by Ross Thomas
“One of the guys Wolgemuth recruited from Frankfurt a couple of years ago. He’s genuine enough. After the cops stop it and cart me off he won’t show up to press charges.”
“What’s your cover?” Padillo asked.
“Play a little sax in the combo at one of Wolgemuth’s dives. Run a few errands. Get in trouble like this when it’s needed.”
“How about the Frankfurt end?”
“Man’ll meet you with a car, give you the keys, and then you’re on your own.”
“How’U he know us?”
“He won’t; you’ll know him. He’s my twin brother.”
CHAPTER 19
An MP captain accompanied by a staff sergeant with a leathery face and squinting blue eyes walked up to Padillo at the Pan American ticket counter just after he had cleared his ticket.
“Let’s see your orders, Sergeant.”
Padillo slowly unbuttoned his raincoat and started to reach for his billfold in his hip pocket when the woman screamed. It was high and piercing and she put her lungs into it. It seemed to come from about a dozen or so yards to our left. I turned and saw a fleshy man of about thirty in a light covert topcoat take a clumsy swing at our Negro driver, who jumped back gracefully and flicked out his razor. He danced around the white man, making little feinting motions with the razor. The white man looked at him and proceeded to peel off his topcoat. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. A woman stood near the white man and clutched a small black purse to her chin. She was blond and plump and did a good job of looking terrified. A crowd was forming.
The Negro moved around the white man counterclockwise. He shuffled now, no longer dancing. His arms were widespread and the razor glittered, cutting edge up in his right hand. He seemed to know what he was doing.
“Come on, whiboy, come on,” the Negro called softly. His accent was pure molasses again. “You ain’ in the States now; come on, whiboy.”
The white man seemed to study the Negro as he turned with him. Then he suddenly threw his wadded-up topcoat in the Negro’s face. He followed the coat, diving in low at the shuffling legs. He moved fast for his weight. They went down on the floor and rolled around some. The Negro let out a good yell. The MP captain and his sergeant were in the middle of the crowd, trying to untangle the arms and legs. A voice over the loud-speaker announced Pan American Frankfurt-Main flight. Padillo and I prodded Symmes and Burchwood down the passageway that led to the plane.
It was Pan American Flight 675 and it was due to leave Tempelhof at 1630 and arrive at Frankfurt-Main at 1750. It was three minutes late in take-off and we were the last aboard. I thought Wolgemuth’s timing had been cut a bit fine, but we managed to get seats near each other. I sat with Burchwood, Padillo with Symmes. Neither of them was talking to us.
It was a dull flight and I kept my raincoat on. The revolver was in the pocket and I kept trying to remember how many shots I’d fired and if I had any rounds left. I decided it didn’t matter since I wasn’t going to shoot anybody soon anyway. I sat there in the aisle seat and stared at the back of the seat in front of me, and when I got tired of that I admired the hostesses’ legs and engaged in some mildly erotic fantasies. It passed the time.
We landed in Frankfurt at 1752 and went down the landing steps with the rest of the passengers. The bastardization of the lyrics to “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” kept running through my head. “There’ll be no one there to meet us, there’ll be no one there to greet us,” then some da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da. The other passengers had their hands shaken, their cheeks kissed, and their backs slapped. All we got was a faint nod from the twin of the Negro who, the last time we saw him, an hour and twenty minutes before, had been threshing around on the floor with a straight razor clutched in his right hand.
Padillo walked up to the Negro and said, “Wolgemuth sent us. We just left your brother in Berlin.”
The tall Negro looked us over carefully. He seemed to have a world of time. He wore an open white shirt with long points, a black cashmere coat sweater buttoned only at the last two buttons, lightweight gray flannel slacks without cuffs, black ribbed socks that looked silk, and a pair of burnished-black loafers with cute little tassels. His hands were like his brother’s: big enough to fit around a basketball comfortably. He held a long slim cigar in one of them. It was fitted with an ivory holder. He drew on it thoughtfully and let some smoke find its way out of his thin straight nose.
