Cut and Run

by Carla Neggers

  “I can’t help you,” the senator said.

  “Sure you can.” Bloch rose, feeling full and confident. “You’re the Golden Boy, Sammy. You can do anything.”

  Matthew’s Federal townhouse, simple but elegant, was a surprise, until Juliana remembered LZ. It was easy to forget that the dark, cynical reporter had produced a bestselling novel, and she made a mental note to stop at a bookstore as soon as she could and buy a copy. After all, he’d been to one of her concerts. Because of Samuel Ryder, she reminded herself, not because of you.

  She slowed as she came to the front stoop. There was no front yard, and the steps ended on the brick sidewalk. The street was tree-lined and narrow, very picturesque and European; Juliana thought Aunt Willie might actually approve. Over breakfast that morning she’d complained about her niece’s German coffee maker, and Juliana had lectured her about West German democracy, the wrongness of collective guilt, the countless wonderful Germans she’d met over the years. Aunt Willie had merely grunted and said, “What do you know of the world?”

  What indeed. She’d had no comeback.

  As she mounted the steps, two men came up behind her, and she stiffened, turning and looking madly for a place to run. There was none, except inside. But the polished wood door was shut tightly. She paused on the second step and felt the breath go out of her. One of the men was dark-skinned and stocky, powerful, young; the other was curly-haired and very thin, also young. They wore heavy sweaters rather than coats, and no hats or gloves.

  “Excuse me,” Juliana said, “I must have the wrong address—”

  “What’s your name?” the darker one asked.

  “J.J.”

  “J.J. what?”

  “Pepper.” She wished Len were here, or even Shuji with one of his short swords. “But I must be going.”

  “You looking for Matt Stark?”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll bet he’s the type who goes for a hot number like you.”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea—”

  She stopped, and the darker one smiled. But he wasn’t the one who’d pulled out the gun. The curly-haired one had. Juliana didn’t know anything about guns except that she didn’t want one aimed at her.

  “We want you to give Matt a message.”

  The darker one was still talking. She focused on him so she wouldn’t have to look at the gun. “Okay,” she said, and hated how small her voice sounded.

  He bent down close to her face, and she could feel the heat of his breath and see the tiny red veins in his eyes. “Tell him to back off,” he said, each word distinct. “Tell him Phil Bloch says so.”

  She nodded. “All right.”

  “Say it back to me.”

  Years and years of solfeggio and memorizing countless pieces had left her with an acute ear. “‘Tell him to back off…Tell him Phil Bloch says so.’”

  “Good.”

  She waited for them to leave, but they lingered, watching her as she debated whether to bolt past them or to scramble into the house. She didn’t have a key, didn’t know if the door was locked, didn’t know if Matthew were there. Had he already left for the Gazette?

  The darker one raised his left arm.

  “No—”

  But it came crashing down, swiping her across the side of the head. The blow sent her sprawling backward against the steps and crashing into the wrought-iron rail. She yelled as pain exploded in her shoulder and started to grab it, but he snatched her wrist and twisted it behind her back. She ignored the shooting pain in her shoulder and he tightened his grip. Don’t break my wrist…dear God, don’t let him do it!

  “Just want him to know the sergeant’s serious.”

  He released her.

  She collapsed on the steps without making a sound and didn’t even attempt to look back. She didn’t want to know anything more about them; she didn’t care where they were going or what they were doing.

  My wrist…

  You jackass, never mind your damned wrist! The sons of bitches didn’t kill you, did they?

  But she cradled her wrist in her other hand, focusing all her terror on it, and examined the bruise. There was no serious damage. She shut her eyes, shaking all over. The pain in her shoulder was already beginning to subside. You’re all right, she told herself; you’re all right.

  Matthew? Had they hurt him?

  Behind her, the front door opened. She whirled around, terrified, but saw instantly it was Stark. He rushed down the steps and scooped her up, and she was glad for the warmth and solidness of him.

