Seriously?

by Duane Lindsay

  “I’ve seen your environment,” says Cassidy. “Without me in it, it’s a sty.”

  “But oh, so comfortable,” says Lou and they smile at each other. Monk looks away, feeling left out again.

  Lou says, “There’s something, Monk. When I was fighting Erich...”

  “Erich?”

  “Yeah; he’s got a name. When I was fighting him, I tore his shirt off. In his left armpit he had a couple of tattoos.”

  “Really?” Suddenly Monk is sitting up straight and looking very intense. “Let me guess. A four-digit number, in blue, above a very small skull, in black.”

  “That’s right. How did you know?”

  “Those are tattoos of the Nazi SS. The Storm Troopers. The number is the blood type and the skull makes him a member of the SD.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The SD was the elite branch of the SS, a group that made up most of the Einsatzsgruppen—the special task forces. They were considered the worst of the worst. Imagine the nastiest thing you can think of about the war, then double it. That’s the SD division.”

  “I can imagine a lot of bad things about the war,” says Lou. “We served in Korea, but my Dad was in the war in Europe. He never talked much about it, but I got interested one year in high school and read a lot. The Storm Troopers were evil.”

  “The SD was worse, Lou. If this Erich guy was a member... Irina’s got no chance; none, at all.”

  “Yes, she does,” says Lou. “She’s got me. If she’s alive, I’ll find her.”

  “We’ll find her,” says Cassidy.

  “Ok, we’ll find her.” Lou takes her hand and squeezes it and she leans her forehead to touch his.

  This time Monk doesn’t mind at all.

  “Lou?”

  “Yeah, Cass?”

  “This is boring.”

  “Yeah, Cass.”

  They’re sitting in a rented Plymouth Valiant, a long low-slung car with enough fins to send it into orbit if it could just go faster. It’s tan and about as noticeable as a sand dune along Lake Michigan. They’re parked down the block from Erich’s house, swapping cars with the Bel Air and another rental, a Ford Edsel.

  The Edsel was Monk’s choice because, “Who’s going to suspect you’re spying on them from a car that attracts so much attention? The car looks like it came from spacemen.”

  Lou and Cassidy have been huddled in the front seat for most of the last three nights. The first night she bought soda and water and snacks and quickly discovered why people on stakeouts try not to eat much.

  “Lou? I gotta go.”

  “Again?”

  “What do you do when you gotta go?”

  “I use a plastic bottle. Keep it in the trunk, throw it out later.”

  “Gross.”

  “Or I use a local store. There’s a corner Mom-and-Pop on Ashland. Two blocks.”

  “Thanks. I’ll do that.”

  So far Erich Klaussner is the most boring suspect ever. He goes to work at eight, to a General Motors plant in La Grange. Monk’s done research after they followed him there and found that Erich is a plant manager in the locomotive division, calling himself ‘Rick Willis.’

  Erich—Rick—eats lunch in the plant cafeteria, takes the IC commuter train home at four-thirty and walks the six blocks from the station. It was just bad luck that he’d come back when Lou was in his house.

  Cassidy asked, “How’d you find out all this stuff?”

  “I picked up a clipboard and walked in with the first shift. Nobody ever questions the guy with a clipboard. Or the service guy. I have a set of electrician’s tools in my car in case I need to get in someplace. Works every time. Erich walks to a local restaurant every evening at six, goes home alone and stays there.

  Cassidy, “This is boring.”

  Lou says, “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. In the movies the bad guy always does something, goes somewhere. They never show the PI sitting in a car peeing in a bottle.”

  Lou smiles. “Be a hell of a boring movie, wouldn’t it?”

  On Friday, a little after seven-thirty, Erich actually does do something. Lou and Cassidy are playing gin on the enormous front bench seat of the Valiant when brake lights glow from the gravel driveway of Erich’s house. A big black car backs out onto the street, makes a k-turn and heads north.

  “That’s a ’55 Buick,” says Lou, putting the Valiant in drive and following. “A Roadmaster is my guess.”

