New York Station

by Lawrence Dudley

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  “Would you join me?”

  “Gee, I’m sorry. I promised to give a ride to a few friends of mine. But I’ll watch for you.”

  Disappointment was written all over Ludwig’s face. He obviously would’ve enjoyed a little friendly company.

  “Very well. I’ll see you there.”

  “Good. I have to get going.” He bent over and whispered conspiratorially, “I’ve got an important meeting—with a bookie.”

  -54-

  “You’ve news—”

  W’s voice boomed into the booth. Hawkins spotted Ludwig through the glass door, crossing the lobby to his car. He waved. Ludwig smiled, happily waving back.

  “Yes. There was a near riot, a real scene, at that house our target rented. He’s canceled the rest of his meetings—”

  “I know,” W said. Ludwig disappeared out the entrance. “Got a telex from Bermuda half an hour ago. Ludwig used that microprinter. Mentions you.”

  “Really?” Hawkins started to laugh.

  “He’s furious about his assistant. The man’s not Abwehr. He’s with the SD.”

  “Nazi security service? Suspected something like that. I surveilled them all last night from my listening post. Ludwig really chewed him out afterward. Reminded him he had the power to send him back. Promised not to report what happened, incidentally.” The sound of W snorting came over the receiver. “How come the SS wants to put its thumb in this pie, though? Shipping times, naval intelligence—that’s not their sort of thing.”

  “Right. The SS isn’t interested in helping the navy, dopes like Bailey radioing U-boats. Something else entirely. A whole other operation. Like what are they going to do with that sniper rifle? If there’s something major going on, they’ll want to be in on it. That tells us something. It’s big. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” Hawkins told him about Dieter’s Olympic ambitions.

  “Sonja Henie? He’s that good? Interesting. Be easy to find. Keep an eye out for any opportunities. It’d be incredible to have him working for us. Put him in a room with a big star, who knows?”

  “That’d be his sense of himself. I have the feeling he can’t be too far off. He’s suffered a terrible comedown. He’s a very angry man.”

  “Who wouldn’t be. Anything else?”

  “Yes.” Hawkins told him about Chet and his connection to Ventnor.

  “We’ll check them out.”

  -55-

  Hawkins plunged into the dense, surging crowd. Ludwig—and Dieter for that matter—were nowhere to be seen. And Daisy. Was she here? After working and worming his way past the front of the clubhouse he circled into the paddock. No luck, yet.

  The August heat at the flat track had risen to tropical proportions, Ascot in an oven. Damn coat feels like it’s shrinking, Hawkins thought, shirt must be soaked through already. A cluster of women drifted by, all flowered hats, print dresses and tanned shoulders. Their faces were pleasantly flushed from the heat and humidity, happily chatting away. No jackets and ties. They won on that one.

  Finally, there, Ludwig and Dieter, leaning against a low fence. Dieter was listening to a nearby bandstand filled with musicians stamping out Dixieland, head happily bobbing in time to the music. Ludwig stared down at the ground, arms folded. Is he annoyed at the music? Hard to tell. The bell rang. They both expectantly moved toward the rail.

  Hawkins was so preoccupied watching them that he scarcely noticed the race going on, not looking once. The horses burst across the finish line. The crowd roared. At once Ludwig sharply walked away, ripped up and threw his ticket on the ground. Dieter said something. Ludwig angrily glared at him. Dieter stepped back, held his hands up in a gesture of surprise. Ludwig wordlessly turned away. Dieter fell in behind him, then lightly smiled, leaning back.

  Only when the meal horns overhead blared out the final results did Hawkins take the ticket from his wallet and, although he knew full well what it was, check it.

  Commander Penn had won, exactly like Chet said he would. Incredible how casually Chet dropped information of such value, Hawkins thought. Astounding, actually. That’s really the thing, to so casually throw around information—money really—of such enormous value. Have to concentrate a second, he thought, mentally double-checking the math. A thousand dollars’ worth of the two grand from Madame Delage’s vermeil set had ballooned to twenty thousand.

