Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

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.

Harry saw a flash of movement to his left and felt his ribs explode as an ax handle thudded into his side. He went down on his knees, wind knocked out, trying to draw a breath. Saw the Blackshirt raise his weapon again, ducked under a table and came out on the other side. Cordell finished the Blackshirt off with a straight right–left hook combination and helped Harry to his feet. They ran out of the ratskeller, down the street lined with cars to the BMW, sidewalk congested with people out for the night. Harry looked back, saw the Blackshirts running toward them, fumbled with the keys.

Cordell, on the other side of the car, said, “Yo, Harry, you see ’em? The fuck you doing?”

Harry got in and unlocked the passenger door. Cordell jumped in next to him. He started the BMW and the Blackshirts were on them, circling the car, waving their ax handles.

“Put the motherfucker in gear,” Cordell said.

Harry slid the shifter in reverse, turned the steering wheel trying to maneuver out of the space. He heard a siren in the distance. Saw an ax handle hit his side window. The glass shattered and buckled. Two ax handles smashed the windshield. It cracked and cobwebbed. The window next to Cordell exploded, glass flying. Harry could feel his heart pounding. He shifted into first, cut the steering wheel hard left, floored it and pulled out, hit a Blackshirt, man bouncing over the hood and off. The rest of them were running next to the BMW, ax handles banging into sheet metal. He saw flashing lights approaching, heard the siren getting louder, a police car pulled up in front of him, and the Blackshirts took off.

They were taken to the Kriminalpolizei station, escorted to a conference room, just the two of them. Door closed. Sitting across a long table from each other, waiting for someone to take their statements. They had given their passports to a cop in uniform when they arrived.

Harry looked around the room at the light-green walls and nondescript decor, fixed his attention on Cordell. “Thanks for helping me.”

“Didn’t have much choice. It was us or them.”

The adrenalin had worn off and Harry felt the pain in his side getting sharper, more intense. It was hard to breathe.

“Yo, Harry, you all right?”

“I think so.”

“Maybe you better have someone look at that. Might’ve busted something.”

“I’m OK.”

“What was that all about back there?”

The door opened and a detective came in. He was pale, mid-forties, thin dark hair combed back, shirt and tie, small semiautomatic in a holster on his hip. He introduced himself as Huber. Sat at the end of the table between them. He had a pocketsize notebook in his hand, opened it to a blank page, put it on the table. Took their passports out of his shirt pocket, opened the first one, looked at the photo and handed it to Cordell. He put Harry’s in front of him.

“What is your purpose for coming to Munich?” Heavy Bavarian accent. Sounded like he was interrogating them.

“Visiting,” Harry said.

Huber looked at Cordell.

“Same here. Seein’ the sights.”

Huber turned back to Harry. “What happened tonight?”

He took a pen out of his pocket, pulled off the cap and fit it on the bottom.

“We were attacked by six skinheads carrying ax handles.”

Huber glanced at Cordell. “Do you have anything to add?”

Cordell said, “Wore black shirts‚ had swastikas on them.”

“Did you provoke them?”

“Did we provoke them?” Harry said to Cordell.

“Not hardly.”

“They came in swinging,” Harry said.

“Why do you think they attacked you?” Huber said to Harry.

“Maybe they don’t like Americans.”

“Or maybe it was me. Black men scare these master-race dudes.”

Huber wrote something on the pad. “You are able to identify them?”

“They looked a lot alike,” Harry said. “Six skinheads in black shirts. Not much more to tell you. It was dark, it happened fast. Talk to the bartender at the ratskeller. She might be able to give you a description. She got a good look at a couple of them.”

“I was you I’d check the hospitals. One of them is going to need a whole lot of stitches in his forehead.”

Harry said. “You know who they are, Detective?”

“The Blackshirts,” Huber said in the same flat monotone.

“Sound like a heavy metal group,” Cordell said. “Teach ’em to play music, spit blood, make a fortune.”

Huber ignored him. “They are the new Nazis, terrorizing in the name of nationalism. You are fortunate. You might have been injured or killed. If you see them again, call the police immediately.”

“That’s it? You’re not going to do anything?”

“They have thousands of members. Without accurate descriptions, what can we do?”

Cordell was happy to get out of there. Police stations made him nervous. They stood out front, waiting for a taxi. “These Germans are a lot of fun, huh? Like‚ could the man be any less helpful? Goin’ through the motions, like he don’t want to waste his time helpin’ a couple Americans.”

“He did seem to want to get rid of us,” Harry said, “didn’t he?”

“I don’t trust cops,” Cordell said. “Period, in a sentence.”

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.

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&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.