By five most of the sunbathers had packed up their belongings and departed. The sun was fading. Hess felt a cool breeze blow in from the ocean. He focused the binoculars on Joyce Cantor’s empty balcony, hoping to see her standing there but didn’t.
Hess drove back to Pompano, cruised past Lois Grant’s house, turned into Max’s driveway, pushed the remote and backed into the garage. He closed the door and opened the trunk. Zeller was right where Hess had left him, head over the edge of the worktable, duct tape over his mouth, panic in his eyes, pants wet where he had urinated.
“I have good news. You are going to be released soon.”
Zeller was making sounds under the tape. He obviously didn’t believe it. He wanted to talk. Of course he wanted to talk. Hess pulled the tape off his mouth. “You were saying, comrade.”
“Bring me the phone. I’ll tell Herr Braun you’re dead.”
Hess smiled, he couldn’t help himself. He thought Zeller would say something like that. A person in this situation would say anything to stay alive.
“That won’t be necessary.”
He ripped a fresh strip of tape off the roll and fit it over Zeller’s mouth.
At 3:00 a.m. Hess went out to the garage. Zeller was asleep. He could hear him breathing through his nose, a nice easy rhythm. Zeller awoke while Hess was taping his ankles together. The man struggled as Hess turned him over and taped his wrists together. Hess moved the car closer to the worktable, slid Zeller off of it into the trunk and closed the lid.
He took Interstate 95 north to PGA Boulevard and east toward Singer Island. Past A1A Hess could see glimpses of Lake Worth. The causeway between North Palm Beach and Singer Island was dark. He had driven this stretch of road earlier and decided it was the perfect place to dump a body. With Lois Grant snooping around he couldn’t take a chance burying Zeller on Max’s property.
When he could see water on both sides of the road Hess slowed down and pulled over. He got out, looked up at a half moon, felt a breeze come at him from the lake. He opened the trunk, reached in, took hold of Zeller, pulled him out and dropped him on the hard-packed dirt roadside. Hess, breathing hard from the effort, bent over, hands on his knees. When he got his wind back he squatted, lifted Zeller’s ankles and started to drag him toward the water. Zeller bent his legs, kicked and sent Hess to the ground holding one of Zeller’s shoes that had come off. Hess scrambled to his feet, moved to Zeller, kicked him in the face, took the fight out of him. Zeller was conscious but woozy as Hess dragged him to the water’s edge. Hess heard something, looked and saw headlights approaching from the island. He pushed Zeller in the lake and watched him thrash, trying to stay afloat, and then disappear in the dark water, bubbles rising to the surface.
The car was approaching, slowing down. It crossed the center line and stopped on the side of the road in front of Max Hoffman’s Chrysler. It was a police cruiser. The policeman got out with a flashlight and came toward him, aiming the high beam in his face. Hess blinked and squinted, brought his hand up to shield his eyes.
“What’re you doing out here middle of the night?” the policeman said, southern accent. He moved to the Chrysler and aimed the flashlight beam in the trunk. Hess put his hand behind his back, felt the handle of the .38 under his shirttail.
“What’d you dump?”
Hess said, “I couldn’t sleep so I decided to take a drive.”
The policeman moved toward the water, shined the light where Zeller had gone under. “Got some ID?”
“In the car,” Hess said.
“Get it.”
Hess could feel the man behind him as he walked to the Chrysler and opened the passenger door. The dome light came on. He reached in, picked up Max’s billfold, opened it and handed the driver’s license to him. The policeman looked at the license and back at Hess.
“You’re a long way from Pompano. I’m going to ask you one more time. You don’t have an answer I like, I’m gonna take you in.”
The policeman was big, the tan uniform tight across his chest and shoulders, revolver in a black holster on his hip.
“You dumped something in the lake is what I think. Now you better start talking.”
“My dog died,” Hess said in a burst of inspiration.
“What kinda dog?”
“A dachshund.”
“A what?”
“Little dog with a long body and short legs.”
“Looks like a sausage.”
