The Normandy Club

by Bill Walker

  “I’m okay,” Jack said. “I’m going to take a look out.”

  Rolling the cover away just enough to allow his head access, Jack peered out of the hole. His eyes widened in fright. They were diagonally across the street, no more than thirty yards from Henry’s house. Luckily, the manhole stood near a stand of vegetation and between the pools of illumination cast by the peach-colored crime lights. Smoke and flames poured out of the wreckage of Henry’s house. A unit of the Coral Gables Fire Department stood by with hoses ready, waiting for the signal to move in. The front yard was a hive of activity, as black-clad members of the Einsatzgruppe herded the survivors into black vans. Jack counted only a handful of prisoners out of what must have been nearly a hundred and fifty people.

  Poor fuckers, Jack thought. Jack knew they were as dead as those left inside. The best they could hope for was a quick execution by firing squad. Anything rather than what the three of them witnessed tonight. As the troopers shut the last prisoner into one of the vans, the group’s leader, a Hauptsturmführer, began shouting orders in both English and German. They were leaving! Jack began to breathe again, realizing that they were safe. All they had to do was wait.

  “What are you seeing, Jack?” Curly said.

  Jack climbed back down.

  “They’re taking off. They got a few prisoners—”

  “How many?” Denise asked.

  Jack just stared at her, not knowing how to say it.

  “Oh, God,” she said softly.

  “HALT!”

  A beam of light stabbed the darkness.

  Curly’s head snapped around. “Shit! They found the passageway. Up the ladder!”

  Jack grabbed Denise and pushed her up the ladder and followed her, with Curly right behind.

  When he scrambled out of the hole, he found Denise crouching behind the bushes nearby. He turned and watched for Curly. A moment later, his massive shoulders pushed their way out of the hole. Suddenly, a bright beam snapped on, catching him halfway out of the hole. Instinctively, he froze.

  “Halt! By order of State Security, you are to surrender immediately!”

  Curly looked to Jack, smiled, and then continued climbing out of the hole.

  A burst of machine gun fire caught the big man across the chest. Small red dots appeared in a jagged line that quickly blossomed and ran into each other. Blood poured from Curly’s mouth and his eyes glazed over. He flopped over onto the ground, dead. Jack felt Denise dig her fingers into his arm. He winced from the pain.

  “You can’t help him, Jack!” she whispered. “We’ve got to go.”

  But Jack stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, watching as two State Security troopers kicked Curly’s body. They laughed as it flopped over on its back, and one of them planted a foot on his chest, posing like a big game hunter.

  Jack clenched his hands, impotent rage rushing through him. He wanted to rip the Nazi bastards apart, knowing at the same time that it was a foolish and futile thought.

  Denise tugged at his arm, her hot breath in his ear. “Jack, please...”

  With one last look at his old friend, he followed Denise into the shadows of the neighbor’s yard. They rounded the side of the house and crouched against the stucco wall, alert for any movement in their direction. Jack was out of breath, as if he’d been running for miles. He knew it was a combination of both fear and adrenaline.

  “What’ll we do now?” he said.

  Denise closed her eyes, not answering immediately. Soon her breathing slowed, and she opened her eyes. Jack could see a quiet intensity in them.

  “We’ll wait till they leave. If they haven’t impounded the car, we’ll go back to my place. I have some emergency funds and a map of contacts stashed. From there we head north to Canada.”

  “Christ, Malloy, that’s over two thousand miles. We have no travel permits, no passports, and after tonight probably no friends either.”

  “What do you want to do? Give up?” she said, her voice a harsh whisper. “Then why don’t you just walk out there now? Maybe they won’t shoot you like they did Curly.”

  Jack was about to say something when an outside light above their heads snapped on. Both of them plastered themselves against the house, hoping, praying the people inside hadn’t heard them.

  “Harvey,” a woman said sharply. “Turn off that goddamned light! You want them coming here?”

  “I just wanted to see, Liebchen.”