  Almost in a dream, he found himself moving toward the window, his feet feeling like they were moving on their own. He slapped the ticket on the counter at the hundred-dollar window. The clerk inspected it a moment, put it away, opened the cash drawer and passed out two stiff new wads of hundred-dollar bills. Ten thousand dollars apiece, each with the original green and black Treasury wrappers still sealing them.

  Hawkins zipped his nail across the edge of the bound notes. Fresh. Crisp. Even aromatic. They don’t seem real. But they are. More money than my life’s savings. A lot more. Actually, more than I’ve earned in my entire life. He uneasily glanced over his shoulder, nervously stuffing the bills down into the bottom of his pants pocket. But as he walked away no one seemed to be paying any attention.

  In the anonymity of the crowd, he relaxed. The magnitude of his windfall took a few minutes to sink in. The vermeil set. I could buy it back from Bruno. Give it back to Madame Delage, after the war. That’d be the right thing. Or a car, like the Cord. Easy. The salary, paying my way, not a big thing anymore. He began drifting across the paddock in a happy daze. A bugle called the next race. Oh. Damn. Ludwig and Dieter. Yes—still a war going on.

  Fortunately, they weren’t far way. Hawkins took off his hat, rolling the brim up, trying as hard as possible to force a downcast expression on his face. It took a considerable effort with twenty thousand dollars in his pants. He slowly, painfully walked up to the pair. Ludwig was not effusive.

  “Oh. Mr. Hawkins. Hello.”

  “Hello, Dr. Ludwig. How about that Commander York. I hope you didn’t put too much on him.”

  “Only a couple of hundred. It’s nothing.” The nettled tone of his voice contradicted his words. Dieter smirked smugly and made a strangled noise.

  Ludwig’s eyes snapped sideways at him, sharply. His mouth hovered open a moment but he said nothing. His teeth slowly clicked back together as he carefully exhaled.

  “Well, these things happen,” Hawkins said. “I’ve got more tips, if you’re interested.”

  “No. Thank you. I think I’ll stick to the two-dollar window.”

  “Okay. I better go, my friends are waiting. Sorry again.”

  Hawkins ran off, circled back around where Ludwig and Dieter couldn’t see him and let his grin out for a real run. Score one for the Brits.

  -56-

  The porter handed Hawkins his freshly pressed white double-breasted evening jacket. He gave the man a big tip, a whole dollar, not the expected dime or even, generously, a quarter. The porter’s face exploded in a smile.

  All ready. Then Hawkins checked the time. Instead of looking at the hour he actually looked at his watch. Purchased the old Benrus in school, years ago. The chrome plating was worn right down to the brass. Certainly doesn’t make a very good impression, he thought. A bubble burst inside his head. I can afford a hundred watches if I want to and Tiffany’s summer branch is right off the lobby.

  A few minutes later a salesman was eagerly following him up and down the beveled glass display cases, certain of a decent commission. The clerk well knew the look of a man in the full possession of a big hit, a man freed from the constraints of expectations, a man who wasn’t about to settle for an inexpensive plated case.

  Hawkins quickly found his choice, an elegant Curvex shaped like a long, round, sleek crescent. It neatly fitted his wrist, sliding coolly under his shirtsleeve. He paid the previously unthinkable $125 and headed for his room, every few yards popping his wrist from his sleeve, checking the hour.

  -57-

  The door to the communal washroom slammed shut, the bang
a percussive beat to the syncopation of a dozen dripping old faucets. The place had a slightly mildew odor mixed with the sharp sweet smell of disinfectant. Not offensive but not pleasant, either. Hawkins hung his bathrobe on the shower stall’s old wooden door. After snapping the latch shut, he carefully took off his new watch and stored it in the pocket. He turned up the shower hard, briskly soaping his sweaty, sticky body. A relief.

  Behind came a click or rattle. Something flipped over his face. A hard jerk pulled his head back. He slapped his hands up to his face. A wet towel. It yanked back, hard. His feet slipped, skipping back, almost losing his balance on the slick soapy tiles. Hawkins reached back, trying to grab it. It was wound tightly, twisted into a big rope like a ponytail. He dug into the soaked, smooth cloth, trying to find an edge. It fit over his head like a shroud, nothing to grab.

  For a split second Hawkins fumbled, tugging at the towel while his feet skidded on the floor.