“Exactly.”
“What’d it die of?”
“I don’t know but Fonzie was almost fifteen.”
“Well there you go. That’s a long goddamn life for a dog. My Doberman, Pepper, passed at thirteen.” The policeman shook his head. “Why’d you throw it in the lake?”
“I was upset, I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“I’m sorry for you, buddy. It’s a sad day man loses his best bud. You take her easy and keep it between the ditches. Next time bury it like a normal person, okay?”
Hess closed the trunk and got in behind the wheel. The policeman, still standing next to the Chrysler, waved. Hess turned the key, heard the engine rev, backed away from the police car and made a U-turn. He was calm, steady, thinking you never knew what was going to happen in a situation. He had been ready to pull the .38 a couple of times, sure his only way out was to shoot the man.
Joyce could see cars zipping along on the turnpike in the distance. She and Cordell had adjoining rooms at a Howard Johnson’s Motor Lodge, which Cordell had said was safe.
Joyce had said, “Compared to what, your apartment?”
“Colombians got what they wanted. They’re not gonna be comin’ back.”
“I’m not worried about Colombians, I’m worried about Ernst Hess.”
“You seen him on the floor with a hole in his chest and blood everywhere,” Cordell said. “Man’s still alive he a vampire.”
“A Palm Beach detective told me he was picked up by a fisherman in the Bahamas.”
“Bahamas is like seventy miles away. How you think he got there, the backstroke?”
Joyce said, “The same man escaped from a hospital in Freeport, hijacked a boat in Port Lucaya, left the owner and his wife stranded on a remote island, and headed for the Florida coast. That night he strangled a woman in her house in Palm Beach. The police say the prints they found in the dead woman’s house match the prints they found on the security guard’s car, gun and flashlight, and the prints found at my friend Lenore Deutsch’s house. I know you don’t believe me but I’m telling you I saw Hess in the lobby of my building earlier tonight.”
Cordell said, “Why don’t you think I believe you?”
“Maybe it’s that look on your face, that grin you can’t hide.” Joyce walked over, put the chain on the door, and wedged a chair under the door handle, a security precaution she had seen in a movie.
“Anyone try to get in, I be on the motherfucker,” Cordell said, pulling the gun he referred to as his nickel-plate.
They kept the doors between the rooms open, and Joyce had to admit, knowing Cordell was right there put her at ease.
Early the next morning he popped his head in her room, said he had to take care of some business. “You be okay? I’ll check on you in a while.”
Joyce, still in bed, yawned and said, “See you later.” Thinking he’d be back reasonably soon. She heard his door close and saw him walk by the window. Joyce locked the door between their rooms and called her office. Told Amy, the office manager, her aunt died. She was going to Baltimore to sit shiva.
Joyce showered, dressed and had breakfast in the motel restaurant, first looking out the window from the second floor, scanning cars in the parking lot, looking for Hess. Over cereal and fruit and coffee she paged through the Palm Beach Post. There was another article about the woman murdered in Palm Beach a few days before. This time there was an accompanying passport photograph of the suspected murderer. The article referred to him as Gerd Klaus. But it was Hess. The article went on to say he
was considered armed and dangerous. Anyone with information about this man should contact the Palm Beach police immediately.
High-Step was barefoot and Cordell could see the left one was smaller than the right, it didn’t even look like a foot – all mangled and deformed as it was. Cordell didn’t want to look but it was so strange he had to, like looking at the alligator-skin girl at the state fair.
“Hey motherfucker,” High-Step said, “why you lookin’ at my feets?”
“I wasn’t,” Cordell said.
“What you mean, you wasn’t? I seen you.”
Cordell said, “Why don’t you put your special shoe on, you’re so sensitive ’bout your foot.”
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself.”
High was pissed about something, that was for sure. “We gonna talk about the Colombians?”
“Why didn’t you kick me in on the second deal? I was involved they never woulda pulled that shit.”
Now they were getting to it. “You made the intro. I took care of you, didn’t I?”
