“Sorry. Just... nerves. Didn’t mean anything.” To Bonnie he adds, “You good with the plan?”
She hasn’t known him long enough to be as scornful as Cassidy but there’s a good slice of sarcasm. “The plan we’ve just gone over twice? Yes, I think I have it.”
“Sorry.” Monk is as jittery as a squirrel on a hot plate. He looks from one woman to the other, sees them waiting on him, says, “Right,” and gets in the car. Bonnie gets in next to him and he shifts the Bel Air into gear and drives very slowly toward the house.
“If we’re lucky,” he says, “They’ll be so busy watching Lou they won’t hear us.”
“Won’t they have a guard? Wouldn’t that be smart of them?”
“Probably not. They’ve only got five guys now that we killed Aldo and they’re all going to be watching Lou. He scares them.”
“Monk? You keep talking about... him... like he’s Superman. You sent him in against them alone and even told him to lose. What makes you think he’s even alive right now?”
“Bonnie, trust me. Even last year, if I hadn’t told Lou to take a dive, we wouldn’t be trying to save him. He would have taken them all out before we left the barn. Even now he’s not in much trouble.”
She’s shaking her head, not believing. The Bel Air rolls to a stop a hundred yards from the back door and they both get out, closing the doors softly. Monk nods and they run to the sides of the house, taking positions on each side of the screen door.
Monk listens for a moment and whispers, “I hear them talking.” He listens again and smiles. “I hear Lou.”
“What are they saying?” Bonnie whispers back.
“Lou’s asking for more coffee.”
“What?”
“Shhh.” Monk puts a finger to his lips. Bonnie looks frustrated.
Monk listens a while longer and straightens up. He nods at Bonnie, raises an arm and waves it. He and Bonnie cover their ears.
Five seconds later Cassidy shoots the house.
Marko ducks first, of course. His face hits the floor almost before the last bullet goes through the wall and out the ceiling.
Lou’s already moving. He throws his coffee in Erich’s face, spins to the two men guarding the door and hits them both before they can raise their guns, chopping at their wrists to make them drop them. He hears the creak of the screen door and knows reinforcements—for him! —are coming and he takes the moment to dash into the living room.
Where are they? Where...? He ignores the floor model radio, scans the top of the large cabinet in the corner, looks at the folding card table under the lamp... ah. The plans. Monk’s plans. ‘Even if you can’t get him to talk, be sure to grab the plans when we break in to save you.’
That was the last thing Monk said before they separated at the barn.
Lou hears gun shots, takes the rolled-up drawings and swings them like a club. Good balance; they’ll do fine. He goes back in the kitchen where the Nazis have formed a sort of skirmish line near the stove, pointing their lugers at the door as if waiting for tanks to burst through.
Lou, behind them, smiles. He lightly swings the drawings and considers his options, turns and goes out the front door. Moving quickly but not in a rush, he comes around the corner where Monk and the girl... whoever... are shooting into the house. They’re being careful not to get in the line of return fire.
Monk grins like a crazy person when he sees Lou come around the corner and he makes a waving arm motion at the girl... whoever... and she looks up to see Lou. Her expression is an almost comical look of sheer surprise, as if she didn’t believe this plan would ever work.
She and Monk take a moment to shoot into the house a lot and they all run back to the car, Lou in back, Monk driving and the girl... whoever... in the side. As they back out, the screen door opens and a Nazi—not Erich, unfortunately—comes out and raises a pistol. The flat crack of Cassidy’s rifle sends him scurrying back inside, clutching his shoulder.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
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Later That Same Day
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“So... what do we got?”
Lou and Cassidy, Monk and Bonnie, are in the upper apartment, dining room table covered with overflowing ashtrays, coffee cups and Schlitz empty bottles. Under the orange glow of the swag lamp Monk has spread out the plans Lou swiped amid the debris and he’s frowning in concentration.
“I do not know,” he says. “It’s floor plans for the twelfth floor of the Ambassador Hotel. It shows the hallways, the elevators, stairways and the two suites—Penthouse and Presidential.” He lights a smoke and everybody else takes out their own packs from shirt pocket or purse, lights them with matches or lighters, sucks in deep drags of smoke and tar and sighs it back out again. The atmosphere in the small room is like Vesuvius just after the eruption.
