“Send him in.”
Jerry got up with his coffee, gave him a puzzled look. “You in some kind of trouble, Harry?”
Good question.
Jerry and Phyllis walked out of the room and a short dark-haired guy walked in, tan wash-and-wear suit looking out of season in October, striped tie, scuffed brown shoes. He had a lot of hair parted low on the side, combed across his forehead, and wide, heavy sideburns to the bottom of his ears.
“Detective Frank Mazza, Mr. Levin.” He took out his badge, flashed it in diminished formality. Didn’t offer to shake hands. Suit coat coming open as he came toward the desk, a revolver in a holster on his right hip.
“Have a seat,” Harry said. Arm outstretched, indicating the chair.
Without expression Mazza said, “You know why I’m here?”
“You found my business card in Cordell Sims’ wallet. You talked to his mother, she said I stopped by the house the other day, but it wasn’t me.”
“No, who was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you know Mr. Sims?”
“I read in the paper he’s in critical condition,” Harry said. “What’s the story, is he going to make it?”
“You own a firearm, Mr. Levin?”
“I’ve got a license to carry a Colt Python .357 Magnum.” It had expired about six weeks earlier. No reason to mention that.
“That’s a lot of gun.”
“I carry a lot of money. Scrapping’s a cash business.”
“How do you know Mr. Sims?” He pushed his hair back off his forehead.
“We’re friends. I see him occasionally.”
“Do you shoot heroin?”
“Do I look like I shoot heroin?”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Never in my life.”
“Do you use drugs, Mr. Levin?”
“I smoked weed one time at an Allman Brothers concert. Got home, ate everything in the refrigerator.” He paused. “Where’s Cordell?”
“You know who shot him?” Frank Mazza said.
“No idea,” Harry said. “You didn’t happen to find nine-millimeter Parabellum shell casings at the scene, did you?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Just curious.”
Mazza combed his hair back with his fingertips. “But you don’t know who shot him, huh?”
Harry shook his head.
“Maybe you should come down to 1300, see if we can jog your memory.”
“You’d be wasting your time,” Harry said.
Bob Stark got him Cordell’s mother’s address on Lothrop. “Her name’s Gladys Jackson. Divorced Sims, married Melvin Jackson. Divorced him.”
“She gets around, huh?”
“You could say. Cordell’s at Detroit Receiving, where most of the inner-city shooting victims are taken, room 308, still listed as critical, but doing well considering he was shot three times.”
Harry took Woodward to Grand Boulevard, passed the GM Building on his left and Fisher Building on his right, two Detroit landmarks. Drove to 14th Street, went right on Lothrop, found the address, parked and knocked on the door. The house was a mess and so was the woman who lived there. Bags, half-moon shapes under her eyes that were darker than her skin. Looked like she’d been in a prizefight and lost. She was wearing a stained terrycloth robe, and had curlers in her hair. “Mrs. Jackson, I’m Harry Levin.” He took out his driver’s license and handed it to her. She glanced at the photograph, seemed to study his face and gave it back to him.
“’Nother white dude come by here saying he was you. Spoke Southern. Saying he from Chattanooga.”
Harry still had the mug shot of Hess that Taggart had given him. He took out the paper, unfolded it and handed it to her. “Is this the man?”
Her eyes opened wide. “That him,” she said. “Who is he?”
“Could be the one shot Cordell.”
“Why he do that? Shoot my boy three times. Kill the sister was with him.” She gave the mug shot back to him. “He gonna try again?”
Harry drove downtown to Detroit Receiving on St Antoine behind the police station. Parked, went in and took the elevator to the third floor. The hospital was old and overcrowded. Not enough beds so patients on gurneys were lined up in the hall under gloomy fluorescent lights that cast a yellow glow. Nurses and orderlies running around amid the chaos. Harry had never seen anything like it.
He walked around till he found room 308. Expected a cop in uniform to be sitting in a chair in the hallway the way he’d seen in movies. There to protect Cordell in case the assassin returned. He went in. A gray-haired black man was sleeping in the first bed. Cordell was in the second one, IVs in both arms. The machine behind him against the wall was making a whooshing noise. Cordell sensed his presence, glanced at him and grinned.
“The fuck you doin’ here, Harry?”
“Good to see you‚ too. How you feeling?”
“Ever been shot?”
“No,” Harry said. “You see who did it?”
“Shape outside the car is all. Then metal was flying at us through the glass. I’m moving, ducking, tryin’ not to get hit. Five shots. Little sounds like pufft, pufft. Man had his gun silenced. Hit me here.” Pointed to his left forearm. “Here.” Pointing to the upper left side of his chest near the collarbone, a bandage bulging under the hospital gown.
“Rochelle came out to smoke one, got smoked.”
“She your girlfriend?”
“Not any more.” He reached for a plastic cup on the table next to him, picked it up and sucked water through the straw.
“Remember anything about the shooter?”
Cordell closed his eyes for a few seconds and opened them looking at Harry. “Wore a hat. Just saw it like a blip, flash in my head.”
“What kind of hat?”
“Little motherfucker with a brim. Had a feather on the side?”
“Sounds Tyrolean.”
“Can see him now,” Cordell said. “Was a white dude.”
Harry showed him the mug shot of Hess.
“Might be,” Cordell said. “The Nazi, huh?”
Harry nodded. “He stopped by your mother’s, told her he was me.”
“Let me ax you something. You the star witness. Why’s he coming after me?” Cordell said.
“He’s tying up loose ends. Taking out anyone knows something about him.”
“Loose ends? Man, I don’t know nothin’. Don’t know shit.”
Harry was wondering if Hess had come to Detroit first. Take care of them and go to Palm Beach? He had to call Joyce again and warn her. He saw Cordell’s right foot come out from under the blanket. His ankle had a leg-iron on it, chained to the side rail. “What’s that? They think you’re going to run out, skip your medication?”
“Warrant for my arrest. Check it out. Charging me with felony firearm. Guess you can relate, huh? And I was just about to leave town.”
“Maybe I can help with your legal problems.”
“How you gonna do that? You a lawyer?”
“I know one and he’s good.”
“Tell him to work fast. Few more days, I heard a nurse sayin’, they gonna move me to the jail infirmary. Wayne County. Trust me, you don’t want to do time in there.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Harry said.
Harry went back to the yard. Galina had called. She was cooking a brisket, and insisted on dropping some off for his dinner.
“Don’t worry, Harry. If door is locked, I know where to find spare key.”
He was going to call Galina and tell her not to bother, but he didn’t want to talk to her, get in a conversation. He was trying to avoid her.
Thirty-two
Hess pushed the button and heard the bell ring inside, waited, knocked on the door. The time was 4:57 p.m.
He had parked the Chevrolet Malibu down the street. The sky was overcast and getting dark as he walked along the driveway to the rear of the house, glancing at the neighbor’s property. He didn’t see anyone in the yard. Harry’s garage was built on the north end of the property, a fence around the perimeter, empty slate patio directly behind the house. French doors that opened onto the patio were locked. He kicked in a glass pane near the handle, reached his hand through, unlocked the door and went inside.