Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

“I’ve been a little paranoid since last night. Get attacked by six lunatics with ax handles and it might color your point of view.”

“Maybe I am with them. Maybe I have been acting, playing a role. Maybe I still am.”

She was angry, wasn’t finished, wasn’t going to let it go just yet. She grinned, came toward him, put her palms on his shoulders. With her heels on they were almost eye level, Harry a little taller. He let her take charge. She kissed him with her red lacquered lips and stuck her tongue in his mouth, blue eyes closed for a few seconds then opening, staring at him.

“You still in character?” Harry said.

“Come with me and find out,” Colette said, taking his hand, guiding him through the apartment to her room. They moved to the bed and stood next to it, quietly taking each other’s clothes off in the darkness and sliding into bed, doing everything by feel.

He opened his eyes, saw morning light filtering through the sheer curtains, Colette sleeping next to him on her side, back to him, sheet tucked under her left shoulder, blonde hair spread across the pillow. She’d surprised him, taking him to bed. It was the last thing he expected to happen given his suspicions and her attitude.

He looked at his watch. It was 6:22 a.m. He slid out of bed, picked up his clothes, took everything into the main room, got dressed and looked around. He hadn’t noticed much the night before, and hadn’t come out of the bedroom until now.

The furniture was simple modern, black leather chairs and couch, chrome and glass tables. There was a framed Toulouse-Lautrec print over the mantel. A man wearing a black hat and black coat, with a red scarf tied around his neck, hanging over his shoulder. The caption said:

There was a framed sepia-tone photograph on one of the end tables, a good-looking woman in a nurse’s uniform.

“My mother when she was about my age,” Colette said, coming in the room, tying the sash on her robe, yawning. She ran her fingers through her hair.

“You look like her,” Harry said.

“It was taken in 1945 just before the war ended.”

He placed the frame back on the table.

“Harry, I am not exactly sure what happened last night,” she said, pulling the top of the robe closed as if she was embarrassed, being modest all of a sudden.

“I am,” Harry said, moving toward her. He put his arms around her and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “I’ll call you later, check in.”

He got back to his hotel room at 7:15. The light on the phone was flashing. He had two messages. Surprised the first one was from Colette. “Harry, I have an idea, call me.”

The second one was from Lisa. “Harry, Joyce, the survivor from Palm Beach, wants to talk to you.”

Another Dachau Jew who had dug out of the grave that night. He was anxious to talk to her too. Harry ordered room service and took a shower. The food arrived while he was getting dressed. He ate bacon and eggs, and drank his coffee, scanned the Herald Tribune checking baseball scores. The Tigers had beaten Cleveland six to five and were still leading their division going down the stretch, two and a half games ahead of the Yankees.

He finished and phoned Lisa. No answer. Tried Colette.

“Harry, I’m going undercover.”

“What’re you talking about?”

“A contact I made, this Blackshirt, invited me to meet him at a bar where they hang out. I think he likes me, Harry. Are you jealous?”

“No, I’m worried about you. What are you trying to find out?”

“I don’t know. But I’m not going to get a story unless I take some risks.”

“What’s his name?”

“Werner. And believe me, he’s harmless. He has joined them because he has nothing else to do. If you’re so worried, you can drive me.”

Colette studied her face in the mirror. She applied mascara around her eyes until she looked like a raccoon. Dabbed her cheeks with rouge. Traced her mouth with deep red lipstick.

She dressed in a tight black tee-shirt, breasts on display, tight black jeans and black boots. Slipped rings on her fingers. Let her hair down, combed her bangs until they hung to her eyebrows. Stuffed a pack of cigarettes in the left sleeve of her tee-shirt and practiced making faces in the mirror, psyching herself up. Colette liked her new look, thought she could pass for a neo-Nazi. Her final accessory was a distressed leather jacket. Now she was ready.

Harry drove to Colette’s apartment, parked on the street and waited for her to come down. He watched an Audi back into a space in front of him, thinking it was going to slam into him. Just then, his passenger door opened, a girl he’d never seen before got in next to him, cigarette hanging from her mouth. She took it out and grinned.

“Harry, what do you think?”

“Do I know you?”

Colette smiled.

Harry said, “I see what you mean. You look like a neo-Nazi hooker.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.”

Colette grinned again, rolled down the window and tossed out the cigarette.

“Where to?” Harry said.

They drove to a rundown area on the outskirts of Munich that reminded him of parts of Detroit after the ’67 riot.

“It’s right there, Harry.” Colette pointed. “Across the street.”

He slowed down and pulled over. A sign above the door said Gaststätte . It was a small pub in the center of a block of vacant storefronts, wind blowing a piece of newspaper along the sidewalk, a couple Blackshirts out front, smoking.

“You still think this is a good idea, huh?”

“No, Harry. That is why I have gone to all this trouble.”

“How long is this going to take?”

“If I am not out in one hour call the police.”

He didn’t like the sound of it.

She read his expression and said, “Take it easy. I am kidding you.”

Harry watched neo-Nazis come and go. At the hour mark he was starting to worry in spite of Colette’s casual attitude. When she still hadn’t appeared twenty minutes later, he got out of the car, crossed the street and went in the bar. When the door opened every skinhead in the place turned and looked at him. The bar was packed shoulder to shoulder with drinkers. Every table occupied. He’d never felt more out of place. He scanned the room, saw Colette subtly shake her head, and felt like a fool, but didn’t have time to dwell on it. A tall skinhead with an ax handle came over from the bar.

“What are you doing here? Are you lost?”

“I thought this was a bar. I was going to have a beer.”

The skinhead stared at him as if he were an idiot, poked him in the chest with the tapered end of the ax handle. Harry could feel the weight of the .38 in his jacket pocket. Wanted to draw it, put it in the guy’s face, but it would be the last dumb thing he ever did.

“I think you’ve made a mistake. I think you are going to turn around and walk out. Never come back here again.”

Harry moved to the door, opened it and went out.

Colette finally came out half an hour later. She glanced in his direction and started down the sidewalk. Harry made a U-turn and picked her up at the end of the block. She got in, looked at him and said, “Are you out of your mind? Harry, what were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t. I was reacting. Worried about you. You were in there almost two hours.”

“Well‚ you caused quite a stir.”

“Who were you sitting with?”

“Gustav, one of my new friends.”

“Where was Werner?”

“Drunk. He introduced me to a few of the guys. Two of them propositioned me in front of him, said they wanted to take me in the toilet and fuck me.”