Peter Leonard - Voices of the Dead

“You hungry? I have a nice brisket and roast potatoes.”

“Well this is my lucky night, isn’t it?” Hess said.

Harry borrowed a bolt cutter from Jerry Dubuque, Jerry saying, “What the hell’re you going to do with that?”

“Cut some bolts,” Harry said. “What do you think?”

“Aren’t you the same guy that said the only Jew you know who uses tools is your dentist?”

“This is an exception.”

“You need help, call me.”

When Phyllis left for the day Harry wrapped the bolt cutter in brown paper and put it in Jerry’s car. He had talked to Bob Stark earlier about Cordell’s legal problems.

“Harry, it’s complicated. He was arrested for selling heroin, looking at five years. Would’ve ended up doing two and a half. But Cordell’s attorney was smart. He told the judge his client’s father had taken off and his mother was a drug addict. Cordell was a victim of circumstances. Wants to make something of himself. Offered to enlist in the army in lieu of incarceration. The judge agreed. But the felony remains on his record. When the police found him outside the nightclub he was carrying a concealed weapon, so they’ve got him on the weapon charge. And since he was arrested for selling heroin, which is a felony, they’ve also got him on felon in possession of a firearm. If convicted he’s looking at five to seven and a half.”

“Can you get him out on bond in the meantime?”

“That’s what I’m looking into. It’s going to take a little time. The court thinks he’s a flight risk. You would be too, you had that hanging over your head.”

He drove to Lelli’s on Woodward for a late dinner. Had a bowl of their wonderful minestrone, spaghetti and meatballs, a green salad and two glasses of house red, lingered over coffee, paid his check and walked out at 10:45. He drove to Detroit Receiving, parked on St Antoine, the street quiet, deserted. Got out with the bolt cutter wrapped in brown paper, about three feet long, hoped it looked like a gift. And now wished he’d thought to put a bow on it. Would’ve been a nice touch.

A black security guard was smoking a cigarette outside the main entrance. Harry walked in the lobby, nobody at the reception counter. A sign said, Admittance , with an arrow pointing down a hallway. He walked thirty yards and came to a reception area with chairs and couches. To the left was a bank of four elevators. He got in one and rode up to the third floor.

The hall was dark. The only sound he heard was his shoes on the tile floor. The nurses’ station was straight ahead, three RNs standing there, one in front of the counter, two behind it. He ducked into the waiting room on his left. It was dark. The TV was on, a Western starring John Wayne, low volume. Black man stretched out on one of the couches, sleeping. Harry could hear him snoring. He sat in a chair with the bolt cutter in his lap, watching the nurses’ station. One by one the nurses disappeared, checking patients, going on rounds.

Harry got up and made his move, crossed the hallway. There were half a dozen wheelchairs lined up. He grabbed one, put the bolt cutter on the seat and wheeled it down the dark hall lined with patients sleeping on gurneys. He opened the door to 308, pushed the chair in and closed it. The man in the first bed was on his back asleep.

Harry stood over Cordell, touched his arm, and shook him. “Wake up,” he whispered. Cordell opened his eyes, blinked and yawned, staring up at him.

“Harry, what time is it?”

“Eleven thirty.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“I brought you a present.” Harry held up the package.

“What’s that?”

Harry ripped the paper off and held the bolt cutter up by the rubber grips, dull gray handles that had once been red.

Cordell’s eyes sparkled, he grinned. “Harry Levin takin’ the law in his own hands. I see it, I don’t believe it.”

“I’ve got to get you out of here before the shooter comes back.” Harry opened the blades of the cutter head, centered them on the chain hooked to the leg-iron, gripped the handles and pushed them together, felt resistance from the hardened steel, pushed through it and heard the metal snap as the blades cut the chain.

“Harry, you never cease to amaze me. Suppose you were in the neighborhood again, huh?”

There was a bandage wrapped around his left forearm where he’d been shot, and a plastic hospital bracelet on his wrist. Harry lowered the bedrail, brought Cordell’s legs over the side, Cordell wincing in pain, holding his bandaged thigh, exposed now as the hospital gown gathered and bunched at the top of his leg.

“Round hit me banged around in there, surgeon had to go in find it,” Cordell said, face straining to get the words out.

He was hurt bad. Harry doubted he could walk. How was he going to get him to the car? How was he going to take care of him? Harry slid Cordell off the bed and got him in the wheelchair, Cordell groaning. Pulled the blanket off the bed, wrapped it around him and wheeled him out of the room.

Buddy was surprised when the real Nazi, Gerd Klaus, called saying he needed his help. Had a job for him, he didn’t mind shooting a coon. Mind? Be a pleasure. They met at Nemo’s over by Tiger Stadium, sat at the crowded bar, had a beer while Mr. Klaus told Buddy what to do and handed him an envelope with ten one hundred dollar bills in it. Buddy would’ve done it for nothing but could definitely use the money. Mr. Klaus said he’d do it himself but he had a nosey Jew to take care of. “I can help you with that too you need me.” But Mr. Klaus said he didn’t.

Buddy’d said, “Miss the Third Reich? Those were the good old days I bet.” Mr. Klaus looked at him but didn’t say anything. He wasn’t the most talkative person Buddy’d ever met. “You guys were so close, but you have to admit, you got a little greedy. Going for England and Russia at the same time. Spread yourselves a little thin, don’t you think?” Mr. Klaus seemed pissed now, wouldn’t look at him, stared straight ahead. “Subject’s still a little sensitive, huh? I understand. You don’t want to talk, that’s okay. It’s not a crime yet?” He grinned‚ thinking it was funny‚ but the Nazi didn’t react.

That had happened earlier. He parked on the street, took the .44 Mag out of the glove box. Got out and locked the pickup. He went in the main entrance, boon security guard inside the door. “Evening officer,” he said, grinning at the rent-a-cop.

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.