  “Hey, let go!” as if he were the victim of a schoolboy prank. He inhaled. Only sucked in half a breath, the rest water. It hit him. Naked. Under attack. Can’t breathe. His heart began racing.

  Hawkins swung backward hard with his elbow. Nothing but air. The man with the towel slammed him forward into the shower head. The nozzle crunched into Hawkins’ forehead with a shuddering, painful jolt. The shower spray soaked the towel again. Like being underwater.

  I’m drowning, Hawkins thought.

  The man laughed, a high hysterical giggle. A shiver rippled through Hawkins’ skin. His bare feet uselessly spun on the slippery floor. Hawkins swung his fist blindly behind him. Nothing again. Still drowning—can’t breathe. A tremendous punch hit right in the kidneys. The blow slammed him against the wall. An incandescent cramp of searing pain exploded up his side. Then another, right in the same spot. More water in the mouth. Head starting to buzz.

  The pain somehow cleared the frenzy from Hawkins’ mind. An image flashed across his vision. Father. Must be the sensation of water and drowning. We were at the shore, so many years ago. Learning to swim, standing waist deep in the water.

  His smile.

  “Remember,” Pop said, “if you get out too far or fall out of a boat, don’t panic. That’s the main thing. If you don’t panic you can survive anything.” Don’t panic. That’s it. Don’t, don’t, don’t panic. Stop trying to get away.

  The man slammed him into the wall again. The wall. Of course. Stop swinging. Hawkins slapped his hands flat against the wall, braced the leg on his good side against the tiles. No longer slipping and sliding. The buzzing in his head wailed to a crescendo. He shoved with every remaining ounce of strength.

  The push caught the man just as he was reaching back for another blow. He lost his balance. They slammed together and careened backward into the stall door. The frame shattered into a dozen pieces. They tumbled together onto the floor. Hawkins landed on top cushioning his fall. The double impact knocked the air out of the man with a huge grunt.

  Hawkins grabbed the bottom of the towel and pulled it forward. Just enough time. A deep breath of air. Head cleared slightly. The man snapped it back.

  Hawkins jammed his elbow as hard as he could into the man’s stomach, did it again. The man grunted. He tried rolling. The towel loosened a bit. Another breath. Hawkins grabbed the man’s arm and held on.

  They rolled left, then right. After a minute of struggle the man managed to partly free himself. He pounded his fist into the side of Hawkins’ head, the hard bony part behind the cheekbone. This time the towel protected him, the nap blunting the blow. The twisted end the man held with his other hand prevented Hawkins’ head from snapping too dangerously to the side.

  Every rolling motion momentarily loosened the towel, giving Hawkins a precious chance to breathe. His strength began seeping back. The man dug in his heels, arched his back. A huge groan of effort. He flipped them both over. The man got halfway up on his knees, over Hawkins, on top again.

  The man clenched his captive arm up to Hawkins’ chest and pulled back on the towel as far as he could. He slammed Hawkins’ face into the floor. The shuddering impact momentarily jarred Hawkins. The man yanked his arm free. He pushed down on Hawkins and jumped up. Hawkins struggled to follow. The man swung a vicious, whipping kick, missing his groin, hitting his upper thigh. Hawkins coiled and thrust his arm down, trying to protect his balls. He swung with the other, trying to make contact. Hawkins threw his weight forward against the towel. The man couldn’t hold the weight. They lurched forward. A foot grazed Hawkins’ ribs, the point of the toe zinging by like a bullet.

  Hawkins barely grabbed the ankle on the man’s boot. He partly rode it as it tried to crash into him again. His mouth tasted of the pasty, salty, coppery flavor of blood running from his nose and lips.

  The man landed one good kick right into his stomach. Hawkins felt for a moment he’d throw up. Probably would have, had he been fuller. The man tried ineffectually to kick him in the groin before landing one last grazing kick on Hawkins’ hip that sent him rolling over and over into the stall.

  Hawkins barely heard a smashing noise as the man broke past what was left of the door, a few footsteps. Then he passed out.

