A young man in an immaculate tuxedo says, “May I...?
“Elie Wiesel,” yells Monk. “What room number?”
“Sir,” says the clerk, “I can’t give out...”
“Lou, beat him up.”
“Nah.” Lou eases Monk aside—he has to push hard—and leans in to the counter. A twenty appears in his right hand; as he shakes with the clerk it disappears.
“Room six-oh-four,” says the clerk.
Fred Cassowary and Walt Bristol are on the corner watching the entrance to the Ambassador hotel. Well-dressed people are coming out, doormen in blue uniforms are flagging down green and white checkered cabs. Regular folks are enjoying the sunny morning along Michigan Avenue, heading past the lions guarding the entrance to the art museum, pushing strollers, wandering to Grant Park.
Bristol, eyeing the crowds like they’re an enemy, sees an unusual amount of motorcycles parked a block away and it seems like the normal crowd is filling up with more veterans than usual.
There’s a group of maybe twenty vets in uniform coming up Adams, another group of, “What is that, Walt? Is that Jews?” about the dozen black suited and bearded men coming south down the avenue, probably from a bus down from Skokie...
And there’s the coloreds, lots of them coming north, probably from a bus up from Hyde Park. Enough of them that, under normal circumstances, both Cassowary and Bristol would be doing some heavy-handed law enforcement on their asses for sure.
But not today.
Cassowary says, “Look at the TV vans. Where’d they come from?”
While Bristol’s pointing to a bunch of guys in fedoras and rumpled suits, looking a lot like they haven’t slept, or eaten, in weeks. “Reporters,” he says, with no approval whatsoever. In his world there are cops, family, a bunch of others that change positions depending on his mood or the circumstances, and finally, even below criminals, private eyes and the press.
Royal pains in the butt as far as he’s concerned and he’s concerned now because there’s no way these vultures could be here unless they were tipped and that means Fleener’s story is true.
There’s gonna be Nazis here.
A group of people begin marching up from beneath the Hotel.
Bristol whistles sharply and points hard—over there! —to Cassowary, who stops looking at the women going by to see...
What the hell!
Nazis. A whole bunch of them coming up out of the ground like mole people in some science fiction movie. They’re carrying banners and singing some military song, probably in German, and they’re all wearing brown shirts with swastikas and people, are beginning to notice.
Somebody starts pointing, somebody else is yelling at somebody to, “Look! Over there!” and people back up to get away from them as they rise from the garage.
They get to the sidewalk and fan out until they’ve formed a line. Somebody yells something, probably in German, and they all do that Nazi salute and yell, “HEIL HITLER,” maybe for the first time in America in a decade and a half, since the big war ended with them.
Regular folks, startled, begin to scream and yell and Bristol sees a lot of cameras pointing before being shoved aside by a veteran, who looks a lot like the sergeant who tormented him back in basic in ’44. Duffy, the guy’s name was and Bristol’s got the shakes really bad when the veterans and the colored and the Jews—not your friendly, let us pray, Jews, but the never again, ain’t gonna happen Jews—all converge with murderous intent on the group of suddenly scared looking Nazi guys.
Cassowary looks at Bristol and they do that partners silent language thing again, which is good they can do because it’s suddenly way too noisy to hear anything.
Cassowary: What should we do?
Bristol: Call for backup?
Cassowary: Nah. Let’s wait it out.
Bristol: Good idea.
Monk explains as Lou drives. They’re three blocks from the Plaza when Lou does a sudden turn to the curb, he’s pulling at the handle as Monk yells, “Lou! What are you doing?”
“Monk, we gotta get a guy.” He’s shoving nickels into the phone box as Monk joins him, shoving the door aside to cram himself into the booth. Horns are blaring at the half-parked car at the curb.
“Lou, you’re the guy. We don’t need...”
“Yeah, we do. You said it yourself, I’m no good in small... yeah. Hello!”
He talks in the phone, nods like the other side can see him, says, “Meet’cha there.”
He pushes Monk aside and heads back to the car.
