They sat across from each other at a conference table, couple ashtrays filled with cigarette butts, lingering smell of smoke, clock on the wall.
“How do you know Mr. Bass?”
“He lived on my same block in Detroit. High said, ‘You ever come down to Miami, stop by.’ So that’s what I done.”
“Why do you call him High, he use drugs?”
“Name’s High-Step. On account of one leg’s shorter than the other, wore a special shoe. Go to the morgue, see that for yourself. Got nothin’ to do with drugs.”
“What was Mr. Bass’ line of work?”
“I don’t know,” Cordell said, looking right at her.
“That’s the way it’s going to be, huh?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Carlos Bass, or whatever you call him, had twenty-five handguns in his house, .45s and .38s, not to mention four brand-new M16s. You don’t think he sold guns, do you?”
“No idea. Haven’t seen High in years.”
“So you said. I’m going to take a wild guess and say Carlos pissed off the wrong people, or someone new to the neighborhood wanted to eliminate the competition. You think that’s possible, Mr. Sims?”
“I suppose.”
Cordell got out of there and went to his car. Now he had to get out of Florida. He raced back to his apartment, sat in the parking lot, looking around, nervous, expecting Colombians with guns to appear. He got out of the car, reached back, felt the nickel-plate in the waistband of his claret-colored pants under his shirt. At the apartment door he drew the .45 and went in. They’d cleaned him out: the money he hid in the floorboard in the kitchen, the weed, even his clothes. Took everything.
Cordell got in the car, backed out of the space and saw them in the rearview, two dark-haired guys in blousy island shirts, getting out of a white Chevy sedan, guns in their hands, moving toward him.
Cordell put it in gear, revved the high-performance engine, popped the clutch and laid ten feet of rubber, went left on the main road, nailed it and lost them. Ten minutes later he pulled up in front of the Breakers, white clean-cut valet in a golf shirt giving him a look like — what you doing here? Hired help parks in back.
“Keep it close. Won’t be too long,” Cordell said, handing him the keys.
He called Harry from the lobby and they met outside, the beach bar, sat at a table under an umbrella, Cordell checking out two girls in bikinis coming up from the beach. They ordered drinks, a beer for Harry and Courvoisier and Coke for Cordell. He told Harry about High-Step and the Colombians, Harry listening without expression.
“I asked you to do me a favor — keep an eye on Joyce. And you go kill four Colombians. Unbelievable.”
“High was the trigger. I didn’t know what he was gonna do. I thought he was gonna talk to them that’s all. I had nothin’ to do with it.”
“You know how dumb that sounds? You can’t keep making excuses,” Harry said, sounding like his honky father.
A waiter brought their drinks. Harry stopped talking, waiting for the guy to leave.
“You’re in the big leagues now, accessory to murder,” Harry said. “Congratulations, you’re moving up in the world.”
“Harry, what do you say to a black man in a suit and tie?” Cordell paused. “ ‘Will the defendant please rise?’”
Harry didn’t react. “I see you’re taking the situation seriously.”
Cordell was takin’ the Colombians seriously. “Let me run it by you again. I didn’t go to Miami with the intention of killin’ anyone, okay? You with me so far?” Cordell took a big drink and got a boozy blast of Courvoisier, like an oil slick floatin’ on the top. “I was getting the money back they stole from me.”
“You went in there with a machine gun.”
Cordell decided not to say anything else. Harry was right. Every time he opened his mouth, sounded like he was makin’ excuses. But there weren’t any. Happened the way it happened, and if Harry didn’t believe him, what could he say?
Harry took a drink of beer, put the bottle back on the table. “What’re you going to do about it?”
“Do about it? Not sure what you’re sayin’.”
“You should go to the police. Tell them what happened.”
“You mean like you did Harry, shot the three Blackshirts.”
“That was different. It was self-defense.”
“What do you think happened with us? They pulled first.”
Harry went back to his room at 6:30. There was a message from Stark: Call me. It’s important. I don’t care what time it is.
He sat at the desk, looking out at the dark ocean, picked up the phone, dialed Stark’s home number, heard Stark say hello. “What’s so important?”
“Harry, we’ve got trouble. The Germans want to extradite you for that triple homicide in Munich.”
“Somebody found the bodies, huh? Well, we knew this might happen. How’d you find out?”
“U.S. Attorney. Evidently they’ve got ballistics confirmation, and as you know they’ve got the murder weapon.”
“Let’s say they’re successful, how long before I’m sent over?”
“I have to believe the extradition request will be denied. So you’re okay unless you go back to Germany.”
Twenty-five
Hess went to baggage claim, pulled Max’s suitcase off the carousel and carried it to the men’s room. He sat on the toilet in a locked stall with the suitcase across his legs, opened it, felt through the layers of clothes, brought out the .38 and slipped it in an outside pocket of Max Hoffman’s blazer.
He locked the suitcase in a locker, walked outside to the taxi queue and took a cab to 681 Park Avenue at 68th Street. Hess had come here six months earlier with the Durer, left it on consignment with Jurgen Mauer, a former gallery owner from Berlin Hess had done business with over the years. Mauer knew wealthy private collectors who would be interested in an original Durer. The arrangement was: Mauer would sell it and take twenty-five per cent. The artwork, charcoal and colored chalk on paper, was estimated at $250,000, maybe a little more.
Several weeks later the Durer was sold to a Japanese millionaire for $270,000. Hess had received $50,000 in cash, the first installment. Mauer had owed him an additional $152,500, the bulk of the sale, and had been holding out for months, but now he needed it.
Hess sat in a cafe next to the gallery, drinking coffee, waiting, watching for Mauer. A little past 1:00 p.m., the art broker, wearing a black overcoat, came out of the gallery, walking north on Park Avenue. Hess got up and went after him, catching Mauer at 59th Street. He could hear the sounds of the city around him. “You move fast for an old man.”
Mauer glanced at him in the Cleveland Indians cap and kept walking. Hess caught up to him again, coming up on his left. “I keep expecting the money but it does not come.” This time Hess removed the cap and smiled.
“Herr Hess, forgive me. I did not recognize you.”
“Where is my money?”
“The buyer has not yet paid in full.”
“That’s not what you told me. The buyer agreed to pay after the painting had been authenticated. Does that sound familiar?
“Why would I cheat you?”
“You thought you could get away with it.” Word had undoubtedly spread. Mauer knew Hess was a fugitive war criminal and wasn’t expecting to be stopped by him on the streets of New York.
“I have additional master works for sale.” Hess threw out the bait and Mauer went for it.
“Additional works by Durer?”
“Picasso, Chagall, Matisse, Klee and others.”
“Oh my.” The potential commission on such a collection took his breath away. “How many do you have?”
“We can discuss that when you pay me.”