Voices of the Dead

by Peter Leonard

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  The Story Plant

  The Aronica-Miller Publishing Project, LLC

  P.O. Box 4331

  Stamford, CT 06907

  Copyright © 2011 by Peter Leonard

  Cover design by James Tocco

  Print ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-032-8

  E-book ISBN-13: 978-1-61188-033-5

  Visit our website at www.thestoryplant.com

  All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except as provided by US Copyright Law.

  For information, address The Story Plant.

  First Story Plant Printing: January 2012

  Printed in The United States of America

  I want to thank my publishers, Lou Aronica and Peter Miller, my agent, Jeff Posternak at Wylie, New York, and my editors, Angus Cargill and Katherine Armstrong at Faber, UK.

  I couldn’t have written the book without the help of the librarians at the Holocaust Memorial Center in Farmington Hills, Michigan.

  Thanks also to Tony Fiermonte, former Detroit Police Precinct Commander, prosecutor Steven Kaplan, Marvin Yagoda, Jean Acker, Gregg Sutter, Jim Bodary and Debi Siegel.

  Also by Peter Leonard

  Quiver

  Trust Me

  For Beverly

  An important difference between Peter’s books and mine, he writes his prose on a computer while I put down the words with a ballpoint pen. That’s all right. David Mamet said, “I think there are people who are sufficiently driven that even a computer is not going to stop them from writing well.”

  And Pete is sufficiently driven.

  After twenty-five years running a successful advertising agency—all while reading hundreds of popular novels and making judgments about their worth—Peter has attacked the world of fiction with a vengeance, writing five novels in the past five years and his publisher is after him to write another, a sequel to Voices of the Dead.

  The key to writing successful books is developing the right voice to tell the stories, one that’s natural to the writer and flows without strain or too many words and uses the voices of the people in the book, their attitudes, showing rather than telling who they are. Peter read a lot of Ernest Hemingway and John Steinbeck—not so much the popular names on the Times list—none of the authors who have a co-writer on the cover along with theirs, though much smaller. It causes you to wonder who actually wrote the book. Peter has read my Ten Rules of Writing and it shows; he always leaves out the parts readers tend to skip.

  I remember him giving me the manuscript of his first novel Quiver with some hesitation, expecting me to begin marking up the pages to underscore awkward sentences, tired expressions. But right from the start I liked Quiver and Peter’s dead-on style; no long-winded parts of it over-written, no show-off descriptions that say, “Hey, look at my writing.” I think my only suggestion was to move a key scene to a place where it would get more attention. Reading his work since, I haven’t done much more than circle typos.

  Four books later Voices of the Dead shows a remarkable leap in story content, a terrific plot told with Peter’s ability to write quiet scenes packed with suspense.

  The story takes place in 1971. Ernst Hess, a diplomat visiting the German Embassy in Washington, is still a dedicated Nazi 25 years after the war, loving the time he was an SS officer in charge of a killing squad; and he’s still at it, looking for Jews he might have missed.

  In the other corner is Harry Levin, who escaped from a Nazi death camp when he was a boy. Now Harry’s a scrap-metal dealer in Detroit who goes one on one with the cunning Nazi.

  Read the first chapter and you won’t sell this scrap dealer short.

  Detroit, Michigan. 1971.

  11:30 in the morning, Harry Levin was on Orleans Street, cutting through Eastern Market on his way back to the scrap yard. He’d just withdrawn fifty thousand dollars from the National Bank of Detroit. Now he was driving past turn-of-the-century brick buildings, seeing signs for Embassy Foods, and F&S Packing, another one for Market Seafood, brick bleeding through faded blue paint. There were delivery trucks parallel parked on the street, and Hi-Los carrying pallets of food, zigzagging through the loading areas of wholesale food emporiums.

