3 Ways to Wear Red

by Janet Leigh

  I pulled the square knot tight to secure Toches to the toilet base. Then I bent over and picked up my hat from the floor, placing it neatly on my head. Now let’s see who gets left behind.

  Chapter 15

  The confrontation with Toches, combined with the loud music and stale air, had me making a beeline back to Marco. After fighting my way through the masses, I finally reached the bar…only there was no Marco.

  I stood on the barstool, searching the throngs of people gyrating like Elvis Presley for any sign of him. No Marco and no Mahlia. A few guys started waving bills at me, so I got down.

  I was alone in Germany, and my inner voice was pushing the button for English is my first language. I secured my feet in the rungs of the stool and leaned into the bar, waving my hands to get the attention of one of the bartenders. What were the German words for man and blond? My inner voice was thumbing through her German dictionary but dropped it in her lap when one of the bartenders came over. He was tall, with dark hair slicked back like Keanu Reeves in John Wick. His white oxford was open a few buttons, revealing a patch of sexy chest hair. Standing in front of me and drying a glass, he looked me up and down and asked, “Wilst du hast ein Bier?”

  “Nein, ein heir, um…man, blond?” I stuttered the words, held my hands up high to indicate a tall man, and pointed to my hair.

  The man cocked an eyebrow at me. I sighed and tried again. “Tall, blond man…schwarze Jacke?”

  “Your friend left here with a woman with long legs and long hair.”

  “You speak English?” I sat down on the barstool.

  “Yes,” he said. His accent was thick and rich. Any other time, I would have sat at the bar and listened to the purr of his sentence structure.

  “Where did they go?”

  “The lady put something in his drink and then helped him outside.” He nodded in the direction of the exit.

  “And you just let her dump drugs in his drink?” I was astonished.

  “Hey, none of my business. Kinky things go on here.” He paused for a second. “I get off in half an hour—you interested?” My inner voice was bobbing her head up and down and yelling, “Ja! Ja!”

  A commotion broke out in the direction of the restrooms. I was saved by the distraction—the bartender focused on the ruckus—and I disappeared. The red exit sign was the navigational beacon in my sea of cigarette smoke and sweat. I cut through the mass of people with only a few minor ass grabs. As I exited, the cold wind whipped at my warm face. I grabbed at my hat, holding it on with one hand, and frantically searched for Marco.

  A group of prostitutes were gathered around something lying on the sidewalk adjacent to the club. I approached the women, hoping one of them might have seen Marco or Mahlia. Peering around the group of spectators, I saw Marco out cold on the pavement. His pockets were turned out, and his jacket was crumpled up next to him. A large woman with hair styled like Diana Ross’s in her Supremes era, fishnets, and a micro miniskirt about three sizes too small was kneeling next to him, checking his pulse. People were stepping over his legs on the way inside the club.

  I shooed the onlookers away and bent down until I was face-to-face with the woman.

  “Go away,” I said, speaking loudly and motioning to her.

  She sat back on her haunches. “Sugar, you don’t tell Denise what to do. Nobody tells Denise what to do—except Denise.”

  “You speak English?” I said more than asked.

  “Yes, honey, I’m from Jersey. Your friend here,” she said, pointing at Marco. “He’s been given one of them night crawlers.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s some men put in the drinks of women they want to get friendly with. Looks like the tables got turned on this one. He walked out leaning on a skinny woman, and then he went down, and she couldn’t get him up. That’s what happens when you got no meat on your bones. You ain’t got no muscle to do the heavy lifting.”

  “Is he going to be OK?” I asked, keeping an eye out for the brigands.

  “Oh, sure. It don’t last long.”

  “How long is he going to be unconscious?”

  “Hard to tell.” She put a finger to her chin and tapped as if she was doing a complicated mathematical equation. “He’s pretty big, so the drug won’t last as long on him. He might wake up real soon.”

  “I need to get him off the street.” I wasn’t sure whether I could move him by myself or where to move him to.

  “Leave that to Denise.” She grabbed Marco under one arm, and I did the same, except she lifted him off the ground as though he was a rag doll. Denise was tall and broad. If women could play in the NFL, Denise would be a first-round draft pick. We managed to walk/drag him through a side door of the Hollywood Hotel. Framed photos of Hollywood’s Rat Pack graced the walls. An antique phone booth held court in the side lobby, and my heartstrings strummed a note for Caiyan. He had traveled in a bright red British-style phone booth before he gave it away for me. Reminding myself I was in 1965, I decided it probably wasn’t so much an antique as I’d first thought. Giant artificial ferns and red velvet-upholstered chairs were the décor of choice as we shuffled through the foyer.

  Hiding behind a tall statue of a polar bear, we waited until the desk clerk found something more interesting in the back office. We pulled Marco through a door off the main foyer. I turned to find myself in a huge media room. Rows of movie-theater chairs sat facing a large movie screen. The screen was framed by heavy red-velvet curtains, and small lights lined the center aisle, providing a runway for moviegoers to locate their seats. The lights also illuminated the room with a comforting glow, hiding the inhabitants in shadows from a casual observer.