“I just talked to Wolgemuth,” he said. “You’re to have my car. It’s the fastest one we could lay our hands on. The only thing is I’d kind of like to get it back. In one piece.”
“Something special?” I asked.
He nodded and blew some more smoke out of his nose. “It is to me. I got about 122 hours of my own time invested in it.”
“You’ll get it back,” Padillo said. “If you don’t, Wolgemuth’ll buy you a new one.”
“Uh-huh.” He turned and we followed. Outside the airport he led us to a new Chevrolet Impala two-door hardtop. It was black and its rear end seemed to squat. It had no hubcaps. A big fish-pole aerial adorned the rear end. The Negro took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Padillo, who handed them to me.
“You didn’t spot any action around the airport?” Padillo asked.
“Couple of MPs more than usual, but that’s normal this time of the month, right after payday. None of the Christians in Action around that I know by sight. I checked real good.”
Padillo shook his head and frowned. “O.K., Mac, let’s go. You drive. You two in the back seat.”
Symmes and Burchwood climbed in. Padillo got in the front.
“What’s so special about this boat?” I asked the Negro.
He smiled. It was as if I’d asked how it felt to win DM 400,000 on Lotto. “It’s got the four-twenty-seven under the hood and a Hurst four on the floor. It’s got a Schiefer clutch, Jahns twelve-to-ones, and an Isky kit. It’s got high-speed shocks and traction masters. Plus the Pittman arm’s down to two-to-one steering.”
“Sounds like a bomb,” I said, getting in.
He placed his big hands carefully on the door and leaned down to look at me. “You done any driving before?”
“Once or twice around the Nürburgring. Sports stuff mostly.”
He nodded. “I’d sure like to get this back in one piece.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He nodded again, glumly this time. He didn’t have much faith. He patted the door affectionately. “Yeah,” he said. “See what you can do. Well, take care now.” I think he was talking to the car.
“You do the same,” I said, and fitted the key into the ignition, threw the clutch out, started the engine, backed out, and headed for the Autobahn.
“What have we got here?” Padillo asked.
“A hopped-up Chevy with a police radio that’ll probably hit a hundred and twenty-five—maybe a hundred and thirty downhill. How fast you want to try for?”
“Keep it around eighty. If we pick up somebody who wants to play tag, use your own judgment.”
“O.K.”
I concentrated on driving. I had to. The clutch was stiff and the special springs eliminated the royal American bounce. Something special had been done to the steering. It felt like rack and pinion. The accelerator pedal was a massive chrome and rubber affair and I had to keep hard pressure on it. It was a car that was meant to be driven at high speed, and the only power assists it had were locked in the V-8 engine. I got it up to between eighty-five and ninety and kept it there, drifting past the double-trailered trucks that streamed out of Frankfurt, headed north.
About twenty miles out of Frankfurt we stopped at the German counterpart of a Howard Johnson and picked up some cigarettes and a bottle of Weinbrand. We let Symmes and Burchwood go to the bathroom by themselves.
Back on the Autobahn, Padillo said: “Something’s gone sour.”
I let the car slow down to seventy and then to sixty. “How’s that?”
“There should have been something
at Frankfurt. I’m not sure what, but something was missing.”
“The reception not warm enough for you?” I asked, and moved the speedometer back up to eighty-five.
“Somebody must have tumbled to us by the time we got there.”
I pressed the accelerator, and the Impala moved quickly up to ninety-five. “If you’ll take a look behind you, I think somebody did. They’ve got a big green Cadillac, and it’s been pacing us since we picked up the booze.”
Padillo turned and looked. So did Symmes and Burchwood.
“Three of them,” Padillo said. “As long as they keep that far behind, keep it around eighty. If they start to move up, then see how fast this thing will go. What’s our best bet?”
I glanced in the rearview mirror at the green Cadillac, which had fixed itself a measured hundred yards behind us. “It depends on what they want to do,” I said. “If they want to crowd us off, they’re going to have to get alongside, and I don’t think they’ve got the speed or the driver for that. If they just want to follow, they can probably keep up pretty well, considering the traffic. If it’s tuned right, that Cadillac can hit a hundred and ten—maybe a hundred and twenty if it’s blown; but I don’t know of many that are.