  The sun had risen over the buildings and he could feel its warmth through the open windows of the Mercedes. It was a perfect blue-sky day, one of about fifteen a year you got living in the Motor City. The Chevy Nova in front of him was slowing down and Harry hit his brakes. Beyond the Nova, a semi with a forty-foot trailer, a heavy‚ was blocking the road, trying to back down a narrow street to a loading dock, blue cab at a severe angle, looking like it had jackknifed. But it kept moving, the driver angling for position.

  Harry sat against the leather seat and waited, sitting there awhile, getting impatient, had a meeting at his office in twenty minutes. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a black guy approaching the car from behind, watching his cool economical strut, man wearing white bellbottoms and a maroon shirt with collar points that reached his shoulders.

  He looked straight ahead, saw the semi backing down the alley almost out of view when an arm came through the side window to his left, holding a carving knife with a long blade under his jaw, pressing it against his neck.

  “Stay where you at, motherfucker,” the black guy said.

  His eyes were bloodshot. He had a sparse mustache and a scraggly goatee and a high Afro with a putty-colored comb stuck in it at an odd angle. Man was a junkie and Harry knew he’d cut his throat without thinking about it. He heard a door open, glanced in the rearview mirror, saw the guy that was coming up behind him getting in the backseat, closing the door. This one was clean-shaven and more alert than the junkie, with shiny hair that looked like it had motor oil on it, combed back.

  “Motherfucker, see where I’m at? See what I got, you don’t do what you tole?”

  He had a pocketknife with a six-inch blade in his hand, leaned forward, put it against Harry’s jugular, pulling him back against the headrest, Harry smelling aftershave and sweat. Afro’s hand moved out of the window, and he went around the front of the car and got in next to him.

  “What in the case?” guy in back said.

  “Transaction reports.”

  “Yeah? The fuck’s that?”

  “I buy and sell scrap.”

  “Know what we do? Take your money.” Afro gave him a sleepy-eyed grin. “Like this. Gimme your wallet, motherfucker,” he said, pointing the carving knife at Harry.

  Guy in back said, “Let see what else in there you got?”

  Harry saw him in the rearview mirror, watched him sit back and put the briefcase in his lap, fooling with the clasp, trying to open it with the tip of his knife blade. Tried for a while, gave up and looked at Harry.

  “Where the key at?”

  “In my pocket,” Harry said. He reached behind his back, felt the grip of the Colt Python, pulled his wallet out of the back left pocket of his khakis and threw it on the floor mat in front of Afro. Keep him busy.

  Afro bent forward, reaching with his long arms, and now Harry drew the Colt, turned in his seat, back against the door as Afro sat up with the wallet, spread it open, looking at $750, grinning till he saw the gun.

  “Easy,” Afro said. “Be cool.” He handed Harry his wallet back. “See? It all there. No harm done, nobody lose nothin’.”

  Harry turned, two hands on the revolver, aimed at the guy in back, the guy preoccupied, st
ill fooling with the briefcase. Harry pulled the hammer back and now he looked up. “Drop the knives out the window or I’ll blow your head off.” He said it calm and measured. They tossed the blades out and Harry heard them hit the street. “Give me your wallets.”

  Afro took his out and put it on the edge of Harry’s seat. Guy in back slid his between the seats on the console.

  “Now get the hell out of here.”

  They did, and Harry left them standing on Orleans Street, wondering what had just happened. He looked straight, the Nova was halfway down the block, put the Mercedes in gear and took off.

  In addition to junkies trying to rob him the IRS was trying to take his money in a more legitimate way. First he’d gotten a letter that said:

  Dear Recycler:

  As part of our review of tax compliance, the Internal Revenue Service has determined records maintained by S&H Recycling Metals may be insufficient to verify the accuracy of purchases of recyclable materials. It is the responsibility of taxpayers to maintain adequate records to substantiate items on their tax returns, including purchases of recyclable materials. Failure to maintain such records could result in the assessment of additional tax due to the disallowance of deductions. We appreciate your cooperation and willingness to work with us on this matter. If you have any questions, please contact the examiner named at the heading of this letter.