  “Guy and cars,” says Cassidy. “What’s that about? Who cares what make it is?”

  “That’s like saying who cares how many games the Sox are out, or how many knockouts Sonny Liston has or...”

  “That’s my point exactly,” says Cassidy. They make a turn on Ashland and continue north. The Buick is like following a huge black beetle in the setting sun and Lou stays a couple of lengths behind. “Who cares about that crap?”

  “Seven games out,” says Lou. “And Fourteen.”

  “Fourteen what?”

  “Fights Sonny had knockouts.”

  “He’s parking,” says Cassidy, to avoid any more statistics. Her high school boyfriend had been obsessed about rodeo facts and she’d had a bellyful of listening to him go on... and on. Football, too; and baseball. It seemed there wasn’t a sport that Tyler wasn’t eager to tell her about. It always amazed her that he could remember so much trivia but couldn’t pass a basic history test. After high school and a short career in bronco riding that ended when the bronco rode him, Tyler got hired at the Sinclair gas station out on the Interstate, where he likely remained. Cassidy shudders, thinking how close she came to still living there, maybe in one of the mobile homes on the outskirts, a single wide with tie down straps.

  The Buick pulls to the curb in front of a four-story brownstone. It has two wings fronting the walk and an inner courtyard and Erich walks right up to the front entrance and buzzes himself in. Lou parks the Valiant across the street.

  “Now what?” Cassidy asks. “Do we wait or what?”

  “I think,” says Lou, watching the door. “That we should see what he’s up to.”

  But he stays in the car, watching windows in the front of the building, hoping to see a light come on, finally admitting it didn’t pan out. They cross over to the main lobby and Lou studies the mail slots on the wall. “There’s twenty-seven apartments.”

  “Which one did he go to?”

  “No idea. Let’s do a walk around the outside, see what we can see.”

  The north side of the building abuts its neighbor but the south has an alley, they’ve just made the turn from the well-lit sidewalk into the shadows when Cassidy says, “Lou! Wait.”

  Erich and another man are coming out, both carrying large cardboard boxes. They lug those to the Buick and dump them in the trunk. The new guy gets in the side and they drive off.

  “Quick,” says Lou and they race across the street to the Plymouth, key the engine and make a hurried U-turn.

  Cassidy says, “Where are they going?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you think they’re up to?”

  “Don’t know.” The Buick isn’t in a hurry, staying behind buses or trucks when it could easily pass, and Lou’s finding it hard to keep his own speed down and not be noticed.

  After a while it’s obvious they’re going out of town. The Buick takes a left at Berwyn onto state road 50, speeds up a bit and goes twenty plus miles past Blue Island, and a right on county road 7 near Harvey.

  The population is sparse down here, with long spaces of dark woods between very few buildings. There aren’t any streetlights and only a full moon gives any relief from total darkness. Lou’s staying way behind in an attempt not to be seen and Cassidy’s watching the tiny red tail lights intently.

  They flash for a moment and she says excitedly, “They’re turning!”

  Lou doesn’t. He runs the Plymouth up to sixty and they flash by a small bar recessed in a clearing in the woods. They get a
quick look of a parking lot with maybe a dozen cars as they speed by.

  “You missed the turn,” Cassidy says. She’s looking back through the rear-view.

  “No, I didn’t. I went by so they don’t think we’re following. I’ll turn around the next chance I get and we’ll go back.”

  “Oh; that’s good thinking, Lou.” She squeezes his arm. “I’m impressed.”

  Lou smiles. He just loves impressing her.

  They find a narrow wide spot on the shoulder and maneuver the big car around, an act that makes him praise the engineer who came up with power steering. When they get near the bar Lou turns off the lights and coasts to a stop at the opposite side of the road.

  The parking lot only has a single light above the bar door and the twenty-some cars and trucks are shadowy hulks in the dim light. They sit in the Valiant in their own shadow, listening to the engine tick as it cools. The windows are down and they hear the whirring and clicking of insects and nothing else. It feels timeless here in the Midwest, in the dark, with towering oak trees and thick weeds just off the road. It could be any time in the last thousand years.

