Peter Leonard - Back from the Dead

Joyce could see Armand in a pillow fight maybe, but not locked in mortal combat with a crazed Nazi.

They had dinner on the terrace, paella with soft-shell crabs, watching boats cruise by on Lake Boca, Joyce looking at the glittering buildings in the distance. She let her guard down, felt relaxed for the first time in several days.

“So you’re selling real estate. How’re you doing?”

“Better when a Nazi murderer isn’t after me.”

“You’re funny,” Larry said. “Keeping your sense of humor even under duress.”

“I better or I’m going to crack up. What time’s your party start?”

“About nine. Stick around, you need to have some fun.”

“I don’t want to cramp your style.”

“That’s impossible. To say we’re uninhibited is an understatement.”

Joyce was in her room watching All in the Family when she heard the music come on, Tina Turner belting out “Proud Mary” at full volume. Joyce turned off the TV and walked out of the room, leaning over the railing, looking down at the living room empty of furniture and filled with dancing men. There were short stocky men, tall good-looking men, there were old men and young men, men dressed up and men dressed down and a few getting undressed, dancing in their undies. Joyce had never seen anything like it. She assumed they would all be tan and fit and good-looking, although Larry sure didn’t fit that stereotype.

Larry was dancing with a stocky dark-haired guy wearing hospital scrubs. He looked up and waved at her to join them. She was on the stairs when “Proud Mary” ended and “Rainy Days and Mondays” started. Now they were slow dancing with their arms wrapped around each other. Joyce was uncomfortable seeing men dancing close, a few couples making out.

She approached Larry, who stopped dancing and introduced her. “My cousin, Joyce. Joyce, Marty Rosenberg, my significant other.”

“Nice to meet you,” Marty said, eyes a-glitter, chest hair sprouting out of the V-neck of his scrub top.

“Get a drink,” Larry said. “Join us. Dance.”

“I will in a minute,” Joyce said. She went in the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine and went out to the terrace. It was warm and clear, Karen Carpenter’s voice blaring from outdoor speakers. To the left, fifty feet away, was the pool. Party guests were frolicking in the water and a naked guy was jumping on the diving board, his thing swinging up and down.

Hess drove to the house that was on the water, twenty minutes from Pompano, north on A1A. This was the address in Joyce’s address book, cousin Larry on Lake Drive. He had phoned earlier asking for her, saying he was from the real estate company, and was told she was napping. “Please do not disturb her,” Hess had said to the man with a Spanish accent who answered the phone.

He went back to Max Hoffman’s house, parked on the driveway, got out of the car and Lois Grant was standing there.

“I finally caught you,” she said smiling. And then the smile faded. “You’re not Max, who are you?”

“A friend from Cleveland. Max invited me to come down and get some sun while he’s away.”

“I wondered. I’ve called and called. I thought maybe something happened to him. Maybe he had a heart attack.”

“No, Max is fine,” Hess said. “Visiting relatives in Berlin.” That seemed to satisfy her.

“I’m Lois Grant, by the way.”

“I know all about you,” Hess said. “Max speaks very highly of you.”

Lois Grant smiled. “Does he? Nice meeting you, Mr.…”

“Emile Landau. And nice meeting you, Lois.”

After dinner, grilled hog snapper, French fries and two bottles of Lowenbrau, sitting at the counter at the Reef Grill, Hess drove back to Lake Drive in Boca. The street was lined with cars. It was difficult to find a place to park.

Hess moved to the house, looked in the front window and saw men stripped down to their underwear, dancing with each other in some kind of bacchanalian ritual. Hess was disgusted yet fascinated.

On the water side of the house he heard voices, laughing and shouts, and saw nude men chasing each other around the pool. He went back the other way across the front of the house and around the side. There was a long deck built off the rear of the house that extended all the way to the pool. Joyce Cantor was leaning on the railing, looking out at the water ten feet above him.

Hess had been thinking how unlucky he was coming on the night of a party but now realized it was an advantage. He pulled the .38 out of his pocket. With all the noise who would hear the gunshot? A boat zoomed by and he turned and glanced at it and when he looked back Joyce was gone.

The music stopped at 12:28. Hess, sitting on rocks under the terrace, heard the partying homosexuals leaving the house, getting in their cars. He heard horns honking and music and tires squealing. The first-floor lights went off at 1:17, the second-floor lights at 2:15. He moved up the waterside stairs to the terrace. There was a sliding glass door that led to the kitchen. He pulled and it opened, moved into the kitchen, scanning counters lined with bottles and glasses and platters of hors d’oeuvres.

He glanced into the salon and saw a figure moving across the empty room. Hess retreated through the kitchen into the pantry. In the dim light he saw a naked man open the refrigerator and drink from a juice carton, return it and close the door. The naked man walked out of the kitchen.

It was 2:42 a.m. when Hess moved up the winding staircase. He saw what he assumed were three bedrooms, all the doors closed. The Jewess had to be sleeping in one of them. Hess opened the first door. Looked into a big white room with a wall of white drapes closed against the lake on one side. There was a man asleep in the bed, his bald head sticking out of the covers, turned facing the drapes. What surprised him was the naked man coming out of the bathroom. They surprised each other. “Who the hell’re you?” He saw the gun, moved back in the bathroom. Hess shot him, walked out and closed the door.

Joyce was in the woods at the edge of the pit, her back to the firing squad, looking down at the pile of bodies dead and dying. She heard the loud reports of gunfire and saw women falling on both sides of her, waiting for the impact of the bullet.

Joyce opened her eyes, saw moonlight slice across the room where the drapes weren’t closed all the way. Heard gunfire in the house. She got up, opened the sliding door and went out to the balcony, heard the door to the bedroom open behind her. Ran down to the far end, heard someone on the balcony behind her, opened the sliding door to Larry’s room and went in. Larry was asleep. Marty was on the floor in the bathroom. She ran out of the room, saw Armand on his stomach on the landing outside her bedroom.

Joyce ran down the stairs, heart bouncing in her chest, made it to the bottom when she heard a gunshot, and felt something sting her shoulder. Ran out of the house to the empty lot next door that was overgrown with sea grape, got down on the ground. Her shoulder ached, she rubbed it and felt something wet and sticky on her arm.

Joyce heard him pushing through the heavy foliage, saw a foot in a Docksider, looked up through the leaves at a face in a baseball cap, trying to keep pressure on her shoulder that was now throbbing with pain, trying to stop the bleeding. She heard him crashing through the sea grape and then he was gone. Joyce got up, dizzy, thought she might pass out. Saw glimpses of him walking to a car that was parked on the side of the road about thirty feet away. She moved behind the wall of foliage, saw him get in the car and saw the lights go on and read the license number.

The man who had followed Colette from the train station was sitting in a paneled VW bus, the kind tradesmen drove, parked across the street from her building. Colette zoomed in on his face with her telephoto lens. It was Franz Stigler, the MC from the Blackshirt rally. She hoped he was better at electrical wiring than he was at spying.