“Then what you doin’ here? You’s here ’cause you need High’s help. Well this time I don’t want no two hundred dollars, I want half.”
“Half. What you been smokin’?”
“It’s called wise-the-fuck-up weed, motherfucker.”
Cordell looked at him and said, “You’re fuckin’ with me, aren’t you?”
“How much you got right now? Nothin’. I’m gonna get the weed back and the money, and for that I want half.”
“How you gonna do that?”
High-Step was from Detroit, had lived on the same street as Cordell and his momma. High made his money selling firearms, assorted pistols and revolvers. One of his homeboys worked in shipping and receiving at the Anniston Army Depot in northeast Alabama, supplied brand new just-out-of-the-crate M16s.
High’s real name was Carlos Bass, seven years older than Cordell, and successful. Never got busted in the Motor City, moved to Miami after the riot in ’67, police coming down hard on black entrepreneurs involved in illegal activities. High had a house in Coconut Grove with a swimming pool in back, and even with his fucked-up foot always had fine-lookin’ poon hangin’ around.
They listened to Motown tracks on the way to Greaser Town, and when they got there, sat in the car, lookin’ up at an apartment building High said was where Alejo and Jhonny stayed.
“What’re we waiting for, man?” Cordell already impatient. “Let’s go talk at him.”
“How you know he in there? And he is, who in there with him? What I’m sayin’, we don’t rush, we take our time, do it right. Now you met Alejo and Jhonny the kid, but they got two others, can’t think of their names. And they all armed. How do I know this, right? Is that what you’re thinkin’?” High lit a cigarette. “I sold them the guns that’s how I know.”
“What’d you sell ’em?”
“Two Colt .45 Commanders, stainless with black grips, one 870 Wingmaster twelve-gauge, and one Smith & Wesson .38 revolver,” High said like he was reading a sales order. “That’s why I want to know who in the apartment before we go up.”
It was almost one in the afternoon, car runnin’, engine workin’ hard with the air on, Cordell watching the Latin babes go by on the street, young ones in tank tops and short shorts, hard tight bodies, dark hair, long brown legs, and the older bitches with heavy legs and tits down to their waist. Cordell thinkin’ about age, wondering how many years before he got old and fat? His momma was already there but she’d had a hard life, smokin’ rock. Her only exercise, walkin’ to a dope house. Cordell only had fuzzy memories of his father, like photographs out of focus.
After a while, Alejo, Jhonny and two other greasers came down the stairs, all wearing those greaser shirts hangin’ over their pants, High said to hide their guns. They got in Alejo’s Road Runner and drove off.
Forty-five minutes later Cordell saw Alejo’s black Road Runner come down the side street and park. The four greasers got out and walked up the stairs to an apartment on the second floor.
“Okay,” High-Step said. “Let’s get it done.”
“What’re you gonna do?”
“What’re we gonna do? That what you mean?”
“Whatever.”
High-Step got out and opened the trunk of the ’66 GTO, came back with something wrapped in a nylon windbreaker, unwrapped it, showing Cordell a short compact sub-machine gun with a skinny black clip.
“I want my money back but I ain’t gonna kill nobody for it.” Cordell looked at the gun. “What you want me to do?”
“Stand outside, make sure nobody come in behind me.” There was a strap on the end High fit over his right shoulder, let the gun hang under his armpit. Put the windbreaker on, couldn’t see a thing. They got out of the car, High wearin’ a white sport shirt with epaulettes under the windbreaker, white captain’s hat with a black brim, and sunglasses, looked like a nigger yachtsman.
They went up the stairs, moved along the balcony, woman pushin’ a baby carriage on the street below, couple seagulls flew by overhead. High-Step was breathin’ hard and sweatin’ when they got to the apartment door. High looked back at him, nodded, knocked on the door, waited a couple seconds, knocked again. Door opened, Jhonny the kid, standing in the crack, eyes on High-Step then looking over at Cordell.
“Yo, how you doin’? My man Alejo at home?”
The kid turned looking in the room, said something in Spanish. Cordell heard a voice say something back.
