer. The doors were closing as he got there, but he was too late. They were already on their way down.

Buddy took the stairs to the first floor, lobby empty, rent-a-cop outside having a smoke. They wouldn’t have come this way, have to get by the guard. So where in the hell were they? Maybe down on the lower level, sneaking out another way. But the jig was in a wheelchair and that meant he couldn’t walk or he’d be walking.

He took the hall the opposite way, ran all the way to Emergency, big room packed, crazy, out of control, people moaning, bodies on stretchers. Ambulances and black-and-gold Detroit police cars were pulling up outside. Orderlies wheeled a white guy in on a gurney, blood all over him, dude yelling.

And then he thought-wait a goddamned minute-with all this going on, who’s going to notice somebody leaving in a wheelchair? Following his hunch he went outside, walked down the concrete ramp past the police cars to the sidewalk, looked right. Nothing. He walked around the corner to St. Antoine, looked left and saw them-suck my balls-just down the block, white guy helpin’ the colored guy into a car but couldn’t tell what kind.

Buddy took off running but was still thirty yards away when the car started moving, picking up speed. He drew the.44, held it with two hands, aimed down the sight and squeezed the trigger, the big gun making a racket, fired four times but couldn’t tell he hit the car or not. It kept going.

What the hell was he going to tell Mr. Klaus? Then he got to thinking. Why was it his problem? Far as he was concerned he’d taken the risk, earned the money. Fuck Mr. Gerd Klaus, the Nazi.

33

Harry heard the gunshots and floored it. He got a brief glimpse of the shooter, a dark shape in the rearview mirror, before he turned the steering wheel right and then left, zigzagging out of the line of fire. Cordell was in the seat next to him leaning back against the door, letting out a breath.

“You OK?”

“Better now that I’m out of there. Harry Levin to the rescue once again. Not a moment too soon. How you do it? You clairvoyant? See the future, Harry? Tell me what the fuck’s gonna happen next. ’Less you see something bad.”

“I had a feeling whoever shot you was coming back. But who was that? I wondered if he was someone from your days selling.”

“Never seen him in my life.”

“Maybe he works for Hess. But we know he isn’t German. You hear him say ‘How you doing’ when he passed us in the hall?”

“Must’ve missed that.”

“You can stay at my place tonight,” Harry said, “we’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

“Don’t have to figure out nothin’, I know what I got to do.”

“Let’s see what my lawyer says.”

“That’s OK but I’m goin’ to see it from somewhere else.”

“The way things are going I might be in the cell next to you.”

“I doubt it. Nothin’ touches you, Harry. Shit slides right off your back.” He paused. “You don’t mind, got to run by the Ponch get my clothes.”

Harry cut over to Jefferson, the Motor City dark and quiet just after midnight on a Wednesday night, parked in front of the hotel, turned in his seat. “Need some help?”