  -58-

  Rain. It’s raining, Hawkins thought. Then a moment later, No it’s not. He lay in a fetal position in the center of the shower stall, the towel under his head stained pink with blood and water. His face was vibrating. An incredibly intense burning sensation hovered over the right kidney. He tried to move. The muscles in his stomach and hip ached and twitched. He painfully rolled over on his stomach and achingly rose to his knees. He violently threw up, spraying the floor with vomit.

  He lurched over the slime, grabbing hold of the pipes, tortuously pulling himself up to the showerhead. As he stood hanging on, his strength slowly began creeping back with each gasping breath. The hot water gradually relaxed the twitching muscles enough so he could move. He finally stumbled out, holding on to the side of the stall for support, staggering over to the sink. He braced himself on the basin and rested his head against the mirror.

  The corner of his mouth and nose were bleeding profusely. He reached up and gingerly felt his nose. It didn’t seem to be broken. He pulled a wad of brown paper towels from a dispenser, soaked them and mashed them against his nose and cheek. He licked the inside of his teeth, feeling them out. Still there.

  Then, out of nowhere, he started to laugh. Giddily. Hilariously. Still alive, by God. Still alive and not in too bad a shape. Nothing broken. Still have all my teeth. Leaning on the sink, he limped to his bathrobe, slowly bending down to pick it up, pulling it on before instinctively reaching in the pocket for his watch. Gone. No, it can’t be, he thought. That just can’t be, it’s here somewhere. He fell on his knees and started pawing through the pieces of door and stall, throwing them about the washroom. Several minutes later he gave up. Gone. Stolen.

  Stolen? The room—half-limping, half-running, he tore back down the hall, hastily racing in and around the bed. It was untouched. Everything in place, clothes, lockpicks, cameras, still there. Lucky thing the cash is in the hotel safe.

  Then he almost fell down on the bed and began wildly pounding the mattress. The best watch I ever owned, he thought. Stolen after less than fifteen minutes. Thirty minutes ago it had symbolized good fortune and stepping up in the world. Now someone’d taken it away. Anger flashing to a boil again, he yanked on his pants and shoes and bolted out of the room for the hotel desk. He’d almost reached the elevator before he began thinking and slowed down.

  Hotel management will call the police. There’ll be questions. He stopped dead in the middle of the hallway. Actually, don’t really know who did this. Or why. Never saw his face. Anyone could’ve seen me win money at the track. Or seen me buy the watch at Tiffany’s. After all, what’s gone? Or it could be a stray mugger, passing through the washroom, on the prowl for opportunities.

  And then, it could be Ludwig. He chewed on that a second. No, Ludwig would never do it himself, he’d send Diet
er. Hawkins remembered the attacker’s chilling, vicious, childish giggle. Dieter? Maybe.

  And yet if Ludwig did order it, I can’t be sure why. Could Ludwig be onto me? No way of knowing. Maybe it’s not business—I burned him at the track, after all. What was I thinking, muddying the water like that? Big mistake, too much of a chance, getting in so close. A trick like that—that’s personal. And the arrogance—larking about like I’m on holiday, and for small money, too. Wouldn’t have done something like this on the Continent. What now?

  Daisy … probably late already. Nothing’s keeping me from that party.

  Back in his room Hawkins dug a styptic pencil out of his shaving kit. Gritting his teeth, he jammed the stick up his nose and ground it around. A remarkably sharp pain, like the pain of a shaving cut, but immeasurably larger, shot across his face up into his eye. Then he ground it into the corner of his mouth. With a convulsive shout he flung it across the room. It worked. The bleeding stopped.

  He toweled himself off and quickly dressed, combing his wet hair in the big mirror before he left. On the way out he stopped by room service for an ice pack.

  -59-

  Daisy flung the door open, a hard expression on her lovely face. It was obvious she was not used to being kept waiting.

  “Hawkins, you’re—” She caught sight of the ice pack. Her expression instantly changed. Surprise, then horror. “Hurt!” She grabbed his arm, pulling him to a settle. He sat, his side and hip still throbbing.

  “Daisy, my apologies. I detest people who are late.”

  She cringed at the sight of the swollen, gummy cut in the side of his mouth.

  “What happened?”

  He told her.

  “And you fought them off?”

  Them, well …

  “Ah—yes.”