“Our best chance is when we turn off to Bonn. That’s up and down hill and they haven’t got the springs for the curves. This thing does. We can probably gain on them there, run up the river to the bridge instead of taking the ferry, and then cut back through Bonn. Any place in mind?”
“We’ll figure that out later. Let’s see if they’ve got the steam to keep up.”
“He’s got seat belts in this thing,” I said. “We may as well use them.”
“They can cut you in two or make you feel like it,” Padillo said. But he buckled his anyway. He turned to Symmes and Burchwood. “Put yours on. We’re taking another ride.” The two men remained silent but snapped on their belts.
“Shall we?” I said.
“Let’s.”
I pressed the accelerator almost to the floor board and the Chevrolet spurted past a couple of Volkswagens. The traffic was medium-heavy and I kept to the left-hand lane, flicking the passing-lights switch as we zipped by the slower-moving trucks and cars. The Cadillac moved out into the same lane and its driver began working his lights. He kept the hundred yards between us as if we were linked by a chain.
“What’s it say?” I asked Padillo.
“It’s bouncing off a hundred and twenty.”
I snatched a glance at the special tachometer. Its needle was hovering around red-line. I pressed the accelerator down the last quarter of an inch and held it hard against the floor board. A big blue Mercedes convertible took my passing as a personal challenge and swung out into the left lane to give chase. The Cadillac blew him back over with horn and lights.
The wind noise was almost a scream and, despite its tough springing, the Chevrolet was jumping around. On a hill an Opel moved out two hundred yards in front of us to pass a Volkswagen. It barely got its front fender up to the VW’s rear bumper when I leaned on the horn and flashed the lights. It was too late for the Opel to drop back and it didn’t have the juice to move ahead. It took the only course available and headed for the dividing strip. The VW made for the shoulder. We roared through, and I still think that my front left fender nicked the Opel. The Cadillac sliced through behind us.
“I haven’t done that since I was sixteen,” I yelled at Padillo.
Padillo reached into his raincoat pocket and took out his revolver and checked its rounds. I got mine out and handed it to him and he reloaded it from a box of shells and gave it back. I glanced in the mirror and saw that the Cadillac was maintaining its distance. Symmes and Burchwood sat in the back seat, stiffly upright, their eyes buttoned tight, their mouths making little straight lines of fear and disapproval. I supposed that they were holding hands. It was none of my business.
It took us a little under fifty minutes to make the sixty miles from the place where we bought the brandy to the cutoff to Bonn. I double-clutched the Chevrolet and threw it down into third, not using the brake. I did it again and got it down into second. The engine braked the car and, without the rear brake light to warn him, the Cadillac’s driver was almost on our bumper before he could figure out what I was doing.
I went into the curve too fast, but the engine was still braking and the Cadillac didn’t have a chance. It overshot. I kept the Chevrolet in second and made the curve and shifted up into third again.
“They’re going to back up,” Padillo said.
“That’s a hell of a risk on that road.”
We sped through the Autobahn underpass and hit the blacktopped road that led to Venusberg and down to the ferry that crossed the Rhine to Bonn. I kept the car in third, shifting down into second as we scattered a few small children and ducks in a village and started to climb the twisting road to the top of the hill.
“I don’t see them,” Padillo said.
“We may have picked up a few minutes. We should gain another five or ten on these curves.”
The Chevrolet took them on rails, its hard tough springing reminiscent of an old MG-TC I had once owned. I shifted down into second to drift the first bend in an S-shaped curve. The engine was responding nicely on the short straight and I was estimating the rpm’s needed for the next bend when we went into it, came out of it, and hit the roadblock.
They had the two junkers parked across the road: a couple of battered but still solid Mercedes of the early-1950 vintage. I was still in second, so I hit the brakes with my left foot and jammed the accelerator down with my right, trying to spin the car into a tight U-turn, but it was too late and the Chevrolet crashed into one of the Mercedes and I was slammed forward against the steering wheel.