  “Forget it. It’s all over. Didn’t I tell you that queer would get his. Now all of ’em are gonna get it. Good riddance, I say.”

  Denise’s look said it all. Of course they had to try and make it to Canada. They had to find Wiley and Chessman. They had to stop this madness.

  A moment later, the light clicked off and they heard a window slam shut. They both let out the breaths they’d been holding and eased themselves from the wall of the house. Around the corner, they saw the fire department had begun the mop-up. The men worked quickly, laying out hoses and tapping the nearby hydrant. In a moment they were dousing the flames from two different directions. A movement caught Jack’s eye and he turned to look farther up the street. A sleek, black BMW 900 limousine cruised up and pulled in behind the fire truck. Jack noted the black and silver antenna pennant: skull and crossbones with a cluster of oak leaves, indicating someone very high up in State Security.

  The door opened and a figure dressed entirely in the black, tight-fitting uniform of an SS-Brigadeführer stepped out and marched toward a group of SS Troopers conducting the mop-up. They all snapped to attention as the Brigadeführer approached. Jack gasped when the figure passed through a pool of light.

  “Oh my God!” he said, his eyes wide with shock.

  Denise stared at the figure, equally stunned.

  The Brigadeführer was none other than Leslie! They watched her bark orders. Ignoring the firemen and their hoses, several SS Troopers ran into the house.

  “I want to see their bodies, sergeant,” she shouted after them. “I want to see that lesbisch bitch’s blackened skull!”

  Leslie turned toward the house where Jack and Denise hid, causing them to flinch involuntarily. Her hard eyes glinted in the sallow lighting, giving them a predatory look. But Leslie made no move toward them. She couldn’t see them because the crime lights blinded her. Jack stared at her face, the face he once loved and trusted, and his shock turned to anger.

  “That cunt has been playing me for a goddamned chump the whole time! I must have led her right to these people.”

  Denise pulled him back around the side of the house.

  She knew what he was thinking.

  “Listen to me and listen good. This is no more your fault than anybody’s. It’s them!”

  Jack sighed and rubbed his eyes. They’d seen too much as of late.

  “Look, we have to go, Jack. When they don’t find our bodies, they’ll come looking for us.”

  “What about the car?”

  “Forget it. We’ll get another.”

  Before Jack could say anything, Denise pulled him away from the house and they plunged into the brush, making their way across several yards and onto another street about half a mile from Henry’s cul-de-sac. Keeping to the shadows, Denise tested the doors of the cars parked in the driveways of the modest houses they passed.

  “Jack!” she whispered.

  He stopped and turned around, seeing her at the door of a VW Blitz, much like his own. He watched, incredulous, as she pulled open the door and got inside. Reaching immediately into the glove compartment, she rooted around a moment and came out with a screwdriver. She then wedged the tool into the gap between the ignition and the steering column housing, slapped it once, and out popped the ignition. She smiled with satisfaction, put the car in neutral and released the parking brake. The car began to roll backward into the street.

  “Are you crazy?” he whispered, trotting alongside. “What are you doing?”

  “What does it look like? We’re stealing the car.”

/>   “Why don’t we just wait until Leslie and her goons leave?”

  “Because she knows everything about us, Jack, including my car. They’ve spotted it by now. If it suddenly disappears, they’ll know we’re not dead. With the fire and all, it’ll take time for them to realize we’re not in the house. We’ll get a head start this way. Now shut up and help me push this thing.”

  “Why? Just start the damn thing.”

  “Jack, I love you, but you’re an idiot. We’ve gotta start this thing away from this house or the owners will hear it.”

  Feeling foolish for asking, Jack helped Denise push the car into the street. Supposedly, they were death traps, but there was no Ralph Nader in this timeline, no one who cared to go against the government’s safety experts. Once they were out in the street, Denise jumped behind the wheel.

  “Keep pushing,” she said.

