Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

“I am nothing of the sort,” the Nazi said. “Put the weapon down, please. I have papers in the car that will prove what I am saying is the truth.”

She saw his right hand slide inside his jacket. “Keep your hands where I can see them. I am nervous. I don’t want to shoot you, but believe me I will.” She glanced at her mother, who seemed frozen. “Call the police.”

“You are making a mistake,” the Nazi said.

“Dear, what are you doing?”

“He came here to kill us.”

He smiled. “I will show you my identification.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them. Mother, call the police.” This time she raised her voice.

Gretchen Rizik moved toward the kitchen, keeping her distance from the Nazi. But he lunged at her, got his arm around her neck, hand going into the jacket, coming out with a matte-black gun which he pressed against her cheek.

“Put down the weapon,” he said.

Colette had to do something, and do it fast. Focused on the bodyguard’s big foot in a brown leather shoe, aimed at it — hands shaking, squeezed the trigger, the Luger jumping, her ears ringing. The Nazi was hobbling now, trying to stay on his feet, firing, her mother moving left, diving for the couch, Colette moving left, aiming at his chest, squeezing the trigger. The Nazi going backward, looking at her, trying to raise the gun and then he was on the floor.

Colette kicked the pistol out of his hand, but he was dead, eyes staring up at the ceiling. She searched him and found his billfold, opened it and took out his driver’s license. His name was Arno Rausch, fifty-one, a Munich address. What was she going to do with him? Saw herself putting him in the trunk of his car and driving it into the Wallersee, a lake not far to the north.

Her mother was sitting on the couch. She didn’t look good, face drained of color. “Are you all right?” Colette laid her down on the couch, tried to make her comfortable. “You’re going to be okay,” Colette said, wondering if she’d had a heart attack. She got up and called an ambulance.

Detroit, Michigan. 1971.

First thing Harry did when he got home, he mixed a drink, bourbon and soda, sat at the kitchen table, listening to the messages on his answering machine, skipping through them until he heard Colette’s voice.

“I have been so worried about you. My friend with the police told me what happened. I tried to visit but they would not let me see you. I am staying with my mother in Bergheim. Call me as soon as you can. I miss you.”

Harry picked up the phone and got an overseas operator. He gave her the number and listened to it ring a long time before he hung up. He tried her apartment and got her answering machine. He had a bad feeling. It was 11:20 p.m. in Munich. He thought about calling Huber but decided against it.

Cordell got home at 5:25, opened the front door and went in the house. Looked the same as the day he enlisted, maybe worse. Shit everywhere in the living room, empty Popeye buckets, liquor bottles: pints and fifths scattered on the floor. Plaid sofa, fabric all tore, lamps without shades, holes in the plaster walls, ashtray overflowing with tan filtered cigarette butts, electric fan on, blade out of line. He could hear it scraping the mesh cover.

“Momma, you home? Where you at?” Dropped his army duffel on the floor in the hall, walked down to the kitchen, saw more of the same. Lightbulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling, dishes piled in the sink, bottles on the floor, empty refrigerator. His momma was some kind of fucked-up homemaker.

Cordell went upstairs, checked the bedrooms, found her lying next to some raggedy-ass nigger snoring loud like somebody working a jackhammer. She surprised him, opened her eyes, pulled the sheet up to cover herself. He moved to the foot of the bed, her eyes following him.

“Spook, what you doin here?” She’d been calling him that since he was a little boy afraid of the dark, fuckin’ with him, makin’ fun of him. “What you doin’ home?” she said, slurring. “Suppose to be in the army.”

“Got kicked out.”

“Know what they goin’ do to you?”

“No, what? You a lawyer?”

“Don’t get smart.”

“Not going to be around long enough to worry about it.”

“Where you goin’?”

“Who’s that?” Cordell nodded at the brother. Big man with a full ’fro.

“Reginald.”

“Reginald, huh? Sounds like royalty, looks like a street trash.”

“What you ’spect?”

He turned, walked out. Went to his old room, sat on the bed, stained mattress on a gray metal frame, no sheets or blanket. Sat, looked around. Had a desk and chair. Old beat-up dresser. Cracked shade covering the window. He pulled it up, saw the house next door, look about five feet away. He went to the closet, opened the door, all his clothes and shoes were gone. Must’ve sold everything to keep herself high.

Cordell brought the desk chair into the closet, positioned it against the back wall and stood on it. Pushed up on a two-by-six board in the ceiling until it moved. Loosened it, pulled it out, put it on the floor.

He got back on the chair, reached through the opening into the attic, felt around till his hand touched the shoebox. Slid it toward him and lifted it out. Took the top off, lookin at $32,550 and a nickel-plate .45. Proceeds from his time with Chill. Spent a lot on the bitches. Saved a lot, too.

Cordell ejected the clip, checked the load and popped it back in. Next, he counted out five thousand, split the pile in two, folded the bills and put them in the front pockets of his pants, wads bulging a little under stretch polyester.

He put the box back in the attic and replaced the board. He was in the hall on his way downstairs when his mother came out her room.

“What you doin’, scratchin’ around in there.”

“Lookin’ for my shit. Where’s it at?”

“Gone, honey chile.”

“So am I.” He wondered if she’d seen him in the closet, could figure out what was happening? Looked in her eyes, saw she was still fucked-up. “Can I trust you not to sell anything else?” He’d brought the duffel up and changed into the dark-green leisure suit with the matching shirt.

“Can’t promise nothin’.”

“Well, Momma, thank you very much.”

She flashed a stoned grin. “Just playin’ with you. Your things be okay.”

Cordell walked down 14th to the Boulevard, stood in front of the GM building, got a cab, took it to the Ponch, got a suite with a river view, could see the Ambassador Bridge and the Detroit city buildings. He went in the bedroom, stretched out on the bed, biggest one he’d ever seen, picked up the phone, called Bernita.

“Hello.” Soft voice kind of sleepy like she was takin’ a nap.

“How you doin’, baby?”

“Who this?”

“Who you think it is?”

“Cordell?” Surprise in her voice. “You suppose to be in the army, ain’t you? Germany or some such place.”

“No, I in Dee-troit or some such place.”

“What you doin’ home?”

“Came back to check on my sweet potato girl.”

“I seein’ Pony now,” she said, her voice sounding like she wasn’t sure.

“What you doin’ with that midget nigger?” Pony was like five five, little sawed-off nigger worked for Chilly.

“He around,” Bernita said. “Takes me places, buys me things.”

Why was he wasting his time? She started to say something else and he hung up the phone. Fuck Bernita.

Next he tried Rochelle. No answer. Tried LaDonna.

Her voice said, “That you, sugar plum?”

How’d she know he was back? “You got me.”

“Cordell?” Straight-up surprise.

“Who you think it was?”