  “It’s all right, Juliana,” he said.

  “All right? All right?” She pushed him away and noted he was in perfect health, looking tough and competent but not at all pleased to see her. “Goddamnit, it is not all right!”

  His black eyes narrowed, taking in her hard breathing and frightened, angry look. “Good, you’re not hurt.”

  “In the great, grand scheme of things, no, I am not. No thanks to you, I’m sure. What did you do, watch through the window?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Thanks a lot.” Then she noticed his gun, a big ugly thing. “You had a gun? Jesus Christ, why the hell did you wait? Were you waiting for them to blow my head off?”

  “I didn’t want to start firing when there was no need.”

  “No need—”

  “You could have gotten hit in the cross fire.”

  “Oh.”

  “Do you want to go inside?”

  Feeling calmer, she said, “If you don’t mind.”

  He led the way. They went back to his kitchen, a cheerful, cluttered room with white cabinets and white tab curtains hanging in a window that overlooked a terrace. A couple of dead plants sat outside on the cold bricks. Aunt Willie would have had a fit. A battered pine table stood in front of the window, piled with copies of various newspapers—the Post, the Times, the Christian Science Monitor—and the most recent issue of Motor Trend. There were dirty dishes in the sink and two empty Sam Adams beer bottles on the counter.

  “Need ice?” Stark asked.

  She shook her head, which hurt, but not as much as it might have. “Did you know those men?”

  “Not personally.”

  “They asked me to give you a message from Phil Bloch. He’s a sergeant, I think they said. Did you know him in Vietnam?”

  Matthew got two beers out of the refrigerator, opened them both, and handed her one. He took a gulp of his and sat down as he swallowed it. “Yes.”

  “You know, I’ve lived in New York all my life, and I’ve never been mugged, robbed, assaulted, or even seriously threatened.”

  “That’s because you’re a rich girl,” he said.

  “Well-off. I know rich girls.”

  “Have some beer, Juliana.”

  “I don’t usually—” She sighed, cutting herself off, and tried the beer. She knew Sam Adams was supposed to be high-quality beer, but it still tasted like beer to her. “You’re very calm, you know. I just got assaulted on your doorstep, and you’re not even upset.”

  “That’s because I figure these guys did me a favor.”

  “How?”

  His expression didn’t change. “Maybe they knocked some sense into that dizzy brain of yours.”

  She took a breath and held it, pursing her lips together.

  “Not used to being called names, are you?” Stark laughed, not pleasantly. “The only child, the rich girl, the talented pianist. Everything’s gone smoothly for you your entire life. You’ve never had to get dirt under your nails or suffer a whole hell of a lot or listen to people call you things you don’t want to be called.”

  “Listen, you arrogant, inconsiderate shit,” she said, her voice low and controlled, “you don’t know anything about me, and until you do I suggest you keep your remarks to yourself. I was just backhanded up your front steps because of you.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yes, dammit, that’s right!”

  “And I invited you
here, did I? I knew you were coming, did I? I knew there might be trouble and so did you, and that’s why you played it smart like I told you and stayed the hell in New York like you were supposed to. Lady, let’s not talk about arrogance, and let’s not talk about being inconsiderate.”

  She thought she took his outburst well. She didn’t cower, she didn’t run, she didn’t avert her eyes from his black stare. She just sat there and took it and even considered letting him have it right back. But she didn’t. Her shoulder and her wrist hurt, and besides, he had a point.

  Instead she drank some more beer. “I found out about LZ, you know. Len told me. I’ve never read it, obviously, or seen the movie.”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  She ignored him. “When the book came out, and even the movie, I didn’t have time to pay much attention to goings-on outside the world of music. I still don’t. I have so much work, so many commitments, so much I want to do, and so much everyone else wants me to do. I’ll never even come close to being the kind of pianist I want to be. I’m not saying I’m proud of being such a ding-a-ling, and I’m not saying that’s how all musicians should or do operate, just that I’ve had to be single-minded about what I do.”

