Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

I love the Führer and I’d do anything for him and the Party…

Sure, it was nuts that a man would just take his own life like that. But what was more unsettling was what it told Paul about the gray strip of land he was now gazing at. How many people there had this same deadly passion? People like Dutch Schultz and Siegel were dangerous, but you could understand them. What this man had done, that look in his eyes, the breathless devotion… well, they were nuts, way out of kilter. Paul’d never been up against anyone like that.

His thoughts were interrupted as he looked to his side and noticed a well-built young Negro walking toward him. He wore a thin blue Olympic team jacket and shorts, revealing powerful legs.

They nodded greetings.

“Excuse me, sir,” the man said softly. “How you doing there?”

“Fine,” Paul answered. “Yourself?”

“Love the morning air. Lot cleaner than in Cleveland or New York.” They looked over the water. “Saw you sparring earlier. You pro?”

“An old man like me? Just do it for the exercise.”

“I’m Jesse.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I know who you are,” Paul said. “The Buckeye Bullet from Ohio State.” They shook hands. Paul introduced himself. Despite the shock of what had happened in his cabin, he couldn’t stop grinning. “I saw the newsreels of the Western Conference Meet last year. Ann Arbor. You beat three world records. And tied another one, right? Must’ve seen that film a dozen times. But I’ll bet you’re tired of hearing people tell you that.”

“I don’t mind it one bit, no, sir,” Jesse Owens said. “Just, I’m always surprised people keep up so close with what I do. Just running and jumping. Haven’t seen much of you on the trip, Paul.”

“I’ve been around,” Paul said evasively. He wondered if Owens knew something about what’d happened to Heinsler. Had he overheard them? Or seen Paul grab the man on the top deck by the smokestack? But he decided the athlete would’ve been more troubled if that had been the case. It seemed he had something else in mind. Paul nodded toward the deck behind them. “This is the biggest damn gym I’ve ever seen. You like it?”

“I’m glad for the chance to train but a track shouldn’t move. And it definitely shouldn’t rock up and down like we were doing a few days ago. Give me dirt or cinders any day.”

Paul said, “So. That’s our boxer I was up against.”

“That’s right. Nice fellow. I spoke to him some.”

“He’s good,” Paul said without much enthusiasm.

“Seems to be,” the runner said. It was clear he too knew boxing wasn’t the strong suit of the American team but Owens wasn’t inclined to criticize a fellow athlete. Paul had heard that the Negro was among the most genial of the Americans; he’d come in second in the most-popular-athlete-on-board contest last night, after Glenn Cunningham.

“I’d offer you a ciggie…”

Owens laughed. “Not for me.”

“I’ve pretty much given up offering butts and hits from my flask. You folks’re too damn healthy.”

Another laugh. Then silence for a moment as the solid Negro looked out to sea. “Say, Paul. I got a question. You here officially?”

“Officially?”

“With the committee, I mean? Maybe like a guard?”

“Me? Why do you say that?”

“You sort of seemed like a, well, soldier or something. And then, the way you were fighting. You knew what you were doing.”

“I was in the War. That’s probably what you noticed.”

“Maybe.” Then Owens added, “Course that was twenty years ago. And those two fellows I’ve seen you talking with. They’re navy. We heard ’em talking to one of the crew.”

Brother, another trail of clues.

“Those two guys? Just bumped into ’em on board. I’m bumming a ride with you folks… Doing some stories about sports, boxing in Berlin, the Games. I’m a writer.”

“Oh, sure.” Owens nodded slowly. He seemed to debate for a moment. “Well, if you’re a reporter, you still might know something ’bout what I was going to ask you. Just wondering if you heard anything about those two fellows?” He nodded at some men on the deck nearby, running in tandem, passing the relay baton. They were lightning fast.

“Who’re they?” Paul asked.

“Sam Stoller and Marty Glickman. They’re good runners, some of the best we’ve got. But I heard a rumor they might not run. Wondered if you knew anything about that.”

“Nope, nothing. You mean some qualification problem? Injury?”

“I mean because they’re Jewish.”

Paul shook his head. He recalled there was a controversy about Hitler not liking Jews. There was some protest and talk about moving the Olympics. Some people even wanted the U.S. team to boycott the Games. Damon Runyon had been all hot under the collar about the country even participating. But why would the American committee pull some athletes because they were Jewish? “That’d be a bum deal. Doesn’t seem right by a long shot.”

“No, sir. Anyway, I was just thinking maybe you’d heard something.”

“Sorry, can’t help you, friend,” Paul said.

They were joined by another Negro. Ralph Metcalfe introduced himself. Paul knew about him too. He’d won medals in the Los Angeles Olympics in ’32.

Owens noticed Vince Manielli looking down at them from an upper deck. The lieutenant nodded and started for the stairs.

“Here comes your buddy. That you just met on board.” Owens had a sly grin on his face, not completely convinced that Paul’d been on the level. The Negro’s eyes looked forward, at the growing strip of land. “Imagine that. We’re almost in Germany. Never thought I’d be traveling like this. Life can be a pretty amazing thing, don’t you think?”

“That it can,” Paul agreed.

The runners said good-bye and jogged off.

“Was that Owens?” Manielli asked, walking up and leaning against the railing. He turned his back to the wind and rolled a cigarette.

“Yep.” Paul pulled a Chesterfield out of a pack, lit it in cupped hands and offered the matches to the lieutenant. He too lit up. “Nice man.”

Though a little too sharp, Paul thought.

“Damn, that man can run. What’d he say?”

“We were just shooting the breeze.” In a whisper: “What’s the situation with our friend down below?”

“Avery’s handling it,” Manielli said ambiguously. “He’s in the radio room. Be here in a minute.” A plane flew overhead, low. They watched it for several minutes in silence.

The kid still seemed shaken by the suicide. Not in the same way Paul was, though: because the death told him something troubling about the people he was going up against. No, the sailor was upset because he’d just seen death up close – and for the first time, it was pretty clear. Paul knew there were two kinds of punks. They both talked loud and they both blustered and they both had strong arms and big fists. But one kind would leap for the chance to give knuckle and take it – touching the ice – and the other wouldn’t. It was the second category that Vince Manielli fell into. He was really just a good boy from the neighborhood. He liked to sling out words like “button man” and “knock off” to show he knew what they meant, but he was as far from Paul’s world, though, as Marion was – Marion, the good girl who flirted with bad.

But, like the mob boss Lucky Luciano had once told him, “Flirting ain’t fucking.”

Manielli seemed to be waiting for Paul to comment on the dead sap, Heinsler. Something about the guy deserving to die. Or that he was nuts in the head. People always wanted to hear that about somebody who died. That it was their own fault or they deserved it or it was inevitable. But death is never symmetrical and tidy, and the button man had nothing to say. A thick silence filled the space between them and a moment later Andrew Avery joined them. He was carrying a folder of papers and an old battered leather briefcase. He looked around. There was no one within earshot. “Pull up a chair.”