“Not a cough in a Carload,” grins Lou through the haze, mocking the Old Gold cigarette ads. He taps a finger on the floor plan. “So, who’s staying there? That’s gotta be Erich’s target.”
“That’s the problem Lou. Target for what? Target who? And when? Even if I could get a list of bookings for the place, we still wouldn’t know when.”
“Yes but...” Bonnie’s new here and feeling a little shy about speaking up. After the long drive back to Chicago, she and Cassidy went downstairs to shower and “freshen up,” returning with Cassidy in tan slacks and a white shirt and Bonnie in a pair of Cassidy’s white pants that fit her larger figure like wallpaper.
Lou caught Monk staring and silently nudged Cassidy (“See what’s going on?”) who raised her eyebrows (“I know! He really likes her. My idea, you know.”) and they both looked smug about her matchmaking.
Bonnie says, “If you could get that list... I mean, of who’s going to be there... wouldn’t it tell you... us... something?”
“It would,” says Monk. “If it was somebody famous, or if we recognized the name... or we had any idea what these guys are up to.” He looks up at Bonnie, sees her expression. “I mean... I didn’t mean... to rain on your parade...”
Cassidy, deciding on a rescue, touches Bonnie’s shoulder. “He means,” she says, “That it’s a good idea, even if we don’t know who.” She glares at Monk (“Say something, dummy!”) and he stammers, “Right, right: I meant that. What she said. But... we don’t have that list.”
“I can get it,” offers Lou, and all eyes turn to peer through the haze. He pauses his beer can near his mouth. “What?”
“You can get the booking list from the Ambassador?”
“Sure, easy. I know a guy.”
“You know a guy.”
“That’s what PI’s do, Monk. They know people. They get stuff.”
“Oooookay. So, why don’t you do that, and we’ll see what we see.”
“Sure. I’ll go over now. Cassidy; wanna come?”
Cassidy looks at Monk, who’s looking at Bonnie who’s looking back, both oblivious to anyone but themselves and she grins.
“Sure. We should get out of here.” She adds, over her shoulder as they leave, “Don’t want to disturb the lovebirds.”
She’s still laughing at Monk and Bonnie’s horrified expressions as she closes the door.
In the car on Lincoln Ave, heading south to downtown, Lou says, “Was that necessary?”
“Nope. Sure, was fun, though.”
Back in the apartment, Monk’s studying at the plans as if they’ve changed or might catch fire and Bonnie’s digging in her purse for another cigarette even though she’s got one lit already and neither will look at the other.
Monk, head still down, says, “More coffee?”
And Bonnie, to the wall, says, “Sure.”
And both say, “I’ll get it,” as Monk rises from his chair like a puppet being stretched and Bonnie almost collides with the wall next to the door. This leaves them standing face to face and the silence makes the mantle clock ticking sound like a bomb near exploding and Monk says, “Bomb.”
“Yes. That’s what they’re going to do. They’re going to set off a bomb at the Ambassador.”
“How do you...?” Bonnie’s feeling relieved that tension is broken and a little sad that it hadn’t gone somewhere else and unsure about where that somewhere else would be or even if she wants to go there.
She’s been a prisoner with this handsome, awkward, smart, brave, clumsy man for three days and nights and she has no idea if she wants anything more to happen with him. Right now, she’s caught up in the moment—Nazis and kidnapping and guns will do that—but what about tomorrow? What happens when the rush wears off and normal, whatever that is, comes back?
Normal, she understands, is what every day is all about; that’s why it’s called ‘normal.’ Right now, is adrenaline and nerves and too much coffee and too many cigarettes—her throat feels like she’s gargled battery acid—but the thrill will wear off. Then what?
Monk’s thinking pretty much the same, except his thoughts are careening from Nazi plans to what-is-that-perfume? From rational to emotional and back and forth like water being sloshed in a pan. It—or the third pack of camels today—has given him a headache.
