by Bill Walker
“Excuse me, sir, would you care for a cocktail?”
Jack looked up and saw the stewardess smiling at him. She couldn’t have been more than twenty.
“Yeah, give me a light beer.”
She reached into an ice bucket and pulled out some horse-piss beer and put it on his tray with a plastic cup.
“That’ll be three dollars, sir,” she said, without losing a watt of her dazzling smile.
He handed her three singles and she continued down the aisle. It wasn’t a full flight; the business fliers wouldn’t be on until Friday. Jack popped the can and poured the nearly frozen beverage down his throat directly from the can. He didn’t really like these bland beers made by the big companies like Miller or Anheuser-Busch, but he’d found they tasted a lot better out of the can. One of those weird things. Like time travel.
“Shit,” he said.
“Sir?”
Surprised, Jack turned and saw the pretty stewardess standing next to him again.
“Is everything all right?”
Jack hoped his embarrassment didn’t show. He looked at her closely and decided she was probably around twenty-five. She had those apple-pie features that stole hearts but would never sell magazines: long, blonde hair that fell in big loose, natural curls halfway down her back, electric-blue eyes that positively vibrated, and that winning smile that no doubt cost her parents a small fortune.
Maybe twenty-four...
“Everything is just fine,” he said, returning her smile.
“Are you going to Miami on business, sir?”
“Yes and no. I am going on business, but I live there too. And please, don’t call me sir.”
Her laugh was girlish—totally captivating.
Twenty-three...
“What should I call you?” she said, sitting on the arm of the seat across the aisle.
“Jack.”
“Hi, Jack, I’m Terry.”
“Hi, Terry. Do you always flirt so shamelessly with your passengers?”
She actually blushed, and for a moment Jack felt like a dirty old man. Hell, he was only forty-two, he wasn’t that old. And if some nubile young thing thought him handsome and virile, who was he to discourage it?
“Only the cute ones,” she replied, her eager eyes appraising his body.
Twenty-two...
Now it was Jack’s turn to blush. No matter how “liberated” he thought of himself, he was always surprised when women came on to him. Unlike some of the men he knew, he actually found it a turn-on.
“Well, thank you. You’ve made my day. And believe me, it’s been a doozy.”
Terry took a pen and a card from her apron and began to write. “My home base is Miami, and I have got two days off before I fly out again. How about we get together for a drink... or something?”
She finished writing and handed Jack the card. It was some other guy’s business card, and on the back she’d written: Terry Blaine (305) 555-1506 in a perfect, cursive handwriting.
“I’d love to, Terry,” he said, “except I’m going with someone.”
She shrugged, her smile dimming a few degrees.
“Well, why don’t you keep the number for a rainy day.”
Jack watched her walk back up the aisle, her cute, pear-shaped ass twitching provocatively in her blue polyester slacks.
Twenty... tops...
Jack breathed harder when he imagined her sitting by the pool at her apartment building in a red T-back bikini.
You really are a dirty old man.
He took another swig of his beer and switched on the overhead light. He had copies of the printouts, and for the umpteenth time that day he pulled them out and stared at them. His eyes found the name on the page: Eisenhower.
I Like Ike!
He remembered his parents sporting those buttons. He’d barely been five years old when Eisenhower ran for reelection. That was another world, a world of malt shops, Chevy Bel-Airs, hula hoops, and hydrogen bombs. It was a world he barely remembered, a world everyone called the golden age. And Ike had been a benevolent father. No one then could have imagined the horror of Vietnam, Dallas in ’63, the eventual erosion of trust in the government by a people tired of being lied to.
He wondered if Ike ever had a twenty-year-old stewardess. Boy, was he tired!
Jack turned his thoughts to the Nine Old Men and tried to imagine what would happen if Kruger succeeded. If Eisenhower were dead at the critical juncture before D-Day, would those under him order a delay? Or would they, angered and determined, pour across the channel, sweeping away everything in their path?
