“Where is Ernst?”
“Southern Florida.”
“I would have guessed South America. Join the old gang in Buenos Aires.”
“Too obvious.”
“How did you find him?”
“It’s what I do.”
Zeller was still boastful and over-confident and had not accomplished anything. Braun puffed on the cigar and blew out a stream of smoke.
“What do you want me to do with him?”
“Persuade Ernst to tell you where he hid the paintings.”
“The paintings?”
“A few works considered degenerate art by Hitler. Entarte Kunst, modern art that was deemed un-German or Jewish Bolshevist. Many of these paintings were confiscated and destroyed, but some survived.”
“What artists are you referring to?”
“Liebermann, Meidner and Freundlich,” Braun said, downplaying their artistic significance. Leaving out better-known names: Picasso, Matisse, Kandinsky, Klee and Chagall.
Two days later Zeller landed at Palm Beach International Airport. It was October 26, 1:30 p.m. He had been traveling for twenty-four hours. Walking out of the aircraft he was hit by the tropical glare and humidity. He put on sunglasses, took off his leather jacket and folded it over his arm.
Zeller picked up his suitcase at baggage claim, rented a car and drove to Pompano Beach. He had been thinking about his conversation with Braun. Zeller had no doubt the paintings Hess had looted or confiscated were worth millions, or why would Braun be wasting his time? Find the paintings and he would be rich.
He stopped at a Shell gas station on North Ocean Boulevard and asked for directions to the post office. “Which one?” the man behind the counter said. “There’re two. One’s on NE 16th, other’s on East Atlantic.”
By process of elimination, he found the post office where the package was being shipped. It was on East Atlantic Boulevard in a crowded shopping center. He had parked, gone in and checked the numbers on the boxes, a wall of them, and found Hess’ number, 3456. Business hours were posted on the glass door: 8:30 a.m. to 6 p.m.
The package was scheduled to arrive the next day, so Zeller decided to postpone his surveillance operation for the time being. He wondered if there was any significance to Hess using Max Hoffman as an alias. He went to the phone booth, checked the phone book and found two Max Hoffmans. One lived on NE 5th Street in Pompano Beach. The second lived in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, 4612 El Mar Drive.
Zeller went to a petrol station and bought a map, located NE 5th Street, drove there and found Max Hoffman’s address and parked next to a vacant lot. The house, built on the Intracoastal, was pale yellow. A truck was parked down the street and a landscaping crew were busy trimming trees and cutting the lawn.
With the window down Zeller smoked a cigarette and watched boats cruise by on the waterway. He waited and watched for thirty minutes, smoked another cigarette. He started the car, shifted into drive and turned into Max Hoffman’s driveway. Zeller got out, walked to the front door and rang the bell. Waited and rang again. He tried to see in the windows flanking the door, but the blinds were closed.
He walked around the side of the house, looking in windows. The interior was dark. Zeller stood on the patio, watching a speedboat, with its long hull, rumble past. Felt the sun’s heat on his face and wiped sweat off his forehead. Noticed a mattress floating in the pool, and a woman at the house next door, sitting on her patio, reading a book. She glanced over at him and waved. Zeller waved back. He heard the drone of an engine and saw a biplane in the distance, trailing a banner advertising 2-for-1 Happy Hour cocktails at Mon Jin Lau. He tried to turn the handles on the French doors. They were locked.
At 3:40 p.m., Zeller drove south on A1A to Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. The second Max Hoffman lived at Marine Terrace, a huge pink oceanfront condominium on El Mar Drive. Zeller parked in the lot, walked in the lobby and rode an elevator to the eighth floor. He found 8612 and rang the bell. The door opened, a woman with blonde hair, sixties, said, “Whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested. And listen, you, there’s no soliciting here.”
“I’m looking for Max,” Zeller said.
“My Max?” The woman frowned. “And who’re you?”
“What’s going on?” a short bald man said, coming toward them.
Zeller said, “Have you talked to Herr Hess?”
“Who?”
“Ernst.”
“I don’t know any Ernst.”
“My mistake,” Zeller said. “Sorry to have disturbed you.” Zeller was back in Pompano Beach fifteen minutes later, driving on the beach road north past the pier. He saw a motel called Treasure Island, pulled in and looked around. It was built in a U-shape with a swimming pool in the center, rooms facing the ocean and a private beach.
He checked in and slept till seven, showered, walked down the beach to a seafood restaurant. He went in, sat at the bar and had two vodka tonics and later ordered grilled mahi mahi, French fries and two glasses of Chablis. After dinner he walked back to the motel, and stood on the beach at the water’s edge, looking up at the stars. With any luck he would conclude his business in the next two days and be on a plane back to Germany.
Sixteen
Squirrel said, “You going to let him get away with that?”
“I’ve got news for you,” Dink said. “He already did.” Police had located his truck in a strip mall across the street from the Rodeo Bar. Jesus lord, that had pissed him off something fierce.
“What I’m sayin’ is, you going to just let it go? Man put a bullet hole in your floor board.”
“What do you got in mind?”
“Something, I’ll tell you that.”
“Oh, now that’s helpful.”
“You know what I mean,” Squirrel said.
Dink sure did. He’d given it some serious thought too. This Kraut Zeller’d hired them and then poof he’d disappeared without payin’ them. Nothin’ they could do about that, so Dink turned his attention back to this Jew, Levin. His first instinct was to torch the man’s home, show him what happens you fuck with good ole boys from east Tennessee. But what the hell good would that do?
His next idea was to clean out the man’s house, empty the place, call Harry, say, “Hey, seen your furniture and such?” Sell it all back to him. Squirrel pointed out a few flaws in the plan.
“Where we gonna get a movin’ van? And let’s say one miraculously appears, who you gonna get to help you? ’Cause it ain’t gonna be me.”
Dink said, “You got a better way let’s hear it. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer.”
“Tail the man till an opportunity presents itself,” Squirrel said, tilting the beer can up to his mouth till it was empty. Then belching, filling the inside of the truck with the second-hand smell of sausage and gravy.
“Jesus,” Dink said, fanning the air in front of his face with one hand and rolling down the window with the other.
Squirrel grinned, showing brown front teeth parted down the middle. “Like havin’ breakfast all over again.”
Eight hours later they were in Squirrel’s El Camino, with its gunmetal junkyard hood contrasting the original white paint color, just down the street from Harry Levin’s house. Squirrel had his side window cracked about an inch, hot-boxing Camels like he was going to the chair. Squirrel’d smoke one down to a nub, light a new one with it and push the nub through the opening in the window. Must’ve been fifteen on the street.