Hess found out the woman lived on P Street in Georgetown, not far from the consulate. He told the ambassador he was having dinner with potential clients, and wanted to drive himself. It was unorthodox, but plausible. He had been issued one of the embassy’s Mercedes sedans. He stopped at a bookstore and bought a map of the area, and located P Street. He drove there and saw the Goldman residence, a federal-style brick townhouse.
Hess went to a restaurant and had dinner and a couple drinks. At ten o’clock he drove back, parked around the corner on 32nd Street between two other vehicles so the license plate was not visible to anyone driving by. He walked to the Goldmans’, stood next to a tree in front of the three-storey townhouse. There were lights on the first floor. He walked to the front door and rang the buzzer. He could hear footsteps and voices inside. A light over the door went on. Hess stood in the open so whoever it was would see he was well dressed. The door opened, a man standing there, assumed he was Dr. Mitchell Goldman, dark hair, big nose, mid-forties, top of the shirt unbuttoned, exposing a gold chain and a five-pointed star. Hess smiled. “My car is on the fritz. May I use your phone to call a tow truck?”
Dr. Goldman stared at him with concern.
“I am staying just down the street at the consulate,” Hess said, smiling. Now the door opened and he stepped into the elegant foyer, chandelier overhead, marble floor.
“Mitch, who is it?” a woman said from a big open room to his right.
Dr. Goldman looked in her direction. “Guy’s having car trouble, wants to use the phone.”
“It’s ten o’clock at night.”
“He’ll just be a minute,” the dentist said.
Hess could see the woman sitting on a couch, watching television.
“The phone’s in here.” The dentist started to move.
Hess drew the Luger from the pocket of his suit jacket, and aimed it at Goldman.
The dentist put his hands up. “Whoa. Easy.”
“Who is in the house?”
“Just the two of us.”
“Are you expecting anyone?”
He shook his head.
“Tell her to come in here,” Hess said.
“What do you want? You want money?” He took his wallet out and handed it to him. “There’s eight hundred dollars in there.”
“Call her,” Hess said.
“Hon, come here, will you?”
“I’m watching All in the Family. Can you wait till the commercial?”
Hess could hear people laughing on the television.
“Just for a minute,” the dentist said.
Hess saw her stand up and step around a low table in front of the couch, moving across the room, still looking back at the television. She turned her head as she entered the foyer and saw him holding the gun. Her hair looked darker in the dim light but he had only seen her briefly that day.
“Oh-my-god,” she said, hands going up to her face.
“We’re reasonable people,” the dentist said. “Tell us what you want.”
“The pleasure of your company,” Hess said. “Where is the cellar?”
Coco thought he looked familiar, would’ve sworn she’d seen him in the club before. She usually worked days, was sure he’d been in for lunch. Was a foreigner like a lot of them. This one kinda cute with a goatee and funny accent sound like that Colonel Klink on Hogan’s Heroes. He was stocky, broad shoulders, dressed nice, suit and tie, big roll he took out, flashed around. She thought of him as Fritz.
Other side of the booth, Extasy, skinny blonde with little biddy tits, was giving Fritz a personal dance, going through the motions, strain on her face like whatever she was on had worn off and she needed more. Coco had just come out the dressing room, smelled like hairspray and periods, slid in next to Fritz, wearing gauntlets, a G-string and stiletto heels. “Ex gotta go on stage, mind I join you, sugar?” Doubted he could hear with the music pounding. But he looked at her and grinned.
Music stop, he reached in his pocket pulled out the roll, peeled off a twenty handed it to Ex, she slid out the booth and disappeared.
Coco touched his arm. “Where you from, baby?”
“Bavaria.”
“Where Bavaria at?” And took a guess. “Like in Germany?”
Fritz smiled. “Very good.”
“Let me make you more comfortable.” She loosened his tie, pulled the knot down a few inches and unbuttoned his top button.
“There,” she smiled. “That better?”
Man finished his drink, look like whisky in a lowball glass, throwing it down. Put his arm around her, pulled her closer.
“Need another one, sugar?” She saw Donna, one of the waitresses. “Yo, D, bring Fritz one, and a 7 amp;7.” She glanced at him, smiled. “You don’t mind, do you, baby?” Slipped a pack of matches in his jacket pocket. Fritz wasn’t listening. He nibbled her ear and she flinched. Traced a line around her bare titty with his index finger, and brought his hand down her flat smooth stomach to the band of her G-string, trying to see how far he could go before she stopped him, and he was right there. She grabbed his hand and held it.
“Can’t be doing that, honey. No touchin’. They goin’ to kick you out. Want privacy? Got to go up to the VIP room.” Placed her hand on his thigh, rubbing it. “Got some big, strong legs,” Coco said. “Bet you got something else that’s big, huh?”
He kissed her neck and she pushed him away, trying to smile, flashing her perfect teeth. “Don’t want to ruin the mood, got to talk business. See, got to tell what you can do and what you can’t. What you get for how much and such. We take out little Fritz with his German helmet, cost you hundred dollars, plus tip. Tell me what you want, I tell you what it cost, see we can give you a quantity discount.”