Perhaps that was why the Nine Old Men had a contingency, that no matter what happened, Kruger would travel to Berlin and meet with Hitler and the General Staff. Armed with those telling newsreels of Nuremberg, Jack knew Kruger would succeed. He shuddered and put away the printouts again, took a last swig of the beer, and turned off the overhead light.
Now that the sun had set, the cabin lay in semi-darkness. He yawned. The beer had finally relaxed him to the point where sleep felt possible. He leaned back and looked toward the front of the cabin, where he could see Terry sitting on one of those retractable seats, absorbed in a paperback novel. He smiled as he saw her lips purse and her eyes widen and was captivated all over again. Too bad. But then again, he had Leslie. He closed his eyes and imagined his girlfriend’s passionate cries, her soft lips and gimlet eyes. A feeling of well-being stole over him.
He bolted awake. Leslie! Shit! In the rush of flying to Stamford, and the meeting with Curly, he’d forgotten they’d made plans for dinner—tonight. It was bad enough he’d blown her off the night before. Now, he’d done it twice. And the worst part of it was he could have taken an earlier flight, made their date in plenty of time. Christ, she was probably waiting for him at their favorite little trattoria down in Coconut Grove right this minute. Damn it, damn it, damn it! He should have called her.
Too upset to sleep, he signaled for another drink and stared out the window, wondering just what it was he would say to her. If he lied, he deserved whatever he’d get. On the other hand, if he told the truth, she would think he was nuts. Hell, some small part of him still thought the whole thing sounded crazy. The plane banked, vectoring toward Miami, and his stomach churned, the acid biting at the back of his throat.
All things considered, this was turning out to be one shitty day.
The cab turned off Brickell Avenue and sped up the concrete drive, slowing as it slid under the overhang of 444 Brickell Avenue. The cabbie, a smiling Cuban with a mouthful of gold teeth, handed Jack his bag and sped away in a cloud of oily smoke, raucous salsa music blasting from blown speakers. A trickle of sweat slid down his spine as he loosened his tie and gazed out over the bay. The moon, plump and jaundiced, hung there, mocking him with its pockmarked smile. He could hear tiny waves lapping against the rotted seawall and the smell of dead fish assaulted his nose, making him queasy. Picking up his bag, he walked into the lobby and opened his mailbox. Empty. Jack winced. Leslie had already come here, probably hopping mad.
The elevator, as usual, seemed to take forever to climb the fifteen floors. He found the wait agonizing. Staring at the walls, he noticed a bit of obscene graffiti some delinquent had carved into the wood-grained Formica laminate: For a great buttfuck call Consuela. 555-5150. How long did it take someone using a knife to carve that timeless message? And wouldn’t someone have seen him do it? Then again, maybe it was Consuela. Maybe it was her way of advertising her “specialty.” Jack laughed in spite of his mood, imagining some fat Cuban hooker with knife in hand. God, what was the world coming to?
The elevator slowed and the doors slid open with a happy ping. Jack grabbed his bag, gave Consuela’s advert a parting glance, and trudged down the hallway toward his apartment. Inside, he saw the mail sitting on the dining nook table, a further indictment of his thoughtlessness. He sighed, threw down his bag, and reached for the stack of bills.
“Jack.”
Her voice was
a whisper, a soft call from his guilty heart. His eyes snapped toward the sound and saw her standing in the sliding glass doorway leading to the tiny balcony. Her green eyes flashed in the faint light, and Jack smelled her Coco perfume blown by the warm breeze from the bay.
“Leslie, I—”
She came to him then, her strapless dress swishing against her sleek thighs, her step determined. Her lips burned against his and Jack dropped the mail, enveloping her in his arms. Her breasts pressed against him and he felt the inevitable stirring in his groin. God, was she soft.
Leslie broke the embrace, peered deep into his eyes, and nearly tore his head off with a slap that brought tears to his eyes.
“That’s for leaving town without calling me,” she said, her voice tight with fury. “We had a date. Remember? I sat in that restaurant for hours, feeling like a total fool!”
Jack rubbed his face, blinking back the tears.