  Sincerely,

  Chief Examination Division

  Harry was thinking, come on. What is this? Now they were preparing to audit his company. Harry had asked his secretary, Phyllis, to pull all the records‚ back up that supported his tax returns, everything from 1969 and ’70. He had no clue why they were coming after him. He’d maintained accurate, up-to-date records. The examiner named at the top of the letter was William Decker.

  He was in the waiting room when Harry arrived, stood up and introduced himself as Bill. Looked like a former athlete, six three, a couple inches taller than Harry, but about his age, early forties, hair going gray, cut to the top of his ears, big hands, firm handshake.

  Decker told him the audit was random, not personal, but Harry had trouble believing it. He paid cash for scrap, and a business like his was an easy target. Harry and his scale operator‚ Jerry Dubuque‚ loaded a dozen banker boxes in the back of Decker’s Fairlane station wagon, three years’ worth of shippers, cash slips, weight tickets, metal settlement reports, bids and contracts. The IRS would match it all up with what Harry said on his returns or Decker would give him a call.

  Harry owned twelve acres on Mt. Elliot near Luce just east of Hamtramck. He’d bought the business from his uncle, in ’62. Worked there since he was seventeen. Harry had six million pounds of scrap, a mountain of auto parts, refrigerators, bed frames, steel beams, railroad tracks and farm equipment that rose up five stories and extended five hundred feet from end to end. To move the mountain he had two hydraulic crawler cranes, one outfitted with a magnet, the other a grapple. He also had three scales, a baling press, alligator shears, guillotine shears and four loaders to haul scrap to the mills.

  When Decker left, Harry took the black guys’ wallets out and looked at them. Afro was Ray Jones, eyes closed in the license photo, six one, 180, six dollars and a piece of paper with a name on it: Yolanda, and a phone number in the scuffed-up brown wallet with a ninja in black illustration on it. Guy in the backseat was Darnell Terry, five eleven, 170. He was the high roller, had twenty-seven dollars and two credit cards, a Visa and a MasterCard with different names on them.

  Harry owned a three-bedroom Tudor on Hendrie, a tree-lined street in Huntington Woods. He’d lived alone since his daughter had gone away to college in Washington DC a year earlier. She’d decided to stay there for the summer after her freshman year, work part-time and take a couple classes. Harry couldn’t blame her, living in DC sounded exciting, and beat the hell out of Detroit.

  Harry had a thing going with a neighbor named Galina, a big-breasted thirty-seven-year-old Latvian Jew whose breath smelled like sauerkraut, and privates like wild geese. She lived on the street behind him and over a couple houses. Her husband worked for Ford and had taken a job in London. She didn’t want to go to a place where it rained all the time, so they were in the process of divorce—although there had to be more to it than that. She’d call once a week, usually in the evening, say she was horny and available, drive around the block, and park in his garage so the neighbors wouldn’t see what was going on. They’d go up to his bedroom, take off their clothes and spend a couple hours in bed. She’d run down to the kitchen, naked, bring up snacks and drinks to satisfy some appetites and replenish others. This had been going on for several months until one day she told Harry she’d met someone and thought it was serious. Harry liked her but it didn’t go much deeper than that. He wished her luck.

  He’d also had a recent fling with a girl he’d met at an Allman Brothers concert at Pine Knob. He noticed this petite good-looking girl, long hair parted down the middle, skinny arms and big jugs hanging free in an Allman Brothers tee-shirt, sitting next to him, smoking pot. He looked at her, she handed him the joint. He had never smoked marijuana, but thought, what the hell. Took a hit and started coughing and she looked at him and grinned.

  “First time?”

  Harry nodded.

  After the band did “Statesboro Blues‚” she stood up and screamed, and it was so loud his eardrums hurt. When the noise had died down he leaned over and said, “You’re the best screamer I’ve ever heard in my life. You should be in horror films.”

  She smiled and said, “You haven’t heard anything yet.”