  “This room is used for the movie screenings, but at this hour, nobody uses it but me and my business partners,” Denise said, casually fanning her arm out as if she were a tour guide.

  I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  “Sometimes we get a john who can’t afford the hotel room, so we come in here for a—”

  “All right then,” I said, cutting her off before I had to listen to the details of her job duties.

  “A girl’s got to make a living.” She harrumphed.

  We stretched Marco out on the floor, and I sat down and cradled his head in my lap.

  “Do you speak German?” I asked Denise.

  “Yes, my pops was German. We moved back to Berlin after my mom died a few years ago. He died last year, and I don’t have nobody else here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said to her.

  She slumped down into a nearby chair, pulled off her high-heel shoe, and rubbed her stocking foot. “Feels good to be out of those heels.”

  “Have you ever thought about another line of work?” I asked.

  She looked off in the distance. “I’m saving my money to go to nursing school. My cousin lives back in Jersey. She said I could come stay with her if I could pay some rent.”

  “I bet it costs a lot of money to travel to America and go to school.”

  “Sure does, and it’s hard to get into nursing school when you’re a black woman and the only thing you can put on your application under employment is prostitute.” She sighed, and Marco made a groaning noise.

  “He’s a nice-looking man. You two married?”

  “No, just friends.” I ran my fingers through his blond hair, and he smiled. “We’re looking for a friend named Isla who works at the Eden club.”

  Denise adjusted the gold bangles on her arms. “I know everyone who works on the inside, and I don’t know an Isla.”

  Something was wrong with our intel. Isla should have been at this club. I explained about the two people chasing us, skipping the twenty-first-century details.

  “You two gonna be all right? I got to get back to work.” She put her shoe back on and started toward the door.

  “Denise,” I said, removing Marco’s watch and holding it up at her. “For your nursing school.”

  “I can’t accept this,” she said, her voice squeaking up
a few octaves. She leaned down to get a better look at the watch. “It’s a Patek.”

  “It’s OK. He can’t take it where we’re going. Thanks for your help.”

  Denise took the watch and admired it as she buckled it to her wrist. “If you’re going to East Berlin, you should rethink that idea. It’s not safe. I’ve had friends go visit their families and never return. And don’t even think about sneaking over that wall. You’ll get shot.”

  “Don’t worry; we’re traveling out of the country.” Hopefully.

  Marco started coming to as I ran the backs of my fingers across his cheek.

  “Looks like your boyfriend is waking up. Good luck.” She put her hand on the doorknob and then paused. “I think I’ll knock off early tonight. I’ve got some packing to do.”

  We smiled at each other, and she closed the door gently behind her.

  “What happened?” Marco asked, trying to focus on me in the dimly lit room.

  “Mahlia and Toecheese have come to collect the Sleigh key.”

  He jerked upright.

  “Don’t worry; they didn’t get it.” I reached into my jacket pocket to show him it was safe and sound.

  He let out a long breath and rubbed his eyes.

  “I should have known better. I didn’t see her. The bartender gave me a scotch straight up and told me it was from a beautiful woman.”

  “So you drank it, Alice?”

  “Yes, and I have a headache from falling down the rabbit hole.”

  “At least I saved you before you could eat the cake.”

  “You’re funny. I’m going to miss your sense of humor when I evaporate.”

  “Don’t say that.” A pinch of frantic caused my voice to waver.

  “How did you get me in here?”

  “I had help from one of the girls, um…doing business outside the club.”

  “You mean one of the hookers?”

  “Yes, her name’s Denise, and she’s from Jersey, so we got along great.”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “Only you, Jennifer Cloud, would find a hooker from Jersey in the middle of Berlin in 1965. Help me stand.” He put an arm around my neck and pushed up from the ground. I pulled, and he came in close to me. It was the first time we didn’t send up smoke signals when we touched. His machismo was numbed by the fear of losing his lifeline, and I was beginning to worry we would never find Isla. My hat had fallen cockeyed on my head, and he reached up to straighten it.

  “Jen, where is my watch?” he asked, showing me his naked wrist.

  “I gave it to Denise for helping us.”

  “Do you realize that particular Patek Philippe watch was one of only four in the world and sold for millions at an auction house last year?”

  “Gosh, look at the time. We need to get going.”

  “I’d look at the time, but I don’t have my watch,” Marco grumbled.

  I leaned Marco against the wall for balance and then stuck my head out the door to see if the coast was clear. There was no sign of Mahlia or her evil henchman. I led Marco into the hall and out of the hotel. He was almost walking by himself, but his feet were slightly rubbery. He pointed to a taxi.

  “What about Isla?”

  “She’s not here,” Marco said. He had a look of desperation in his eyes. “No one has ever heard of her. I asked the club’s manager.”

  “Yeah, Denise hasn’t heard of her either. What are we going to do?”

  “We don’t have much time. The sun’s coming up. Let’s go to the bakery. You can wait for my grandfather while I go find that damn painting.”

  I couldn’t take him back to Gitmo without finding Isla. There must be another way. My inner voice put on her thinking cap, and I helped Marco to the taxi stand. Denise was having an argument with a man outside the club. I assumed this was her pimp, but it looked like she had things under control. She gave me a thumbs-up, and Marco frowned at her watch-adorned wrist.