“Leslie, I’m sorry—”
“Sorry’s no good anymore, Jack. If it’s not some client coming between us, it’s Wiley. It was Wiley, wasn’t it?” She stalked to the bar, tried to pour herself a drink, then threw the glass against the wall. It smashed into a trillion sparkling pieces and left a half-moon dent in the plaster. “Damn you!”
“I can explain, if you’ll let me,” he said, reaching for her. She drew back as if his hand were a poisonous snake.
“Explain then. What was it this time? His wife leave him again? That stupid club? Tell me! I have a damn right to know!”
Jack eased shut the door and came to her. She stiffened and looked away from him when he tried to touch her. “Listen, sweetheart, I’m sorry I didn’t call you. I know that doesn’t cut it with you at the moment, but something came up, something bad... something really bad. I had to go.”
She wrenched from his grasp and went to the dining nook table. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a key and held it up. “You can have this back. Maybe some bimbo will put up with you. I won’t.”
She slammed it down onto the table, tore open the door, and stormed out.
“Shit,” Jack said.
He caught the elevator doors just as they began sliding shut. “Let me explain. I have to talk to someone, or I’ll go crazy. Please don’t leave... I love you.”
Leslie stared back at him and for one split second, her features softened, her emerald eyes aching. Then, just as quickly, her face hardened into a mask of resolve. She grabbed his hand and pried it off the door, a single tear coursing down her face.
“Good-bye, Jack.”
And then she was gone.
He returned to the apartment and, for the first time, noticed how shabby it looked. The furniture, strictly utilitarian, had a sad, neglected appearance that perfectly mirrored how he felt. Like a zombie, he shuffled to the bar and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, twisted off the cap, and threw it across the room. He tilted the bottle and let the amber liquid burn its way down his throat, coughed, and nearly puked.
His pulse pounded in his temples, and a small throb at the base of his neck promised to turn into a monster of a headache. He took another gulp of whiskey, tasting its smoky, oak-barrel flavor, and found that he liked it.
To hell with Kruger, to hell with Bock, to hell with The Normandy Club and everyone else. Hot tears splashed down his face, but he made no move to wipe them.
“Damn you, Wiley... damn you.”
Chapter Six
Greenwich, Connecticut
5 August 1993
Werner Kruger awoke, and for a moment, knew a tiny stab of fear. Where was he? He sat up on his elbows and looked about the darkened room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. The room looked no more than ten by ten and smelled of stale cigarettes and staler beer. The furniture, what there was of it, barely fit the tiny space. There was a double bed, a beaten-up chest of drawers, and a table with two chairs, one with part of a leg missing. It stood skewed to one side, a testament to its tawdry surroundings. Kruger looked out the window and saw the hotel sign flashing alternately red and blue. The Red Robin Hot-l, n- Vaca-cy. The light shone through the dingy chintz curtains, making the room appear nightmarish, like some scene from a bad American detective movie. Mein Gott, what was he doing here? And then he remembered.
The girl.
He glanced over at her inert form and leered. Her long, red hair hung over her face and she moaned in her sleep faintly, as if replaying the night’s carnal delights. After a final run through with Chessman in his small laboratory, Kruger had hit the strip joints, ending up at the Crystal Slipper, a dive that had seen better days. The surprise had been the women. Usually they looked used and worn, but the management at the Slipper must have spent their money wisely, for the women were quite a few cuts above the competition. The evidence bore out in the first few minutes after Kimber hit the stage.
Kimber—did parents actually name their children that—had mesmerized him.
She stood over six feet tall, and her fiery auburn locks fell to below her waist. Her body was what Americans called voluptuous, and he called zaftig. The breasts, huge mountains of smooth, milk-white flesh, stood straight out, with large pink areolas, and nipples that pushed out the fabric of her skimpy halter top. Kruger suspected they had seen a surgeon’s knife. It didn’t matter. They’d responded to his touch like any. He’d also been delighted to see, when the G-string finally came off, that she was a pure redhead. She met his complete approval.