She ran her hand down all the way to his knee, pretending she was interested in him, attracted to him. Felt something wet on his pants. Rubbed it between her thumb and index finger, brought her hand up, looked like blood. “Baby, you all right? Looks like you cut yourself.”
Donna put their cocktails on the table. Fritz took the roll out, slid two twenties off, handed them to her. Coco grabbed her 7 amp;7 and took a sip, looking over the edge of the glass at her Bavarian prize. But something was wrong. Fritz’s mood had changed. Man was edgy now. Wasn’t interested in her no more. Picked up his whisky, drank it, slid out the booth.
“Yo, baby, what’s up?” Coco said.
But he was moving, walked out the club and never looked back.
Sara cashed out her last table, tipped Kenny the bartender, and the busers, and walked outside. It was just past midnight, still hot and muggy. It felt good after being in an air-conditioned restaurant for six hours. It had been a great night. She had made $180 in tips alone. Life was good. She’d been lucky enough to get the job at Bistro 675, a trendy new restaurant on 15th Street, not far from the White House. But it had been a lucky year. She was on the Dean’s List at George Washington, and a month before the semester ended, her English professor, Dr. Lund, had asked if she’d be interested in house-sitting for the summer. Two months, anyway. He’d rented a country home in the south of France, three kilometers from Aix-en-Provence, and needed someone to water the plants and bring in the mail.
A chance to stay in Washington for the summer, she’d said to herself. Are you kidding? How cool was that? She’d called her father and told him the good news.
He said, “That’s great. I want your life. Things always seem to fall into place.”
She hadn’t told him about Richard yet, this cute boy in her psych class. They had been hanging out for a few months and Sara liked him a lot, maybe even loved him. Next time her dad came to DC she was going to introduce them.
She found her car in the lot, a baby blue ’68 Ford Falcon her father had bought for her, cruising north on 15th, windows down, listening to Joni Mitchell do Blue. Passed the statue of Alexander Hamilton and the Treasury building and New York Avenue, approaching Pennsylvania, green light, heading into the intersection, singing with Joni, really belting it out:
Hey blue, here is a song for you…
Hess had no idea where he was. He had been driving west on Pennsylvania Avenue, and now was somehow on K Street. He regretted stopping at the gentlemen’s club but he’d needed several drinks to calm him down, he had been so charged up, so high on adrenalin.
To the right was a sign for Lafayette Park, and he realized he was traveling in the wrong direction. The White House was somewhere south through the trees. He tapped a cigarette out of his pack and lighted it with a match, steering the big Mercedes-Benz with his knees. He was drunk, the white line dividing the road, blurring into two. He closed one eye to correct his vision.
Hess brought the cigarette to his mouth, but it slipped through his fingers. He fumbled, tried to catch it with dulled reflexes, cigarette dropping in his lap, falling to the floor. He glanced down, saw it and reached to pick it up, but it rolled toward the accelerator pedal. He looked up now, approaching an intersection, red traffic light sending an alarm to his brain, foot going for the brake pedal, but too late.
He slammed into an automobile, hitting it broadside with serious impact, crushing it, pushing it through the intersection. Hess was conscious of his head striking the steering wheel, the Mercedes spinning, crashing into a storefront. He heard voices and the high-pitched whine of a radiator under pressure, the sound of a siren some distance away, and saw faces staring at him through the windows.
Harry was in his office at the scrap yard, writing a check to the IRS, he couldn’t see the amount, but it was enough to put him out of business. He was signing his name when he heard the phone ring, sounding like it was far away. He woke up, opened his eyes, the phone on the table next to his bed, ringing. Slid over, glanced at the clock. 3:17 a.m. Answered it, barely awake. “Hello.”
“Mr. Levin, this is the Huntington Woods Police Department.”
“Yeah? You know what time it is?” Harry said.
“Sir, your daughter has been in an automobile accident. There is a police officer at your house. Will you please answer the door?”
No way it was Sara. “My daughter’s in Washington DC. What’s going on?” He heard the doorbell.
“The officer will tell you.”
He hung up the phone. It had to be a misunderstanding. Heard the doorbell ring again as he was putting on his robe. He went downstairs, opened the front door. A Huntington Woods cop in a blue uniform was standing on the porch.
“Mr. Levin, may I come in?”
Harry swung the door open further. The cop stepped into the foyer and took off his hat. He looked young, thirty maybe. Blond hair parted on the side, creased where the hat rested, ruddy complexion. Seemed nervous.
“Mr. Levin, your daughter, Sara, was killed in a car accident this morning in Washington DC.”
Harry felt like he’d been punched in the chest. Stepped back and tried to take a breath. It couldn’t be. He’d talked to her just before she went to work.
But the cop assured him it wasn’t a mistake. His department had been contacted by the DC police. Sara was at Washington Hospital. He gave Harry the name and number of a Washington DC detective named Taggart and a woman named Judy Katz at the hospital. The cop told him how sorry he was, and let himself out and closed the door.
Harry went back upstairs, sat on the bed, holding it in, and called Eastern Airlines, booked a seat on the 6:31 a.m. flight to National Airport.