“We’re good,” he says.
That’s the scene he sees from the seventeenth-floor window as he looks down, forehead against the glass. From up here they look like ants fighting, or a beehive that’s been hit with a stick. A lot of flailing, a lot of noise, though Carlton can’t hear it through the thick glass windows.
He’s got a box, gift wrapped, about the size of a couple of men’s shirts, from the boutique tailor shop in the lobby. The package even says, Myron Havershim, Tailor, in gold script on the card.
It’s too heavy for shirts though and Carlton knows what’s in it.
Death, he thinks, is what’s in it.
He sighs, a sound like a death rattle, and turns from the window, looks at his watch. It’s old and gold and he’s always forgetting to wind it. And it never kept very good time, but right now it says 9:58 which is close enough.
Carlton, in a brown suit and a fedora with a tasteful tan band, is approaching the door to room seventeen-oh-four. The door is blue, the walls of the wide hallway are a muted red, a deep red, the color of rubies.
The color of blood.
Wall sconces in an art-deco style give muted lighting as he walks away from the windows and it’s like going into a tunnel that gets darker as he walks.
A maid comes around the corner pushing a cart full of cleaning supplies and linens. She takes one look at Carlton, makes the sign of the cross and backs away, vanishing back around the corner.
He passes doors on both sides and he’s maybe ten feet from his destination when two of those doors open behind him, one on each side. Hearing the sounds, Carlton spins around to see a very large man stepping out of one side and two uniformed policemen coming from the other.
Everybody stops where they are and watches to see what will happen next.
Carlton is shocked. This is not at all how he expected this to go. That Erich had some devious plan to kill him once the package was delivered was obvious. Carlton fully expected to die, here in this hotel or at some place of Erich’s choosing. A rat himself, Carlton knows betrayal when he sees it.
But police in the hall to stop him? That’s can’t be part of Erich’s plan. This is a mistake. They shouldn’t be here.
In the silence he considers for a moment and decides. The plan must go through, even if he dies to do it.
Carlton shifts the package and pulls a gun from his coat pocket.
He says, “Goodbye Georgie.”
A policeman yells and, as Carlton raises his pistol, both men pull their own. They’re faster than he is and Carlton hears the shots, feels the bullets go deep in his chest and one of them hits the package.
Which blows up.
Erich Klaussner carefully parks the car in the underground space beneath the Plaza Hotel, locks the doors and opens the trunk. He takes out a large flat cardboard box and a small brown satchel, the kind doctors use, and closes the trunk. He sets the box down and places the satchel on the car, unzips it and checks the contents. A gun and a syringe.
He pockets the gun.
Erich takes the elevator to the sixth floor, steps out and looks around. The hall, carpeted in a subtle blue and tan pattern, stretches out in both directions, empty. The walls are papered and muted lighting gives it a cavern-like feel, like being underwater or on Mars. There are no windows, only pale eggshell painted doors on both sides.
Erich reads tags as he walks by, looking for one in particular.
There.
T
he cardboard box is under his right arm and he pauses ten feet from the door to think. This is vanity, he thinks, and foolish. It’s madness, he thinks, as he has for days now. Someone will see me.
But he can’t resist the impulse.
He backtracks a dozen doors until he finds a linen supply closet, opens the door and steps in. He opens the box.
The police are thrown to the floor and Larry is pushed hard against the wall but remains standing. Pieces of plaster and wallpaper and Carlton cover them in the world’s grisliest shower.
Larry recovers first, scraping blood and tissue that was so recently a human being; more or less.
The cops get up, ears ringing from the sound. Plaster dust drifts down to the ruined carpet.
The maid, wide-eyed, puts her head around the corner and stares at the blood-soaked men, the ruined hallway, the drifting red dust.
“I ain’t cleaning this up,” she says.
Lou and Monk and another man, shorter and somehow menacing, get off the elevator and race down the hall, neither noticing or caring about the ambiance. They pass a closed supply closet and rush ahead, glancing at small room numbers in tasteful bronze.