  “Let’s go see what we can see,” Lou whispers. Somehow, whispering seems natural in all this unearthly quiet.

  “Sure. Wait. Do you have a gun?”

  “Cass, we’ve been through this. I don’t need a gun.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “No; I don’t.”

  “You’ve used one before,” Cassidy insists. “Take one now.”

  “Look, we’re not going to do anything here; just take a looksee.”

  They cross the tar and gravel road silently, crossing the dirt lot, staying in the shadows of the vehicles. The lot is rutted and Lou slips, slightly twisting his ankle and they pause for a moment in the dark to let him massage it.

  “It’s why you need a gun, Lou; you’re not up to fighting yet. Especially if there’s a lot of them.”

  It galls him to admit it but she’s right; if there’s a crowd he can’t count on his fighting ability. “Okay, so we’ll be subtle and sneak up on them. Like Monk said, we won’t engage.”

  There’s a ten-foot gap between the last car and the light from the single bulb hanging over the door. The door itself has a hand-written sign tacked to it that says, Closed for a Private Party.

  There’s no window in the door and they creep silently to it, listening for anything. When they get to it Lou leans his ear against the frame. He shakes his head. “Nothing. No music I can hear. Just a lot of voices talking.”

  “Let’s go around, see if there’s a window.”

  Cassidy follows him to the side and around the back. They come to a door next to an overflowing trash bin, stinking and swarming with huge black flies.

  “Careful,” Lou says. “Those bastards bite.”

  “Probably say the same about the guys inside,” says Cassidy.

  The back door is evidently for deliveries. It’s open with just a wood frame screen door to keep the bugs out. There’s a single hook and eye holding it shut from the inside and Lou takes out his knife, unfolds the blade and slits the screen. He reaches in and undoes the hook.

  The screen door has a tight spring at the top to pull it shut and it squeals as Lou opens the door. He quickly stops, but tries again, very slowly this time.

  “Shhh,” says Cassidy, and smiles brightly at him.

  Inside, they skirt past stacked boxes of beer that make a small corridor though a dark room. There’s a thin line of light coming from a window in the door that leads to the front and they cross silently to it. Lou looks first.

  He has a view from behind the bar at a single large room. The bartender’s busy pouring steins of beer from a tap and a dozen bottles are on the bar. Beyond that, the room has about twenty, twenty-five men moving around in small groups. There are no women and everyone is dressed in brown shirts with black ties. They all have wide jodhpurs and the flat tan hats of Nazi uniforms. There are black belts and knee-high boots gleaming with polish. Every man he sees has a pistol in a holster on his belt.

  There are red Swastika armbands on every sleeve.

  On the walls, stark in red, white and black are banners, floor-to ceiling of Nazi Swastikas in circles of white against the blood red background. Erich Klaussner is standing in front of one of them.

  Lou says, with feeling, “Well, shit.”

  “What is it? Let me see.” Cassidy eases him aside and takes her place at the tiny window. She’s silent, watching for several minutes. “Nazis, Lou. This is like a Nazi convention.”

  “Yeah.” Lou’s stunned by this. It’s one thing to hear a story from an old lady—Nazis in the US, one’s living right next door—because he didn’t really believe it, not deep down where it matters. Now, seeing them gathered together in a miniature version of the Third Reich, it’s like he’s watched a monster come back to life.

  “What are we going to do?” whispers Cassidy. This feels like a time to whisper.

  “We are going to leave. Very, very quietly.” He turns to leave, hears the screen door spring shriek and all the lights come on.

  Three men, all in uniforms, two of them carrying cases of liquor, have just entered behind them. They’re talking and laughing and they stop suddenly, staring at Lou and Cassidy who are frozen, staring back.

  “Lou?” says Cassidy. She’s clutching his right arm tightly and he shakes it loose. He’s going to need that arm.

  Lou’s thinking hard. A lot of Nazis behind them in the bar, three Nazis in front. Two of those are carrying heavy boxes. Easy choice. This back room is small and filled with a lot of cartons and now, five people and Lou’s remembering the trouble he had fighting Erich in a small space and he hesitates just for a second.