  “Juliana,” Stark said, “what the hell does that have to do with any of this mess? Two people are dead, and you just—” She shot him an irritated look. “I know two people are dead, damn you, and you don’t understand. Maybe you can’t. Maybe it doesn’t matter to you. I haven’t been single-minded about what I do just to make a name, to get to where I am today. I’ve just always been absolutely, compulsively driven to play piano. I don’t know why, I’ve never known. Ever since I can remember, I’ve had to play. I never imagined myself doing anything else. My status today is a result of that compulsion, not the reason for it. But I’m losing that need—no, maybe that’s not the right word. The basis for it is changing. I need to be a part of the world.”

  She looked at Matthew, but he didn’t say anything. She felt pale and weak and annoyingly vulnerable. Why was she trying to explain? “Never mind,” she said. “I know Rachel Stein and Uncle Johannes are dead, and I know what happened out there just now, but I can’t back out.”

  Stark settled back in his chair, one foot up on his knee, his eyes never leaving her. “You’re not going to bird-dog me so you can get excited about playing piano again.”

  “That’s not what I meant!” She felt her face heat up. “I am not doing this because I’m bored. I’m doing it because I have to. I have no choice. Ten years ago maybe I wouldn’t have bothered. You and all the other jerks involved with this mess could have done as you damned well pleased. I’d have been fine. But now I can’t not act. I can’t run away. It’s not so I’ll be a better pianist.” She sat back, angry with herself. She’d stopped trying to explain herself to people years ago. If they understood her, okay. If not, to hell with them. Why was it different with Matthew Stark? “Anyway, I’m here.”

  “For about five minutes.”

  “Look—”

  “Sweetheart, your butt’s back in New York as soon as I can get it on a plane out of here.”

  She clamped her mouth shut. “I knew I shouldn’t have tried to explain.”

  His expression softened, but not much. “I’m glad you tried,” he said. “It’s just that it doesn’t make any difference. Look, if it’s any consolation, I understand a lot more about where you’re coming from than I’d like to let on. I know what it’s like to be single-minded about work. I was about mine at one time—and like you say, not because I wanted to be rich and famous, but because I needed to get down on paper things that I needed to say. And I know what it’s like to get to the top and have the pressures of being there—the expectations, the goddamn effort involved—interfere with the work itself.”

  “Is that why you’re at the Gazette?” she asked quietly.

  He grinned. “I didn’t have a J.J. Pepper to slide into.” He finished off his beer in one long swallow, set the empty bottle on the table, and rose. “Tell you what, you be smart and don’t put up a fuss about going back to New York, I’ll tell you about Master Sergeant Phillip Bloch on the way to the airport.”

  She had to ask. “If I’m not smart and do put up a fuss?”

  “Darling,” he said, leaning very close, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath on her mouth and smell the beer, “do you really want to know?”

  Sweet Catharina…

  Hendrik de Geer stumbled into the Upper East Side bar and slid onto the stool as he ordered a double shot of gin. He ignored the looks he received from the well-dressed clientele. What did they know? The gin wasn’t Dutch, but it would do. Anything would.

  I’d forgotten how sweet.

  He filled his glass, drank down the needed liquid. How much would it take before oblivion overtook him? One bottle—two?

  Breathe, Johannes…goddamn you, breathe!

  They’d brought his body to the streets of the old Jewish quarter. Dumped it there among the ghosts. Hendrik had kept his face uncovered, half-hoping he’d be recognized. Not caring. But there was no one there anymore to know Hendrik de Geer and what he’d done. So many of the Jews were gone; a hundred thousand dead, it was said. He believed it. A dozen were on his conscience.

  I didn’t mean for them to die!

  But they did.

  He poured another glass, drank it down, then another.

  Bloch will go after the Minstrel. Ryder won’t stop him.