  Jack braced his shoulders against the trunk and pumped his legs as fast as he could. The tiny car picked up speed, the small downgrade adding to the vehicle’s momentum. Jack gave one last push and stood back. Denise jammed the screwdriver into the ignition, twisted it then let out the clutch. The small engine caught, sputtered a moment, then began to purr.

  Jack ran to the passenger side and jumped in. Denise let the Blitz roll forward while she scanned the area in all directions. Satisfied, she stomped on the accelerator, sending the small car screaming off into the night.

  “Check the glove compartment for maps,” Denise said, making a hard-right turn.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Jacksonville.”

  “Wait a minute. I need clothes, some money, a toothbrush, for Christ’s sake!”

  She shot him a sidelong glance and shifted into third gear. “We don’t have the time. Besides, I’d bet my ass that State Security’s got your place staked out by now, just in case.” She covered his hand with hers. “Don’t worry, I’ll get us out of this. I promise. But right now, I need to know how to get us there.”

  “All right, hold on.” Jack flipped open the glove compartment and rummaged through empty Großer Rauch cigarette packs and battered cassette tapes, finding both a Miami map and a dog-eared Avalon road atlas. He opened the atlas, squinting in the poor light.

  “The Hindenburg Highway goes right through downtown Jacksonville,” he said. “And according to this, there’s an entrance about a quarter of a mile that way.” He pointed and Denise took a sharp left. “Why Jacksonville?” he asked after a moment.

  “It’s the first station on the railroad.”

  “The what?”

  “The Underground Railroad. It’s our way to Canada. They’ll get us everything we need: money, clothes, IDs, a new car, and weapons. I hope you know how to use a gun.”

  Before Jack could answer, Denise spotted the northbound on-ramp to the Hindenburg Highway and headed for it, slowing as she passed a traffic cop handing out a citation, blue lights flashing on his Harley. Jack saw the frightened look in the other driver’s eyes when they shot past, remembering his own fear only moments before.

  On the highway, Denise brought the car up to the legal speed limit.

  “We’ll spell each other,” she said, clicking on the cruise control. “Two hours on, two hours off. Okay?”

  “Yeah, fine...”

  She frowned. “You all right?”

  Jack let out a sigh and faced her. “That guy back there. When we passed him, I couldn’t help thinking ‘better you than me, pal.’ That’s what living in Kruger’s world has done to me, Denise. And I don’t like it very much... or me, for that matter.”

  “It’s done it to all of us in one way or another,” she said. “The difference between us and the rest of them is that we’re doing something about it. So stop feeling sorry for yourself, it doesn’t suit you.”

  “Momma Malloy knows best, is that it?”

  “Damn straight, Dunham, so shut up and get some rest. You’re going to need it.”

  Two hours later, after a short nap, Jack took the wheel while Denise slept beside him, her head resting on his shoulder. He tuned the radio to the news and listened for anything about the raid on Henry’s house. There was nothing, and that disturbed him even more.

  Did they even have a shot at making it to Canada? And if they did, would he be able to succeed where Wiley and Chessman had failed? What if he couldn’t go back and stop Kruger? What if he had to live the rest of his life in this nightmare?

  Jack stopped himself when he realized he had something even more important to worry about—like whether they’d even survive the night.

  Chapter Eleven

  Hindenburg Highway (I-95), Florida

  23 April 1994

  The sun peeked over the horizon as Jack stirred and awakened. His neck felt stiff, and he couldn’t stop a muscle in his leg from quivering. They’d been driving all night, and even with an hour’s nap he felt squeezed dry. His head ached and his mouth tasted like an old shoe dipped in dog shit.

  “Where are we?” he asked.

  “We passed St. Augustine a little ways back.”

  Denise looked as tired as he did. She gripped the wheel with a manic intensity and her red-rimmed eyes stared out the windshield, snapping to the rearview every few seconds.

  “Want me to spell you?”

  She shook her head. “No. If I stop now, I’m gonna collapse. We’re almost there. Another forty miles or so.”

  “Where are we holing up?”

  “Grab my jacket.”