  But long enough for the guy in front to recover from his surprise and grab for his Luger. Fortunately, the pistol is strapped in the holster and as the man fumbles for the snap Lou moves.

  He doesn’t want to make any more noise than necessary so toppling the cases is out. Instead, he runs directly toward the gun the guy is now bringing up. Lou grabs a rag drying on the edge of a dirty metal sink, feels that it’s still damp and twirls it like the frat guys do in the locker room and snaps it in the gunman’s face. The guy yells in pain and surprise as the tip of the towel hits his eye and Lou’s goes through him like he isn’t there. The next two still haven’t recovered from the surprise and he shoulders them backwards like he’s a defensive lineman for the Bears.

  Easy. But not quiet. Both men drop their boxes and both boxes break open and both contain bottles of liquor and those bottles smash on the floor. And the first guy gets over his shock and manages to fire the damn Luger.

  Lou’s imaging what’s happening out front. At the sound of the bottles breaking there’s going to be some looks of confusion—what was that? —and maybe the bartender’s going to be wiping his hands on the bar rag, planning to step into the back, see what’s happening.

  But as they hear the gunshot, somebody—most likely Erich, and probably several others—are going to come running in this direction.

  Lou, doing a fast mental quick-step, thinks, we go out the back and we’re cut off from the car, lost in the woods. They bring flashlights, get organized, they’ll find us. Or...

  Always do the unexpected. He grabs Cassidy’s hand and tugs her back toward the bar. They get behind the door as it bursts open and about ten of the Nazis flood through. The room’s too small to let them all in so Lou does his football rush again, this time taking out the last of the mob.

  Cassidy’s right behind him, raking fingernails in the face of anybody left standing and together they run into the bar. Many—many! —startled faces gape at them as they barrel across the narrow room and Lou’s really hoping the door is either unlocked or flimsy or this is going to be the shortest escape ever.

  He hits it with his shoulder—it’s both unlocked and flimsy—and it flies open and they’re out, racing across the rutted dirt parking lot. They make it ten feet, twenty, and
a crowd bursts out of the bar like angry hornets after you’ve hit their nest with a stick.

  Their car is still all the way across the road and once they get there they still need to start the engine and Lou’s thinking maybe they’re not going to make it. Okay, fine; so now what?

  Now he digs into his pocket like a pervert at one of those girly movie houses he’s been reading about, this time for a better reason and he pulls the Valiant’s keys out and yells, “Cassie, here!” Over the roar of the mob.

  She’s startled but grabs the keys and they keep running, hoping they’re going to make it, when Lou’s foot hits another of those damn ruts and he goes down like he’s been shot. Cassidy, still attached to his hand, almost goes down with him but manages, barely, to stay on her feet.

  Lou’s ankle is screaming at him—again—and he curses once before yelling again. “Go! Run to the car. Get help.”

  “Lou; I can’t...” she’s going to say, leave you, but she sees a whole lot of angry Nazis charging at them and a couple of them have figured out that they have guns and are starting to fumble at their holsters to get them.

  Lou yells, “I got this! I’ll hold them off. Go get Monk.”

  She doesn’t want to but she also doesn’t want to be a prisoner of Nazis. She’s seen the movies and nothing in them has convinced her that a woman is safe around them. She bolts like a frightened deer for the road and the car and safety thinking I will be back, Lou; I will save you.

  She makes it to the car and stabs the key in the slot, twisting and hearing the Detroit V-8 engine roar to life, and she looks out the window as the car leaps forward. Five or six guys almost reached her but they’re thrown off the car as she tears away.

  Lou’s on one foot, slashing at anyone who comes near and Cassidy has a heartbreaking image of him going down and the phrase jackboots comes back to her from some early history lessons. She knows that Lou’s feeling those boots right now.

  And there are a lot of jackboots.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  There’s Talk of a Rescue?

  ––––––––

  “Monk, wake up! They’ve got him. They’ve got Lou!”