Grannit stared hard at him. They heard multiple vehicles driving up fast outside. Grannit moved to the window, put two fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle, then waved down to the radioman on the street.
Down to my last chance, thought Bernie.
“I am from Brooklyn, I swear to you it’s true, I was born there, I grew up there. My parents are German; they immigrated to New York, then moved back here six years ago. We lived in Frankfurt till they drafted me into their fucking army. I’ve been fixing cars in Berlin, I’ve never been in combat, I never shot at anybody; I got pulled into this because I speak English. They didn’t tell us what it was about and they killed anybody who didn’t go along with it. We didn’t even know where we were going until it happened.”
Grannit walked back toward him. “What neighborhood in Brooklyn?”
“Park Slope North, like I told you. I was born in Brooklyn Hospital on DeKalb. I went to PS 109 on Snyder Avenue, just off Flatbush. Mrs. Quinn was my third grade teacher. I was supposed to start Erasmus Hall the year we moved away. My best friend was Jackie Waldstein from the south side; his dad worked for the Rheingold brewery in Bushwick. We played ball every day in Prospect Park, on the diamonds by the boat house.”
“What was your address?”
“Three seventy-five Union Street. South side of the street, near Sixth. Big white house, two stories, a porch that ran all the way around the front. We’d sit out there summer nights listening to Jack Benny and Fibber McGee. My buddies and me went to the movies Saturday at Loews Palace near Grand Army Plaza. Matinees, all the serials, Red Ryder, Flash Gordon, kids’ stuff. Three times a week I’d take the trolley down Flatbush to Ebbets Field; cost a quarter on Wednesdays for the right-field bleachers. I carved my fucking name in one of ’em with a pen knife. If we didn’t have the dough, we’d watch the game through this gap under the metal gate in right center. I caught a foul ball from Cookie Lavagetto, he signed it for me after the game, my parents still have the damn ball; I can tell you everybody who ever played for ’em.”
Grannit hesitated. “They could’ve taught you all this.”
“They could’ve but they didn’t; I swear to God it’s true; I lived it.”
Bernie heard footsteps entering the building through the open front door down below.
“Where’s the best cheesecake in Brooklyn?”
“Cheesecake? Junior’s, on DeKalb and Flatbush; me and Jackie used to go there after school.”
“Where’d your mother shop?”
“There was a greengrocer on the corner, corner of Polhemus and Garfield; she went over there almost every day-”
“What was it called?”
“Solly’s, Solly’s Produce. There was a Laundromat next door, a radio repair shop, then a coffee shop run by two brothers, they were Greek, a long name, lots of vowels in it. My dad used to get that sticky pastry they’d make on his way to work, what do they call it, baklava?”
“There was a candy store across the street.”
“I know it, I know it, Foppiano’s, this nice old Italian guy, had a big mustache, wore an old worn-out gray sweater every day, kept everything in glass jars behind the counter. Root beer sticks, Houten’s chocolates, Black Crows, those little licorice deals? That’s where I bought comic books-and it wasn’t right across from Solly’s, it was diagonal.”
“Tell me something that happened on that street. Something you’d only know if you were living there.”
Bernie thought frantically. “When I was a little kid-I don’t know, maybe six or seven?-there was a robbery at an Esso station. A girl got shot, I think she was a teenager. I remember it real clear; police were all over the place. I saw them put her in the ambulance, taking her away. Shook me up bad. There was blood on the sidewalk for a couple days.”
Grannit looked as if he’d been slapped, and Bernie knew he remembered it, too. He could hear footsteps on the landing below. The other men would reach the apartment in less than a minute.
“You’re from the neighborhood,” said Bernie. “You are, aren’t you? You’re from Park Slope.”
Grannit said nothing, but his look confirmed it.
“Jesus Christ, you know I’m telling the truth, what else do you need to hear?”
“I don’t know what else.”
“Please. I know you don’t have to believe me, but I want to help you.”
He waited. Grannit just stared at him.
“I’m sorry he killed your partner; I’m sorry he killed anybody, but he’s not finished yet, and whatever’s coming is going to be worse. Mister, I got reasons to want him dead every bit as bad as you. I’ve known this guy since he joined the brigade; I know a lot about him, I know how he thinks. If there’s anybody in this whole fucking war who can help you stop him, it’s me.”
Grannit lowered the gun just as three MPs came through the door. He turned to them.
“Miller was here, before he went to the theater,” he told them, then pointed to the bedroom. “He killed the woman who lived here, body’s in there. Call the police.”
“You really want to get the gendarmes involved?” an MP asked skeptically.
“You stay here and handle it. It was a Kraut killed her, make that clear to ’em, the same guy we’re looking for. He’s an SS lieutenant, Erich Von Leinsdorf. He’s dressed like a GI; he’s one of Skorzeny’s men-get that out on the radio. Make sure these cops know it wasn’t an American did this. And get that old uniform out of there.”
The MP looked at Bernie again. “We got those three guys downstairs. Like you asked. The ones from the theater.”
“Any of ’em talk?”
“Only a little. Two of ’em hardly speakie the English. That sergeant you took out was their squad leader.”
“His name was William Sharper,” said Bernie. “He was an American deserter.”
The lead MP looked at Bernie, even more puzzled, then back at Grannit. “You still want us to bring those Krauts upstairs?”
“No,” said Grannit. “Hand ’em off to Counter Intelligence.”
“So who’s this then?” asked the MP, looking at Bernie again.
“He’s a witness. He saw the hitter up close.”
“Where you going, Lieutenant?”
“I’m going after him,” said Grannit, grabbing Bernie’s arm. “And this one’s coming with me.”
28
Reims
DECEMBER 20, MIDNIGHT
They left the apartment and climbed into an extra jeep Grannit’s men had left downstairs. Grannit took the wheel. Bernie directed him to the ware house where they’d stashed the French ambulance and told him how they’d made their way into the city. The bodies of the two drivers were still inside, but their weapons and the jerricans holding all their equipment were gone.
“He must’ve come back here,” said Bernie. “After he knocked me out, before he went to the movie house.”
Grannit wanted to know what was in the cans, and Bernie told him about what he’d seen in three of them: supplies, ammunition, German uniforms. There was one can that he’d never looked into that Von Leinsdorf had always protected. Grannit took a radio call from his detail, updates from the theater. Hearing one side of it, Bernie gathered that Von Leinsdorf had avoided capture. Grannit gave the address of the ware house to his men, with orders to check it out, then ended the call.
Grannit lifted a box from the back of the jeep and handed it to Bernie. It held an MP’s blouse, belt, and armband, puttees for his boots, a white-lettered helmet and nightstick.
“Put those on,” he said. “As far as anybody’s concerned, you’re an MP, working with me on special assignment. Use your real name, don’t talk to anybody, don’t answer any questions unless you ask me first.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t leave my sight. If you run, if you touch a weapon, if you make one wrong move, I won’t wait for a firing squad, I’ll kill you where you stand.”