Harry parked in front of the hotel, got out and moved to the back of the car. The bumper and trunk lid were dented. He gave his keys to the valet, glanced toward the Frauenkirche, saw the Zeppelin high in the clouds, glimpses of it appearing and then vanishing. Was it following him?
He went to the bar, ordered Dewar’s and soda, and thought about his situation. He was now 0 for 2. Struck out at Hess’ house, struck out again at his place of business. What the hell was he doing here? Maybe getting rammed by the Audi had woken him up, brought him to his senses. Was he really going to kill Hess? The idea now seemed absurd. He considered packing his things, going back to Detroit. Then he thought about Sara and knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
Harry went to his room and took a shower. He walked back in the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist, hair still wet. He was tired, pulled down the spread, sat on the bed, leaned back on pillows propped against the headboard and fell asleep.
It was dark out when he woke up. Harry glanced at the digital clock on the bedside table. 8:17. He dressed and went downstairs and asked the concierge for a restaurant suggestion, a place that served good Bavarian food. The guy recommended a ratskeller a couple kilometers from the hotel. Harry got his car and drove there. Knew the street, and as it turned out, knew the place, his father used to take him there.
He walked through the crowded dining room and sat at the bar, ordered a beer, drank it and watched the bartender, a nice-looking woman with a braided blonde ponytail, fill mugs from a dozen taps. She was fast and efficient, making conversation with the men sitting there, but getting the job done. Harry could have used her at the scrap yard. She asked in German if he was going to eat. He said yes, and she put a menu on the bar top in front of him.
There were two drunk Germans to his right, talking, having an intense conversation, drinking beer, lighting cigarettes, and blowing out smoke that hung in the air over the bar. Their faces reminded him of the faces of Nazi soldiers he’d seen on the streets of Munich in the late thirties, and he wanted to get away from them. He was thinking about picking up his beer, going to a table.
Next to him, on his left, a voice said, “Yo, sprechen Sie English?” in tourist German.
He turned and saw a black guy with a GI haircut in a spiffed-up burgundy outfit, tan shirt and gold chains around his neck.
“Where you from?” Harry said.
“Dee-troit.”
“I lived on Elmhurst and then Clairmont near 12th.”
“Was an abandoned synagogue near there, brothers turned into a blind pig.”
“I recall.” He picked up his mug, drank some beer.
“You worship there or party?” He stirred his drink, something dark in a tall glass.
“I’d moved to the suburbs by then,” Harry said.
“That before the riot?”
“Yeah. I bought my house in 1963. You remember the riot, huh? How old were you?”
“Sixteen. I was there when it started. Three in the morning, police raided a blind pig was above Economy Printing. Seventy-three people arrested. But they had to wait for buses to take them to the station. Crowd formed out front, brothers throwin’ bottles at the police, getting all worked up. From there they moved down 12th, lightin’ buildings on fire, breakin’ windows, stealin’ TVs, anything they could carry.”
“Never knew how it started.” Harry glanced at his drink. “What is that?”
“Courvoisier and Coke. Also drink it with orange pop.”
Harry made a face.
“Gets you where you want to be.” The black guy grinned. “Don’t knock it till you try it.”
“What brings you to Munich?”
“Traveling before I go back. Was in the army. Protecting democracy from the Red scourge,” he said, grinning, showing big white teeth.
“What about Vietnam?”
“No, thank the lord. Was stationed at Heidelberg, had an altercation with my sergeant.” He sipped his drink. “Got a DD.”
“Drunk and disorderly?”
“Dishonorable discharge. You weren’t in the service, huh?”
“Missed the draft,” Harry said. “I was too old.”
“You lucky.” He picked up his drink and paused. “Know what the best thing is about being out?” He finished his drink, looked at Harry and said, “Don’t have to wear green no more.”
Harry looked at the cut of his jacket, a burgundy leisure suit with white contrasting stitching and gold buttons. The shirt had a pattern on it, light-brown illustrations of animals rampant on an African savannah. “You sure don’t.”
“Got it at Louis the Hatter on Livernois, Avenue of Fashion, if you recall? Know what color it is? Call it claret. Not burgundy, man, claret. Pronounce the ‘T.’”
“It’s a beauty,” Harry said. “Leisure suit, right?”
“Lei-sure rhymes with plea-sure.”
He showed his teeth again, couldn’t help himself, relaxed, having a good time, couple of guys from Detroit meeting by coincidence.
“I’m Harry Levin.” He offered his hand, and they shook.
“Cordell Sims.”
“What’d you do before the army?”
“This ’n’ that, how ’bout you?”
“I own a scrap yard on Mt. Elliot near Luce, you know where that is.”
“Other side of Hamtramck.”
“S amp;H Recycling Metals.”
“That’s catchy,” Cordell said. “What were the names didn’t make it?”
Harry picked up his mug, took a swig. “Levin amp; Levin Ferrous and Non-Ferrous Scrap Metal Recycling Incorporated.”
Cordell grinned.
“I’m kidding.”
“No shit.” Cordell grinned again.
The two loudmouth Germans to his right paid their bill, got up and moved through the dining room, which had thinned out. He looked down the bar, saw a man hunched over his beer at the end, all the seats between them empty. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to ten. The good-looking bartender came out of the kitchen, walked down the bar and asked them if they wanted another one.
Harry turned to the black guy. “Cordell, you ready?”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
“I’m going to order something to eat, bratwurst. Interested?”
“Their ’wurst is their best,” Cordell said, grinning. “Yeah, I’ll have some.”
Harry ordered a couple of bratwurst plates with fried potatoes, another beer for him and a drink for Cordell. The bartender put their refills on the bar and took their empties.
Harry said, “You enlist, drafted or what?”
“Drafted,” Cordell said, “sort of.”
“What number were you?”
“I don’t know,” Cordell said. “But I knew a dude was three.”
“What’d he do?”
“You mean when he found out? Got fucked up. What you think?”
The bartender served their food and started cleaning up. He liked looking at her, liked watching her draw pints and serve drinks. Would probably like watching her do laundry, iron a shirt.
He cut off a piece of bratwurst, put it in his mouth. The brat was authentic, better than the one he’d had yesterday, tasted just like he remembered it, grilled meat with a hint of herbs and spices. He glanced to his left. “What do you think?”
Cordell, a napkin tucked in the neck of his shirt, nodded and fanned his mouth, sipped his drink to put out the
