me till the war ended.” She took a breath. “Harry, I can’t believe you’re here. How can I ever repay you?”
“Help me take down Hess.”
“Of course.” She poured two glasses of wine and handed one to him. “To us, Harry. Mazel tov.”
He clinked her glass and tasted the wine. It was dry and slightly bitter.
“Josefina, the housekeeper, got it for me. The man at the wine store said it was good. I usually don’t drink red wine, it gives me a headache.”
“Hungry?” Harry said. “I can make us omelets if that’s okay.”
“Good-looking and you cook too.”
Harry went to the refrigerator, took out six eggs and a wedge of English cheddar.
“Tell me where you lived in Munich,” Joyce said, handing him a bowl.
“Sendlinger Strasse.” He cracked the eggs, found a whisk and mixed them.
“We were near Gartnerplatz on Klenzestrasse. Remember Isaac Jacob’s store?”
“The milk dealer, right? I used to go there with my mother.”
“We were right down the street.” She sipped her wine. “What butcher did you go to?”
“Joseph Bamberger. He was a friend of my father’s.”
“I can picture the storefront.” She looked across the kitchen. “My family preferred Julius Lindauer.”
Harry said, “Where did you go to school?”
“Jewish Elementary and then the gymnasium.”
“I did too. I’m surprised we never met.”
“Harry, why did we survive?” She paused. “I’ve been asking myself that for thirty years. Why not my brother? He was better than me, smart as a whip.”
“You sound like you’re apologizing, like you did something wrong.”
“I didn’t deserve it.”
“You deserved it as much as anyone.”
“I was the rebel of the family.”
“That’s why you’re here. You’re tough.”
“I don’t feel tough,” Joyce said. “I feel guilty.”
“It’s not your fault,” Harry said. “Stop blaming yourself. Think about what they did to you. Doesn’t it make you mad?”
“I’ve never thought about it that way.”
“Do it, you’ll feel better.”
“Is that what you did, Harry?”
“You’re damn right.” He drank some wine. “Remember Dachau? All we thought about was surviving.”
“Get through the day,” Joyce said. “And don’t think about tomorrow.”
“Well‚ here we are.”
Lenore opened the door and saw Mr. Landau from Atlanta, hesitated, feeling the effects of the two drinks she’d had at Ta-boo. He had followed her, but why? He was smiling, a big Southern teddy bear. “All right, you. What’s going on?” He looked different without the cap, pale skin that could use some color, dark hair flecked with gray.
“I hate to dine alone. You are the only person I know in Palm Beach. Will you join me?”
She invited him in, wondering if it was a mistake, then thinking about the commission she’d make on an oceanfront estate. She escorted him into the kitchen, opened cabinet doors showing where she kept her glasses and liquor. “Help yourself. I’ll be right back.”
“I have to ask you something.”
He reached behind his back and brought out a gun with a long black barrel, pointing it at her. She could feel her heart race, scared to death, knowing now he was the Nazi.
“Where is Joyce?” he said, German accent, not pretending any more.
“I don’t know.”
He came toward her, aiming the gun. Lenore wanted to run but couldn’t move. She was frozen. He put the barrel against her cheek, pressing it into her face.
“Let’s try again. Where is she?”
37
At the commercial, Harry went out to check on Cordell. It was a beautiful night, clear sky, sixty degrees. He looked up at the stars for a couple minutes, spotted the Big and Little Dipper and the North Star. Then he crossed the yard and went to the pool house. Cordell was asleep in a double bed in one of the bedrooms. Harry turned off the lamp on the bedside table. Walked through the living room, turned off all the lights, locked the door and went out.
At 10:00 when
Harry lifted his shirt, showed her the Colt stuck in his belt. “Hess comes-”
“Harry, you have a gun? What kind of a Jew are you?” She smiled, put her arms around him. “A tough one. What can I say? You’re a mensch. I should be so lucky.”
The master bedroom was at the end of the hall. Joyce opened the door and went in. Harry followed her, impressed by the room that had to be sixty by forty feet, with a sitting area in front of the fireplace, four-post antique bed with a canopy, two TVs. He looked out the windows at the front yard and circular drive, the view extending all the way to the ocean, flat and dark, blending with the sky.
On the other side of the room, French doors led to a balcony off the back of the house, view of the pool and pool house. “If you’re afraid I’ll stay with you, sleep on the couch.”
She smiled. “I’ll be fine. There’s an alarm system. Anyone tries to get in, the security people will be here.”
“‘If you want me,’” Harry said, “‘just whistle.’”
“Who said that? No, don’t tell me.” She glanced across the room looking for the answer. “Lauren Bacall. She said it to Humphrey Bogart. What was the movie?”
“
“Know what Lauren’s real name is?”
Harry shook his head.
“Betty Joan Perske.”
“You know your movie stars, don’t you?” Harry held her in his gaze. “Unless he has a ladder there’s only one way in. So keep your door locked.”
“Thanks for everything, Harry.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
Harry went to his room. It was half the size of the master but still twice as big as the bedrooms in his house. The windows looked out on the back yard, and French doors opened onto the balcony. He pulled the spread down, propped pillows up against the headboard. Slipped out of his shoes, turned off the light, and got on the bed, holding the Colt next to his right leg. His eyes adjusted and he could see the dark shapes of furniture in the room and the soft glow of lights from the back yard. He started to doze off.
Next thing he heard was the deafening high-pitched shriek of the alarm-re-er, re-er, re-er.
It was 3:27 a.m. He grabbed the Colt, got up and went to the window, saw a flashlight beam sweep across the front of the pool house. He went in the hall, looked left, the door to the master suite still closed. He ran to the staircase, looked out the front window, saw a white sedan, lights flashing in the circular drive. Ran back, knocked