So, he says, “Bomb?” again and waits and she says, “What about a bomb?” and waits and they stare at each other for several very tense seconds before he coughs (there’s that one in a Carload!) and she looks at her feet and he says, “They’re planning to...”
She says, “I got that part. Who are they going to bomb?”
“That,” he says, “I do not know.”
“And when?”
“That either.”
“Should we call the cops?”
“And tell them what? Bonnie, Lou and Cassie and I, we’ve had some experience with reporting to the cops. They tend to not believe people who say things like Nazis are going to bomb somebody sometime. We need to get more information.”
“Like who is staying there. Can he... I mean, can Lou... actually get that stuff?”
“I think so. Lou’s pretty capable.”
“So are you,’ says Bonnie.
And just like that, awkward comes back with a vengeance.
Lou Fleener fits in the ornate grand entrance to the Ambassador Hotel like the troll under the bridge who decided to come out and stroll through a cathedral. Even with the very attractive Cassidy on his arm he is what he looks like; short, rumpled and way out of place.
“Swanky,” he says, eyeing the three-story atrium, the grand ballroom staircase flanking both sides of the room leading up to an opulent heaven. The floors are marble, the walls are brocade flowery wallpaper with oak wainscoting. There are huge plants, both fern and blooming, and a severe house dick as a guard who meets them before they get more than a hundred feet past the door.
“Help you sir? Ma’am?” He’s tall and wide, maybe once a linebacker in the National Football league, blew out a knee before getting cut, or a bouncer at the world’s classiest nightclub. Now he’s the gate-keeper of the rich and powerful in a tuxedo that hides the gun under his arm. He’s got eight inches on Lou and fifty pounds.
“Got a question for the manager,” says Lou, looking way up. He’s not afraid—rarely is—and definitely not by this bozo. He reminds Lou of the thugs Duke Braddock used to send, before he ran out sending them against Lou. And before he went up to Joliet prison for a couple lifetimes.
“Manager want to answer them?” asks the guy. He’s steered them to an alcove over by the phone banks, six of them, all deeply polished old mahogany coffins with Ma Bell’s best black rotary phones. They’re out of sight behind a jungle of ferns and the guy drops the pretense of suave and grins.
“Lou Fleener, you, old dog! How’ve you been?”
“Been good, Larry; been good.” They’re pumping arms and squeezing hands and if Lou doesn’t show that his paw is being mangled it’s because Cassidy is with him. He says, writhing his aching fingers, “Cass; Larry Bowen. Larry; Cassidy. My wife.”
“Your wife?” Larry couldn’t be more astounded if Jackie Kennedy, wife of the new president, decided to marry some old Greek guy. “Your...”
“Wife, yes,” says Cassidy, smiling serenely up. The man looks like a bear that’s been stung a few too many times. “Me and Lou. Married.”
“Nah,” says Larry. He’s staring from one to the other, clearly disbelieving. “Tell me another one, Lou.” He suddenly grins like he’s just gotten the joke. “This is just some hooker you picked up on State street, right? A joke? Funny Lou. Real funny.” He leans down to offer private advice. “But if you’re trying to use this street meat to get in to this place, you gotta getta better cut. This skank’s pretty enough but she ain’t... ow!”
Cassidy, taking advantage of Larry leaning down to talk, takes an ear between her very sharp fingernails and squeezes. And twists, hard, to the left. Larry, despite being the size and weight of a small rhino, decides to go where his ear is going. He’s making sharp little yipping noises and he bends and turns.
“Street meat?” hisses Cassidy.
“Ow... ow!” He swats at her with his left arm but she’s out of reach. “Call her off Lou; call her off!”
“Skank?” demands Cassidy.
“Honey? Maybe you should let him go.”
“Yeah,” agrees Larry in the direction of the floor. A drop of blood lands next to his foot. “Let him go. Please?”
“Fine.” But she holds on and gives another sharp twist. “But don’t call me that again.”
“Eeeee... didn’t mean it... didn’t... sorry...” Larry’s almost on his knees and Cassidy’s showing no interest in letting go—possibly ever—while Lou stands quietly to the side with a smile of pure pride.