  Jack reached over the back of the seat and picked up her stonewashed denim jacket.

  “Now what?”

  “My address book’s in the inside pocket. Check under M.”

  Jack pulled out the black leatherette Day Planner and turned to the address section, then to M.

  “Okay.”

  “See where it says Mom?”

  “Yeah?”

  “That’s where we’re going.”

  Jack frowned. “Your mother runs a station on the railroad?”

  Denise burst out laughing. The hours of driving and junk food were taking their toll.

  “No, Dunham. That’s a code. All the stations are made to look like relatives. That way if the book were ever to fall into the wrong hands, it would look like an innocent address book. It’s the address that’s important.”

  “So who’re we seeing when we get there?”

  “A kind old man who owes me big. But first we need to cruise the place and make sure it’s okay. If no one’s been compromised, we make contact.”

  “Assuming you didn’t know the person, how do you recognize each other?”

  “A simple coded phrase.”

  Jack shook his head. “You people watch too many James Bond movies.”

  “Who?”

  “Sorry,” Jack said, feeling foolish. “Wrong life.”

  “Tell me more, Jack. I wanna know what your world was like.”

  Jack leaned back and closed his eyes, letting the memories play out. He smiled, remembering something.

  “What?” she said, smiling eagerly.

  “I was just remembering something from when I was a kid.”

  “Tell me.”

  “When I was fourteen. I wanted to go see a rock concert.”

  “Rock?”

  “A form of primitive music played on electrified instruments, very loud. To the kids of my generation, it was our battle cry so to speak, our rite of passage. Anyway. I’d never been to one and my parents thought I was too young to go by myself. Of course, they were right. But my dad got us tickets for the New Year’s Eve show at a place called Fillmore East. I had no idea who the band was, some group called a ‘Band of Gypsies.’ I was floored when it turned out to be Jimi Hendrix.”

  He turned to her, opening his eyes. They burned with a quiet intensity.

  “I know that name means nothing to you, but let me try and explain. Jimi was a symbol to us. He was a young black man who couldn’t get anywhere with his music. He had to go to England before the
world recognized his talent. Man, he played the electric guitar like no one ever did... like no one does now. You see those insipid musicians on State TV, plinking away on those wimpy instruments? Believe me, you have no idea what the instrument is capable of—soaring melodies, chords that sound like thunder, screams, bombs going off. Hendrix once did a version of the National Anthem, the one that’s banned. It became a classic.

  “Anyway, that night at the Fillmore was transcendent. Hendrix explored new territory with his instrument that left everyone astounded. Even my dad, whose taste ran to Easy Listening, got caught up in it. By the end of the night, he was converted.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Hendrix?

  Denise nodded.

  Jack’s expression saddened.

  “He died the following year. It was a stupid, stupid accident. He took sleeping pills, ones that were not his prescription and, without thinking, drank wine. He passed out and choked on his own vomit.”

  “Shit,” Denise said, staring at the road.

  “Supposedly, he was still alive in the ambulance, but the attendant didn’t have the brains to position him so he could breathe. I can’t even begin to describe how I felt when I heard the news. It was like a member of my own family had died. In a way, my whole generation felt that way. Even into the nineties, the other nineties, his music is regularly played on the radio, sounding as fresh as ever.”

  Denise put her hand on his thigh and squeezed.

  “You’ll hear it again. We’ll hear it together.”

  Jack nodded and stared out the window for the next few miles. Soon he saw a sign: Gas, Food, and Lodging: 2 Miles.

  “Can we stop? I’ve got to get some coffee and some food before I pass out,” he said.

  “Okay, but we gotta make it quick. The fewer people see us, the better.”

  When the rest stop appeared, Denise pulled into the Burger Meister parking lot. Jack stumbled when he tried to walk, his legs rubbery.

  Denise grabbed her wallet and they headed inside. Jack got two egg croissants, two apple strudels and a large coffee, Denise some tea. They took a booth near a window so they could watch the car.