Kid looked at High-Step, sounded like he said, “I doan thin so.”
“I can see it’s a big place – must have six hundred square feet – Alejo could be in there you don’t even know it.”
Cordell moved up behind High, saw two greasers on a couch looking at them.
Jhonny said, “Give us a moment, uh?”
The kid tried to close the door, but High-Step got his good foot in the way, blocked the door and pushed it open. The kid moved backward into the room. The greasers, alert, reached behind their backs for their guns but didn’t draw them. A TV was on, Cordell could hear the scratchy voice track of a Latin soap opera. And now Alejo appeared, right arm hanging down his wrinkled white pants, smiling. “Señor High-Step, man what you doing here?”
“Never guess what happened. After my man met with y’all the second time, took the woo woo home, somebody come and stole it. You believe that?”
“I can see it happen,” Alejo said. “You friend got this good smoke, people hear about it, and human nature take over, huh?”
“Wasn’t your human nature takin’ over though, right?”
“No, not us.”
Alejo looked at the greasers like he was giving them a signal. High-Step brought out the Uzi, swung the barrel at Alejo as Alejo lost the grin and brought up a sawed-off pump gun, leveled it as High fired a burst from the silenced Uzi that sounded like a BB gun, cut Alejo down and blew out the TV, turned the gun on the greasers as they stood drawing, chewed them up along with the couch and the wall. Cordell saw Jhonny draw, but High-Step was already turning, firing.
Cordell stepped in the apartment, closed the door, saw four dead Colombians on the floor. He wasn’t thinking about the money or the weed now, just getting the hell away from there. But High wasn’t leavin’ till they got what they came for. There were two bedrooms. Cordell found two black plastic garbage bags in the closet, the ends knotted. He lifted them and both had heft, felt like twenty pounds at least. Opened one, got a blast of high-grade woo woo.
There was a nylon gym bag on a shelf over the weed. Cordell brought it down, sat on the bed, unzipped it, looking at stacks of cash held together with rubber bands. High came in the room. Cordell showed him the money.
“Hit the jackpot,” High said, flashing a grin.
He could see people looking out the apartment window next door as they passed by on the way to the stairs, and heard a siren as they were going down to the car, passing a police cruiser, lights flashing, on the way out to the freeway, and cut ove
r to the Grove.
They had a couple drinks to calm down and split the money – $68,500, and the woo woo – fifty pounds. Cordell didn’t like it, knew this wasn’t the end. Somebody’d be comin’ after them. But he wasn’t gonna be around when they did.
When Cordell got back to the motel it was 7:15 in the evening. The doors between their rooms were open. Looked like Joyce had cleared out, took her suitcase and left. His first thought, the Nazi had come and grabbed her. But how’d the Nazi know where they were at? Cordell picked up the phone, called Joyce’s apartment – no answer. He’d screwed up, felt bad about it. He had to find her, but where was he going to start?
Seeing the police cars and ambulance parked in front of the Winthrop House, Harry assumed the worst. Joyce had gone home and Hess had shot her. He parked the rental car in the shadow of the building on Worth Avenue and went in the side entrance. The lobby was chaotic, dozens of elderly residents trying to get the attention of two police officers in tan uniforms, trying to find out what was going on, what happened.
Harry moved around the crowd, approached the front desk manned by a sullen dark-skinned Latino in a sport jacket, losing his hair on top.
“Sir, may I help you?”
Harry walked by him, stepped into a waiting elevator and rode to the fourth floor. The door to Joyce’s apartment was open. Detective Conlin was talking to a black maid in a light blue uniform in the living room. Harry walked in, looked around. Conlin saw him and stood up, said something to the maid and she got up and walked by Harry, black eyes staring straight ahead like she was in a trance.
“Another homicide, look who walks in the door,” Conlin said. “Poor girl found the body. I don’t suppose you saw or heard anything.”
“I just got here,” Harry said. “Came right from the airport. Where’s Joyce?”
Back from the Dead Page 13
