Squirrel pulled a beer out of its plastic ring, popped the top and took a pull. “Gonna tell us what you need done, or what?” Zeller held the door open for them and they filed past him in the kitchen, and sat at an oval Formica table with chrome trim, the yellow finish worn off in places. Dink’s momma had served his favorite dish, grits, pork scraps and trimmings, on one just like it.
“We was up this way not too long ago ended up stayin’. U.S. Court of Appeals upheld a district court order calling for busing as a way to achieve racial balance.” Dink met Zeller’s gaze. “Ever heard of a bigger crock of shit in yer life? They start busing white kids to nigger schools. We come up to burn the buses and beat hell out of the niggers. I talked to a boy was involved. Kid said, ‘Blacks is different. They have different personalities and all that.’ I said, ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ One white momma chained herself to a bus rather than see her child put through that charade of integration. I know we’re not here to talk about that. But you bein’ from the Fatherland and all, I’m sure you can relate.”
Zeller told them about this German honey — fraulein, Dink thought he said — stayin’ locally with some Jew. Told them what he needed done.
“So we go to the house, get her, bring her here, right? Then what?”
“I will interrogate her,” Zeller said, sounding like Colonel Klink on Hogan’s Heroes.
Dink said, “What if she don’t feel like talkin’?”
“Don’t concern yourself.”
Dink said, “What do you want to find out?”
“Bring her here,” Zeller said. “That is all.”
“She don’t tell you what you want to hear, give her to us,” Squirrel said, grinning, showing tobacco-stained teeth.
“I will handle it,” Zeller said, elbows on the table, turning a ring on one of his fingers with the opposite hand.
Dink said, “Where you from in Germany?”
“Berlin.”
“That’s where the wall is at, ain’t it?” Dink said. “What’s it look like?”
“What do you think?”
The Kraut was lookin’ at Dink like he’d just chugged a quart of bourbon.
“Hey, Herr Zeller, know how to stop a dog from humping your leg? Pick it up and suck its dick,” Dink said, holding back the grin that was trying to bust out.
Zeller gave him a sour look.
Squirrel drained his beer, pulled another out of the plastic tightener and popped it open. Glanced at Zeller and said, “Last one, want it?”
Zeller shook his head, reached in his shirt pocket and handed Dink a piece of paper with a name and address on it, Harry Levin in Huntington Woods. Yeah, he knew where it was at.
It was Dink’s idea to steal the carpet-cleaning truck, show up like tradesmen, pull in the driveway, ring the bell. How y’all doin’? We’re here to clean your carpeting. What do you mean, you don’t know anything about it? Look here. Says so right on the form. They’d boosted the truck from a lot over on Eight Mile Road, hot-wired her and drove back to the farmhouse.
It was early evening, sky overcast, getting dark as Harry passed the mall and the treeless subdivisions of Troy, the lots big and open now, farms here and there. He slowed the Mercedes, trying to see an address, get an idea if he was going the right way, read numbers on a mailbox and saw he was close. A couple minutes later he passed it, a white two-storey house with a wide porch in front.
Harry pulled over on the other side of the road, turned off the lights, got out of the car, closed the door and crossed the road, moving along a line of elm trees. No traffic. Slight breeze blowing, the smell of wood smoke in the fall air. He stood behind a tree, watching the house, lights on the first floor, Ford pickup parked in the driveway. The screen door swung open and a man in overalls walked out on the porch, glanced toward the road and spit. Now another man wearing a red cap came out, placed his beer can on top of the railing, moved down the steps and urinated on the lawn.
When they went back inside Harry drew the .357, moved past the house, and walked along the edge of the cornfield to the barn. Opened the door and went in. There was a white van that said Acme Carpet Cleaning on the side, looking out of place next to the farm equipment. He checked the rooms, went up to the loft, no sign of Colette or anyone else.
Harry moved out of the barn, crouching behind the green pickup parked next to the house. He waited, listened, didn’t hear anything, moved around the back of the truck. There was a rebel flag on the tailgate. He moved to the house, opened the side door and stepped into the kitchen. Heard a TV on in another room and laughter. Walked through the dining room, saw the two guys sitting on a couch, watching The Beverly Hillbillies.
ELLY MAY: I wonder why they got two sets of steps.
JETHRO: That’s easy! One’s for going up, and the other’s for going down!
ELLY MAY: Oh.
They laughed with the laugh track.
Harry went back to the kitchen, opened a door that led to the basement, turned on the light and went down the stairs, saw Colette gagged and tied to a chair in the middle of a damp cinderblock room.
He could see tears in her eyes as he got closer, blouse ripped open halfway down her chest. Harry slid the gun in his pocket, and undid the bandana that was tied across her mouth and knotted behind her head. Held her face in his hands. “Don’t say a word,” he whispered. “They’re upstairs.” He untied the ropes, helped her up and she put her arms around his neck, clinging to him. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to walk out of here.” They went up the stairs, Harry leading the way, holding the big Colt in front of him with two hands, Colette hanging onto him from behind. The door was open a crack. He heard someone come in the kitchen. Heard the refrigerator open and close. Heard a bottle cap hit the floor. Then someone said, “Check on her?” in a heavy southern accent.
“Where you think she’s gonna go?”
Harry wondered what Zeller’s connection was with these rednecks.
“Why don’t you go down, have a look see just to be sure.”
“You mean to relieve your concern?”
“Here’s the way it is. We split the chores. I checked on her last time. So now it’s your turn. Get it?”
“Tell you what, when the TV show’s over I will do just that.”
“And keep your goddamn hands off her.”
Harry heard them walk out of the kitchen, apparently agreeing to suspend hostilities for the time being. He took Colette the rest of the way up and they went out the kitchen door, eased it closed and stepped into the yard.
“What’d they do to you?” Harry said when they were in the car, looking across the seats at each other.
“Scared me, Harry.”
He could see her cheek was bruised and swollen, and felt rage come on like a switch had been flipped inside him. Colette reached over, grabbed his hand and squeezed it.
“It’s all right now,” Harry said. “It’s over.” He started the Mercedes and did a U-turn, accelerating past the farmhouse.
“There is another one, a German. He came down to the cellar and asked questions about Hess. Did I know where he was? I told him I didn’t know anything, and he gave up but I could see he was frustrated and knew he wasn’t finished.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him?”
“And then what, Harry? You think he was going to give me a ride back to your house like nothing happened?” Colette leaned over and put her hand flat against his chest. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw you.” She grabbed his hand again and held it in both of hers. “These men looking for Hess are going to keep looking. They think he’s alive. And they’re not going to stop until they prove otherwise. Maybe he has something on other former Nazis. More photos. More evidence of politically connected Germans who murdered Jews during the war. It could be another story. Maybe even a book.”