There seemed to be dozens of them. They got the Chevrolet doors open and dragged us out. I was stunned, and my stomach ached where the seat belt had cut into it. I felt them lift the gun out of my pocket. I slid down on the ground and vomited. It was mostly wine. I lay there for what seemed a long time, and then I looked up and Padillo was still standing, held by two men in gray felt hats and belted coats whose colors kept changing in the light that filtered through the trees. One of them reached into Padillo’s pocket and took out his revolver. They patted some more pockets and found the knife and got that too. I was sick again.
Two of them grabbed me under the arms and helped me to stagger over to a car and then tumbled me into the back on the floor. I lay there panting and trying not to be sick again. I managed to grab the back of the front seat and haul myself to my knees. It took all day. Padillo was sprawled across the backseat, his mouth slightly ajar. His eyes opened and they blinked at me a couple of times and closed again. I knelt on the back floor and looked out the rear window. They had moved the two Mercedes and the Chevrolet over to one side of the road. They were dragging one of the Mercedes off into a clump of trees. It was being pulled by a Ford Taunus. At least it looked like a Ford Taunus, but the light was getting bad. A man climbed into the front seat and aimed a gun at me. He had a sallow ugly face and his long nose was spotted with ripe blackheads.
“Pick up your friend and make him sit up,” he said. He spoke German, but it was heavily accented. I couldn’t place the accent. I turned and picked up Padillo’s feet and swung them down to the floor. Then I pushed and shoved him into a sitting position, but he slumped forward and I had to push him back again. He had vomited over his uniform and there was an ugly dark spot under his right ear that oozed blood. I sat in the back seat beside him and looked at the man with the gun and the blackheads on his nose.
“Nothing foolish, please. No heroics,” he said.
“Nothing foolish,” I agreed, and spit out one of the sponge-rubber things that had come loose in my mouth. While I was at it I dug some of the wax out of my nose. I didn’t have any manners. I didn’t need any. I started working on the other sponge-rubber piece with my tongue. It came loose and I spat it out, too. I also peeled off my mustache.
> The man with the gun watched me curiously but said nothing. The car we were in was English, I noticed: a Humber with walnut panels built into the rear that let down into tea trays. Or cocktail trays, if you were so inclined. It was an export model with the steering wheel on the left-hand side. Next to that was a two-way radio set made of gray metal. I offered myself nine to two that green Cadillac had one just like it. I looked out the rear window. They were pulling the Chevrolet into the clump of trees. Somebody might find it tomorrow—or next week. The tall Negro down in Frankfurt hadn’t had much faith and I wished I had listened to him. We could have gone someplace and talked about cars and drunk beer.
Another man got into the driver’s seat. He turned around and looked us over without much interest, grunted, turned back, and started the car. We followed another Humber down the curving narrow blacktop. There were four men in the car ahead. The two in the backseat were Symmes and Burchwood. I couldn’t tell if they were speaking to anyone yet.
At the Rhine we turned left and drove along the highway for a half-mile or so before we came to a spot that curved out slightly toward the river. It had a few picnic tables and a trash can and a place to park cars. A stone retaining wall bellied out into the Rhine, and there were steps leading down it to a small dock, where an inboard launch about eighteen feet long was tied up. The green Cadillac was parked in the picnic area, and I decided it must have gone by while I was flat on the ground. I noticed that it was a Fleetwood.
The driver of our car parked, got out, and talked to the driver of the other Humber, which carried Symmes and Burchwood. Then that driver got out and walked over to the green Cadillac and talked to someone in the backseat. The man with the gun stayed with us. There was another man in the front seat of the other car. He probably had two guns.
Our driver came back and said something in a language I couldn’t even place, much less understand. But the man with the gun understood it and he told me to get out and to help Padillo out. Padillo opened his eyes and said, “I can walk,” but his voice didn’t carry much conviction. I walked around the car, opened his door, and helped him out.