  Behind her, I saw Mahlia exit the club with a wounded Toches holding an ice pack to his nose.

  “There they are!” Toches shouted as Marco and I got into a cab. They hurried toward the taxi, and Denise stuck out a long leg. Toches fell flat on his face, halting their forward progress and taking the pimp down with him. Mahlia missed us by a split second. I shot her the finger out the back window of the cab as we pulled away from the curb.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  “What are we going to do now?” I asked Marco after he paid the driver. We stood staring at the bakery. It was the corner shop of a four-story building. The American checkpoint into East Berlin was to our left. Two guards were patrolling the tollbooth-like secured crossing area into the Communist half of Berlin.

  There was a closed sign on the bakery, though the appearance of a few early risers sitting outside in the warm glow of the morning sun had me guessing it would open soon. Berlin was coming to life, and Marco’s life was in the final countdown if we didn’t find Isla. We sat down on a park bench that backed up to the bakery wall.

  “I don’t have much time left,” Marco said, staring down at his hands as if they might start disappearing at any moment. “This is the last day of the moon cycle. I need to go get that painting.”

  “Jake said not—”

  “I don’t give a damn what Jake said,” Marco interrupted. “You lateral traveled in the past and lived to tell about it.” He ran a hand through his hair.

  “I also had Caiyan riding with me.” I bit my bottom lip. Jake had told us not to lateral travel, but Marco was right. We didn’t have Isla, and without her, Marco wouldn’t be born. We needed to get the painting and show it to every man who entered the bakery today. We weren’t supposed to make contact with Marco’s grandfather, but I didn’t see how we had much choice.

  “OK, we both go,” I said.

  “No way. I’m not putting you in danger.” He stood with his hands on his hips and feet spread apart as though we were about to have a gunslinging showdown.

  I stood too, staring straight into his blue eyes with determination. A man sitting at a table nearby stopped reading his morning paper to watch the spectacle we were making.

  “I can’t let you go,” Marco said.

  “Why not?” I asked. “You have a better chance of recognizing your own grandfather. If he shows up, you can simply give him the key, and he can help you find Isla.”

  “You’re not going, and that’s final.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

  I raised my finger and pointed it at his face. I was about to list all the reasons I was going when I caught a familiar figure out of the corner of my eye. My mouth gaped, and I slowly placed my hand on Marco’s arm. He turned to see what had drawn my attention. Crossing the street was an elderly woman. Her head was wrapped in a wool scarf, and she walked with a cane. She kept her head down against the brisk morning breeze, and her eyes focused on each step she took as if she would lose her balance otherwise. We watched her walk up to the bakery door and turn the knob. After she entered, she flipped the closed sign to open.

  “Was that who I think it was?” Marco asked, turning his back to the bakery.

  “I think that was Anna,” I said. The woman could have been anyone, but there was something distinctive about the way she moved.

  “Come on,” I said, grabbing his hand and pulling him behind me.

  We walked into the bakery, and a small bell let out a tinkle, informing the owner of our arrival. The smell of freshly ground coffee and baked bread made my stomach rumble. The glass pastry case was filled with sweet treats ready to serve the early morning customers.

  The elderly woman we thought was Anna was nowhere to be seen. I glanced at Marco, wondering if we had enough money to order a cinnamon roll. We should at least eat while we waited for the older woman to return.

  A tall woman had her back to us, working dough on a marble counter. She shouted something in German that I assumed meant she would help us in a moment.

  A few tables and chai
rs were spread neatly around the room. Checkered tablecloths set with tiny vases holding arrangements of spring flowers covered the tables, giving the bakery a pleasant atmosphere.

  Black-and-white photos were framed on the wall to the right of the door. The bakery’s grand-opening photo was centered, showing two women standing out in front of the bakery. I squinted at the women, but I couldn’t tell if either of them was Anna or Isla. There were a few pictures of patrons eating something yummy and a few photos of the war. I gasped when I came to one of the war photos. Marco leaned in behind me.

  “I’ll be damned! I can’t believe it,” Marco said, a wide grin spreading across his face. “That sneaky son of a bitch.”

  The photo showed a city destroyed by war. Piles of rubble surrounded partially standing buildings, and in the center of the photo was Caiyan carrying Anna from the remnants of the smoke-filled bakery she once had owned. Isla trailed behind her. My eyes filled up, and a few tears escaped down my cheeks.

  “I wondered when you would come back,” a voice said from behind us.

  We turned to see a tall blond woman smiling at us.

  “Isla?” I asked, wiping my face.

  “Ya.” She came forward, wrapping Marco and me in a deep embrace.

  “It is so wonderful to see both of you again,” Isla said.

  “Your English has improved,” Marco said, and we all laughed.

  “Caiyan rescued both of you?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The bomb dropped, and meine Oma was caught upstairs. The building fell down in flames around her. I got out through the basement window with the bakery staff, but I couldn’t move the heavy debris to save her. I said a prayer, and like an angel, he appeared from nowhere. He moved the rubble and pulled her free from the wreckage.”

  A small tear leaked from my eye, and I wiped it away with my finger.