“Wanna try this again?” He leans over and twists so he can look up at Larry, now bent over double. “Larry? I’d like you to meet my wife Cassidy. Cassidy,” Lou says politely, “this is Larry.”
“Pleased to meet you,” says Cassidy, with equal poise. She sounds like she could be at Buckingham Palace being introduced at court. She lets go of the ear and Larry rises... and rises... and they’re both watching him to see what he’ll do.
Which is to grin and swat Lou on the shoulder. “Yeah; she’s your wife all right. Can’t believe she’d settle for a guy like you; pardon me ma’am, but she sure fights like you do.”
“Why thank you, Larry. I’ll take that as a compliment.” Cassidy brushes some lint of Larry’s otherwise immaculate tuxedo. “I think we’ll be just the best of friends, won’t we?”
“Sure, ma’am... Cassidy... ma’am.” He looks to Lou for help.
“We need some info, Larry. List of all the people who are gonna be staying in this dump the next few weeks.”
“Aw, Lou; you know I can’t give you that. Privileged information, confidentiality; they got rules here. I tell you, I’d get fired and Lou? I gotta say; this is a fine gig.”
“They teach you those words? Privileged information., Confidentiality? Pretty fancy talk for a guy out of PS 130.” He turns to Cassidy. “We went to grade school together down near Roseland. I used to save him from bullies.”
Cassidy, even knowing her husband’s skills, can’t help the double-take. “You saved him? You’re saying he wasn’t always this big?”
“No; he was huge, even then. They used to call him ‘Bigfoot’ and... what else, Larry?”
“The Ox. The elephant. One guy called me the Hulk. I hear there’s a comic now with that name, but I was called it first.”
“See, Larry here, despite appearances, is a sensitive type. Looking at him who’d believe it? He writes poetry. Published, too.”
Cassidy certainly doesn’t. “You’re a poet?”
“I am,” says Larry, pride showing on that massive face. “One of my poems got printed last month is the Tribune. Big company out of New York says they want to publish a book.”
“Get outta here!” says Lou. “Really?”
“It’s true.”
“Well, I will be damned,”
says Cassidy. She offers her hand, carefully, to the big man. “I think maybe we all made some mistakes here. Shouldn’t judge people by appearance, right?”
“Got that... ma’am.”
“Please, call me Cassidy.”
“But I still need that info,” says Lou.
“No can do, Lou.”
They’re sitting at a booth in the elegant clubroom bar, Cassidy with a scotch on the rocks, Lou and Larry with beers, smokes lit, past forgotten. Cassidy’s been quite chummy with the big man, since hearing about his writing and she peppers him with questions about how he does it.
“You just, what? Sit down with a piece of paper and a number two pencil and start rhyming stuff?” Her tone suggests this is as foreign a concept as Algebra, a subject that caused her to flee Rawlins High. “How can you do that?”
“I don’t know,” says Larry. His ear still hurts but he’s loving the attention from a beautiful woman; especially one talking to him about poetry. “How does Lou fight like he does?”
Cassidy turns and smiles wickedly at her husband. “Yeah, Lou; how do you do that?”
“Born lucky. Can we get back to business?”
“I can’t Lou. They’d can my ass.” He sips at his beer, the bottle disappearing in a hand nearly the size of a baseball mitt. “Why do you need it for anyway?”
“Nazis,” says Lou, solemnly.
“Nazis,” repeats Larry. “Like World War Two, the bad guys? Nazis? Geez, Lou; what do take me for?” He turns to get sympathy from Cassidy. “He’s always kidding me, this one is.”
“He means it. We got Nazis against us.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Nazis? Real-life, honest-to-God?”
Lou holds a hand over his heart and belches, ruining the solemn vow. “Short story. Old lady hired me cause her neighbor used to be a concentration camp guard. I met with him...”
“You beat him up,” says Larry. Aside to Cassidy, “He always means that, when he says, ‘met with him.’”
“Tell me about it.”
“Sure,” says Lou. “Anyway, the old lady gets gone and we figure Erich—that’s the neighbor—for it and we follow him to a bar and we meet a whole bunch of guys dressed in German uniforms...”
Seriously? Page 21