“Here,” says Monk as they careen to a halt. He knocks twice, tries the handle; locked. Two more knocks and a muffled, “Coming!” from inside and the door opens.
Monk shoves it aside and they push their way in.
Erich finishes dressing in the cramped closet. He smooths the front of his military Nazi captain’s uniform while thinking, ‘I should not be doing this.’
But he has to do this. The Jew has to know—really know—who killed him, and Erich is too vain to let the symbolism escape.
So, he drops the box and opens the door, scans the hall and sees it empty.
Excellent. He takes his new Luger, purchased from a collector of war memorabilia for a hundred dollars, from his shining brown holster and checks it. He puts it back but doesn’t snap the strap.
In his right hand is the syringe.
He goes to the door, considers knocking, but tries the handle, which turns.
He sucks in a silent breath, realizing that the time has finally come.
Erich silently opens the door and peers around the edge. There’s a short narrow hall with a door—the bathroom? —on the right. The hall opens into a larger room with a huge window pouring in the morning light.
He steps inside and closes the door. Stops at the bathroom and gently nudges the door, looks quickly in and sees no one. Only the shower stall, curtain partially closed.
Forward. He moves silently, one hand on the butt of his Luger, the other holding the syringe. It catches the light of a small drop of liquid on its tip.
Two more steps. He glances at his watch and sees it’s just after ten. He’s timed this perfectly. His diversion with the Nazi demonstration would keep people riveted. By now the bomb has gone off and David Ben-Gurian is dead.
So is Carlton. He smiles and enters the living room.
Two men are relaxing in easy chairs facing the window. The sun is bright and reflecting off the glass and some mirrors on the walls and Erich can’t make out more than their backs.
He says softly, “Jew.”
Lou Fleener turns in his chair, grins widely and says, “Howdy!” in a happy-to-meet-you voice. The other chair spins and Dion Monkton looks up and nods solemnly.
Erich, hand on gun on hip, syringe pointed at the sky, gapes in shock. His mouth opens and closes as he looks at the two most unexpected people in the world. How could they be here?
“You...” He says. “How?”
Lou cocks a thumb at Monk. “This guy,” he says. “Isn’t he a pip? He figured out that your parade and the bomb thing were both diversions. The real target is here.”
“Was here.” Monk is studying him carefully, noting the uniform and the medals and all the brightly polished leather. His expression turns from serious to smiling. He points a finger at Erich as if it’s a gun, pulls the imaginary trigger and says, “Gotcha!”
Fury chases shock. Erich, as expected, lets anger take the lead. He pulls the Luger from its holster and points it.
“Where is he?”
“It’s all over, Erich.” Lou pulls himself out of the low chair and stands up, facing the tall Nazi.
Erich glares down at him. “Where is he?”
“Elie?” says Lou. He shrugs. “Not here.”
Erich’s battling rage and frustration and a burning desire to shoot this man in the face. “Where IS he?” He runs his eyes around the room as if his victim might appear, like there’s still hope.
But there isn’t. He drops his gaze down to Lou. “You... you... Bastard. Always in the way. Always interfering.” He lifts the Luger. “You, foolish little man. So proud of your fighting ability. You should have brought a gun.” His finger tightens.
“No.”
Lou steps closer, looks up at the towering Aryan whose gun is now almost touching his face.
Gone is the impish grin, the casual air of amusement. Lou is all anger as he pushes further into the Luger, letting the barrel push into the skin of his cheek.
Behind him Monk says softly, “Lou; this isn’t the way.”
Not looking back, Lou says, “Yes, it is. This ass thinks he’s the top of the food chain. The Master Race; what a crock.” He leans in so the Luger is making a round red circle under his right eye. He glares up at the tall Nazi. “Do it Fritz. Pull the trigger.”
“Lou!” Monk’s up and out of the chair.
Lou repeats, “Do it. Pull the trigger. That’s all you Aryan asses know how to do. Too yellow to fight a man without shooting him.”
The Luger is pulled back slightly as Erich looks down from the heights. His eyes meet Lou’s, then circle the room as he considers.