  It was none of his concern. Samuel Ryder was a coward and a fool, and to save himself he would have to appease Phillip Bloch. For him, there was no other choice. He’s like me, this senator, the Dutchman thought. He would involve people he cares about in his schemes to save his own skin.

  Now that Bloch knew about the diamond, he would never be satisfied until it was in his possession. Ryder would help if necessary. Bloch would know that.

  They’ll go to Catharina…to her daughter…to Wilhelmina.

  Willie, the wily old bitch. There was no forgiveness in her stone heart. She could always see through him. For a time, she’d been excited by what he was. Now she’d kill him without a thought.

  You must stop Bloch. You know how he thinks. You can do it.

  No, he couldn’t. Phillip Bloch had a stockpile of weapons, he had men who were well trained, if loyal only to themselves, and he had contacts, like Senator Ryder. He was tough, deliberate, cautious, and very dangerous. Hendrik was too old to take him on. Too tired.

  And if Catharina dies?

  Then she dies.

  And he thought, as he refilled his glass, I’m already damned.

  They took Matthew’s car, a black Porsche, to the airport. “A German car?” Juliana said. “Aunt Willie would be disgusted.”

  Their shoulders almost touched in the cozy confines of the sportscar, and Matthew saw that she was still pale from her ordeal on his front steps. He glanced down at the slender, blunt-nailed hands folded on her lap. Her wrist was swollen, but she’d refused his offer of ice, assuring him and, he thought, herself that the injury was only minor. He hadn’t told her what it was like to stand there and watch her tough it out with two of Bloch’s men. Hadn’t told her how the anger had ripped through him; how he’d had to fight the impulse to go after the goddamn cowards. They wouldn’t deliver Bloch’s message to him personally but had waited for an unarmed piano player. She’d handled herself well under the circumstances.

  But Juliana Fall was getting to be one hell of a distraction.

  “Why would Aunt Willie be disgusted?” he asked.

  “She has this thing about Germans.”

  “You sent her back to Rotterdam?”

  Juliana turned and looked out the passenger window. “No one sends Aunt Willie anywhere.” Then she turned back to him. Her cheeks had regained some of their color “You know, Matthew, I keep telling myself if you’d gotten yourself throttled on my doorstep, I’d have insisted you return home as well. But then again, I won
der if I might understand your need to see this thing through.”

  “It’s not your fight.”

  She looked at him, icy and smart and nuts and beautiful. Matthew didn’t know why the hell he hadn’t kissed her by now.

  Because, jackass, you won’t stop with a kiss. And then where would you be? Stay away, my man. Stay away.

  She said coolly, “Bullshit.”

  “I don’t want you around.”

  “And I make my own decisions.”

  “Not used to considering anyone’s opinion but your own, are you?”

  She gave him one of her distant, mysterious smiles. It warned him away and made him want to come closer. It made him realize how much he didn’t know about Juliana Fall, and how much he wanted to know everything. For the first time, he saw her self-awareness—her understanding of who she was and what she was.

  The mystery went to her dark eyes. “An only child in a solitary profession, a woman of some means who lives alone? Of course I’m accustomed to doing as I please. And you should talk. When I left the newsroom, your editor said, and I quote, ‘Tell that independent pain in the ass to keep me posted.’ We’re not so different.”

  “We are,” he said. “I know what I’m getting into. I’ve been there, Juliana.”

  She scoffed. “Why is it that men who’ve been to war always think they know more than people who haven’t?”

  “How the hell many ‘men who’ve been to war’ do you know?”

  “Your view of the world is just as skewed as someone who has never seen combat,” she said, not backing down. “We all state our convictions from within our convictions.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  She lifted her small round shoulders and gave him another of her cool smiles, but said nothing.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone accuse a Vietnam vet of being smart. We fought and died and were heroes and cowards and everything else in a war most people hated, not least of all us, in a war we didn’t win. Not smart, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I wasn’t implying you were smart. I was implying you thought you were smart.”