Ever since childhood, when the sixteen-year-old girl from the flat upstairs seduced him at the not-so-tender age of twelve, he’d been enamored of redheads. He thought of her now, her smile, wet and inviting. The perfect babysitter, the perfect teacher. Yes, Kruger had been madly in love with Helga Meiner from that moment on and every redhead he saw thereafter. There was something uninhibited about them, something wild. Kimber had screamed and bucked just like Helga had so many years before, and he came inside her four times. Now she lay there like some elephantine lump, and Kruger’s mouth tasted like old socks.
He quietly crawled from the bed, careful not to wake her. She groaned again and turned over, her titanic breasts undulating as she moved. Kruger felt his groin stirring and put the thought from his mind. No time for frivolity. Today was the day.
Kruger threw on his clothes and glanced quickly at his watch. Five forty-five a.m., nearly dawn. He could see the horizon already lightening to a dull gray. Then he saw the hundred-dollar bill lying on the nightstand where he’d casually tossed it the night before. Looking at Kimber, he smiled. There was a way to screw her again after all. He picked up the money, put it back in his wallet, and left the room.
Walking down the dark hallway, he nearly tripped over an old black man sleeping off the empty bottle of Gallo White Port that lay under his head. Even though it was empty, the grizzled old tramp held on to it, his crooked, old fingers curled around the neck protectively.
Another dead soldier.
Kruger’s stomach roiled as the odor of stale urine assaulted his nostrils. Stepping over the man, he took the two flights down, passed the snoring desk clerk, and walked out onto the sidewalk. Here the air smelled better, but not by much. The air smelled of diesel fuel and rotting garbage, and the already toasty temperature foretold of the broiling hot day to follow.
Retracing his route from the night before, Kruger walked toward the lot where he’d left his rental car. The small, enclosed cubicle the attendant manned stood locked and fortified with steel bars, a further testament to the squalid nature of the neighborhood. Kruger pulled at his keys and stopped in his tracks. The door to the Toyota Camry he’d rented lay open. Inside, he could see someone working on the dash. His eyes narrowed and his color turned from its usual pallor to a nasty pink.
Hunching over, he crept toward the car. He could hear whoever it was swearing under his breath. Evidently, the Japanese tape deck was not so easy to remove. Americans stealing from the Japanese. Now there was a switch.
Moving with the swiftness of a cheeta
h, Kruger lunged inside the car and yanked the thief out. The thief squirmed and thrashed like an angry house cat thrown into a swimming pool.
“Get the fuck off me, motherfucker!”
The thief was a small, black boy, no more than ten years old. He somehow looked older, as if life on the streets had aged him beyond his years. He stopped struggling and looked Kruger directly in the eyes. They burned with defiance.
“Come on, honky! You wanna mess with me? Well, fuck you!”
Kruger had to laugh at the boy’s nerve.
“What you laughin’ at, whitey?” he said, trying to wrestle out of the older man’s iron grip.
Kruger held him fast by his jacket, an expensive leather and wool number with LA RAIDERS on the back. Kruger also noted the boy’s brand-new Nikes, the kind with the red lights in the heels.
Kruger smiled and shook his head. “Such language, young man. If anyone should be angry, it is I.”
The boy’s eyes snapped up and down quickly, giving him the once-over. He relaxed. He sensed a mark.
“You lookin’ fo’ some action, my man?” the boy said, his manner becoming sassy. “Got some primo ice. Get you a woman too. You want some pussy? I got the best they is. She sixteen and she let you fuck her any which way they is. You got the green, she make you scream.”
Kruger stared at the boy, his expression impassive.
“That don’t do ya? How about dick? You like dick? I’ll let you suck me fo’ a twenty.”
Kruger found the boy’s patter growing tiresome.
“Ja, this ice you say, how much.”
The boy smiled. Gotcha!
“It’s the best, my man. Fifteen fo’ a pop. You in?”
“Ist gut. I am in, as you say.”
The boy’s smile took on an edge of contempt.
“You talk funny, man. Where you from?”