It’s a large room by hotel standards, but it’s still crowded, with a king-size bed, a huge mahogany dresser, a dining table and three chairs and a matching pair of red leather Queen Anne’s, one of which Monk is standing by, holding an enormous cigar.
The air is rich with the aroma of cherry, pepper and eucalyptus. A dense blue cloud forms a haze that dims the bright sun coming in off Lake Michigan through the wall-to-wall windows.
There’s a big television in one corner and a walnut console radio for the traditional guest. Add table lamps and floor lamps and bedside tables and there’s hardly room enough to walk about.
Erich looks back down at Lou and lowers the Luger.
“It’s a small room,” he says.
“Very,” agrees Lou.
“You’d be at a disadvantage.”
“I would. Isn’t that how you cowards like it? Never take a chance?”
“The wise man knows when to use events to his advantage,” says Erich.
“If I find one, I’ll ask him. What do you say, Fritz; want a shot at the title?”
“Do you mean do I want to beat you? Of course.” He moves suddenly, swinging his right arm in a short fast jab into Lou’s face.
Lou’s head jerks back, but he doesn’t retreat. He also doesn’t do any of the swift acrobatic moves he’s known for. His feet are planted, one slightly behind the other for balance as he rubs a hand across his cheek, examines the blood and smiles at the towering Nazi.
“That’s it? That’s all you got?”
No. Erich tosses the Luger on the bed and begins to hit Lou with both fists, his arms moving like pistons, back and forth, smacking Lou’s arms that are held against his body to block them.
Erich moves his blows up and down, seeking exposed ribs or a belly or cheekbones, occasionally feeling the electric jolt up his arm when he connects solidly.
Lou stays flat-footed, taking the punishment until a left hook slips past his arms and knocks him off his feet.
Erich, high above, sneers at his fallen enemy. “No jokes? No fast move? No surprises?”
Lou rolls to his side, rises slowly, stands where he’d been. “Nope.” He raises his right hand, palm up, and flexes his fingers in a come
here move. “Try again, Fritz.”
“Erich,” he says, annoyed. “Erich Klaussner.” Convinced his greater strength will prevail, he lunges forward to throw his long-muscled arms around his enemy.
Lou meets this by grabbing Erich’s hands and the two men strain against each other, Lou up, Erich pushing down until Lou drops one hand and drives a fist, hard, into Erich’s stomach.
There’s a whoosh of air, a grunt of pain and Lou hits him three more times, chest, chest and chin.
Erich falls to the bed but kicks wildly as Lou leaps on him. His foot catches Lou in the stomach and he rolls backwards, somersaulting Lou over his head.
Lou smashes upside down against the mirror-tiled wall and glass showers on the bed. When he falls back Erich is on him and they wrestle, thrashing on the blue flowered bedspread. Erich’s got the advantage of greater strength and size as he rolls Lou onto his back and presses down on him.
Lou’s arm is over his head, fingers reaching for something to use as a weapon.
Monk obligingly steps forward and pushes the heavy bedside table lamp into Lou’s grasping fingers.
Lou swings the lamp, hitting Erich in the head, breaking the lamp into red porcelain shards that crunch as they roll across them. Lou gets to his feet before Erich and swing both fists, fingers interlaced as a club, into Erich’s chin.
Blood flies, Lou loses his balance and Erich rolls off the bed, kicking Lou in the ass.
Lou careens into the bedside table, smashing it and the big electric clock, into wood and plastic pieces.
He turns and dives recklessly back at Erich and they trip over the corner of the bed, biting and gouging over the tangled sheets and pillows. Lou grabs the front of Erich’s shirt with both hands and swings the Nazi from side to side until the fabric tears and he’s thrown off-balance, brown shirt and Swastikas flapping.
Erich punches Lou three times in the face and Lou falls backward, cheeks bleeding, onto the solid wood dining table. Chairs spin away and the table, never designed to hold overweight detectives, collapses, dropping Lou hard to the floor.
Seriously? Page 28