  And she was right. After “Whipping Post” she let one out that was even louder.

  Harry said, “What’s your name?”

  “Janice Jones.”

  “You a Playboy Playmate?”

  “No,” she said, “a bartender.”

  “Janice, you have any other hidden talents?”

  “Call me,” Janice said, “and find out.”

  She wrote her number on his palm with a blue ballpoint, and he woke up the next morning looking at it. They met for lunch a couple days later at the Stage Deli in Oak Park. He had chicken soup and the South Pacific club. She had a King and I with extra Russian. Janice was from Bottineau, North Dakota, a town thirteen miles from the Canadian border.

  “How do you get there?” Harry’d said.

  “Fly to Minot and have someone pick you up.”

  Her parents were farmers. Janice said she looked at the future and saw an old, broken-down version of herself by the time she was forty—like her mother—and wanted better. She’d run away when she was seventeen. Went to San Francisco, met some people and lived in a house in the Haight. She was in Detroit for a couple of weeks visiting friends.

  After lunch they went back to Harry’s house. She put her purse on the kitchen table and looked at him. “Want to get high?”

  “Sure,” Harry said, feeling adventurous. He watched her take a plastic sandwich bag of marijuana out of her purse, sprinkle some into a rolling paper, and roll a joint that looked like a cigarette with one hand. They smoked it and he gave her the grand tour, and when they got to his bedroom she sat on the bed and took off her tee-shirt, sitting there bare-breasted, patting the comforter next to her leg.

  “Want to fuck?”

  She said it casually like she was asking him what time it was.

  Harry walked over, seduced by this North Dakota farm girl with perky tits, sat next to her and they started making out. Next thing he knew they were naked between the sheets and he was between her legs, Janice on top, body erect, breasts bouncing, hands on his chest, riding him. After a few minutes her eyes rolled back and she came, and let out a scream. It was summer and the windows were open. Harry couldn’t believe it. “What’re you doing?”

  “Getting off,” she said.

  “My neighbors are going to call the police.”

  Harry grinned thinking about it, and made himself a vodka and tonic, went outside and sat
on the patio. He read the Free Press and cooked a two-inch-thick Delmonico steak on the grill, watched the Tigers beat the Angels 3–0. Joe Coleman struck out ten. Stanley and McAuliffe both homered. He was in bed at eleven.

  Hess found out the woman lived on P Street in Georgetown, not far from the consulate. He told the ambassador he was having dinner with potential clients, and wanted to drive himself. It was unorthodox, but plausible. He had been issued one of the embassy’s Mercedes sedans. He stopped at a bookstore and bought a map of the area, and located P Street. He drove there and saw the Goldman residence, a federal-style brick townhouse.

  Hess went to a restaurant and had dinner and a couple drinks. At ten o’clock he drove back, parked around the corner on 32nd Street between two other vehicles so the license plate was not visible to anyone driving by. He walked to the Goldmans’, stood next to a tree in front of the three-storey townhouse. There were lights on the first floor. He walked to the front door and rang the buzzer. He could hear footsteps and voices inside. A light over the door went on. Hess stood in the open so whoever it was would see he was well dressed. The door opened, a man standing there, assumed he was Dr. Mitchell Goldman, dark hair, big nose, mid-forties, top of the shirt unbuttoned, exposing a gold chain and a five-pointed star. Hess smiled. “My car is on the fritz. May I use your phone to call a tow truck?”

  Dr. Goldman stared at him with concern.

  “I am staying just down the street at the consulate,” Hess said, smiling. Now the door opened and he stepped into the elegant foyer, chandelier overhead, marble floor.

  “Mitch, who is it?” a woman said from a big open room to his right.

  Dr. Goldman looked in her direction. “Guy’s having car trouble, wants to use the phone.”

  “It’s ten o’clock at night.”

  “He’ll just be a minute,” the dentist said.

  Hess could see the woman sitting on a couch, watching television.