Backstab (17 page)

“Yes?” he asked.

Might as well try the shock approach. “Hi. I'm looking for the Aryan Avenger,” I said brightly. He backed up like I'd kicked him in the gut, then turned pale and blurted, “It's not me.”

“He's here,” I said sternly, looking him in the eye and willing him to obey. Francesca, She-Wolf of the SS.

“No! N-nobody here,” he stuttered, and tried to shut the door. I must have been a vacuum cleaner salesperson in a past life. I stuck my size 11 foot in the door, and the rest of me naturally followed. I was six inches taller than this guy, and he looked timid and out of shape. I found myself standing in a tiny living room with a huge brown plaid couch, a brown recliner, and a boxy brown TV. The TV was on. The coffee table was piled with magazines and paperbacks showing swastikas and guys in brown uniforms. I was in the right place.

“Frank! Get in here!” said a man with a commanding voice. I followed the big voice down a little hall. Frank ran after me, crying, “You can't go in there!”

I went. The Aryan Avenger was in the room at the end of the hall. The walls were decorated with homemade swastikas and SS lightning bolts and a faded Nazi flag that looked like some
GI's war souvenir. A portable toilet under the flag spoiled the effect.

The Aryan Avenger was sitting in a shiny metal wheelchair. He had to be at least eighty. His pale, papery skin was veined and speckled and hung from his arms and neck like old wrinkled rags. His bushy eyebrows were still mostly black, but his hair was yellowish white, like old pillow feathers. At one time, he must have been a big man, well over six feet tall. Now he was shrunken and stoop-shouldered. There was no way this guy could have killed Burt or Ralph. He could barely push himself around the room. He grasped the rubber-edged chair wheels and rolled over to me. “Who are you?” he demanded in a loud, angry voice.

“I'm Francesca. Why are you sending me those disgusting Aryan Avenger letters?”

“You got them?” He seemed pleased. Every author wants recognition.

“Yeah, I got them. What I don't understand is why you sent them.”

“Why, to warn you, my dear,” he said. His face took on a crafty look, like a sly parrot.

“About what?”

“The Jews. The Jews did this to me. They crippled me. People need to know.” Yuck. The
p
in “people” set off a spray of spit at my belt level. I could see spit spots on my coat.

“What's that got to do with Ralph and Burt's deaths?”

“I read about JewBurt in your story in the paper,” he said. “I didn't cry when JewBurt died.”

“If you really read the paper, you'd know that Burt was buried out of St. Philomena's. Not many Jewish people are buried from a Catholic church.”

He looked abashed. “Oh. I didn't read your article all the way to the end,” he said. “It was kind of long.”

Everyone's a critic.

“How did you know that two hundred dollars was taken from the till? That information wasn't published.”

“Perfect poet inspiration,” he said. The triple
p
's turned on the shower. I was in danger of drowning from the Aryan Avenger.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I needed to find a rhyme for ‘holler.' Holler—two hundred dollars. That's all.”

“Oh, yeah? Then explain how you knew Ralph choked to death?”

“Who's Ralph?” he said, and suddenly looked lost, like I'd slipped in a question that wasn't supposed to be on the test.

“Ralph was my friend, and he had asthma and he couldn't breathe because someone took his inhalers and he died.”

“But what's that got to do with me?” he whined. Then his eyes brightened with malice. “He's a fag, isn't he? I also warned you about fags in my letters, especially the last letter. But I didn't mean just
your
fag should choke and gag. I meant all fags. I had fag nurses in the hospital. Snippy, they were. I wanted them all to choke on…I can't say what exactly in front of a lady.
But I wanted them to choke because of the filthy things they do with their mouths.”

“Nothing's filthier than your hate mail,” I said. “And you didn't mind saying those things on paper. Why are you writing that disgusting stuff?”

“I have reason to hate the Jews. If it wasn't for them, I'd be walking. Dirty, filthy, stupid Jews did this to me. Look at that goddamned portable toilet. I can't even stand up like a man and take a piss!” Another P-word. Another spit shower. He got me again. Spit happens.

“I'm not too pleased with the sit-down plumbing problem myself,” I said, hoping I got him back with a little spray. “But you have no reason to say those ugly things, or claim you killed Burt. You didn't. You couldn't.”

“I know,” he said. “I can't even leave the house. I can't even take a crap without being lifted out of this chair. I can't do anything anymore. I'm useless. Useless. Useless. I can't even die and I want to so bad.” His rage turned to tears, then to harsh, racking sobs.

Frank, who'd been lurking slump-shouldered at the door, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me out of the room. He shut the door and started chewing me out in a harsh, low voice. “Now look what you've done,” he said between clenched teeth. “You've upset him.”

“I've upset
him
? Listen, Bud…”

“Frank,” he hissed.

“Listen, Frank. Your father sent me that ugly antigay, anti-Semitic slop through the mail. He threatened me, too.”

“You're strong,” Frank whined, while he picked fuzzballs off his sweater. “You can stand it. You don't have to live with him, day in and day out. I have no life. All my money goes for a sitter to watch him when I'm at work. She leaves at three thirty, and I have to come straight home from the plant to stay with him. I don't sleep through the night because he calls me to help him every time he has to go to the john. Maybe the letters aren't very nice, but they keep him quiet for hours. He loves to write the poems and color in the drawings.”

“Not very nice? They're evil, Frank. Evil. He's not some kindergartner drawing pictures of his puppy. Those are swastikas. And SS lightning bolts. A lot of people died because of those symbols. Take his pens and paper away.”

“He's my father,” he wailed. “I can't do that. The letters are the only thing that keep him occupied.”

“Look, you're lucky he sent the letters to me first. What are you going to do if he sends those letters to a Jewish person? There are death camp survivors living in this city. This Nazi nut mail could drive them to suicide. You could be responsible for a death like that. Do you realize it's a federal offense to send hate mail? The FBI could be here next. What's the matter with you? What's the matter with him?”

Frank looked dazed, and kept picking at his sweater. Then he said, “He didn't used to be like this. He didn't used to hate people. It was the accident that did it. Before that, he was a self-reliant
widower. Mom died ten years ago. It was hard on Dad. They were married forty-seven years. But he picked himself up and went on. He made a life for himself. He played cards with some other retirees from the plant. He had a garden and grew beefsteak tomatoes and gave them to the neighbors. He went to church and he danced every Saturday night at the VFW hall.

“Then about two years ago, he was driving to church on a Sunday. An old lady named Mrs. Cohen had a heart attack, drove through a stop sign, and broadsided Dad's car. Her big old Buick wiped out his Chevy Nova. Mrs. Cohen died. The accident left Dad paralyzed from the waist down. Some people can do fine in a wheelchair. Dad turned mean and bitter. Because the old lady's name was Cohen, he's hated Jewish people ever since. I think he throws in gays and blacks and everyone else for a little variety.

“You want to hear the funny part? They were so alike, Dad and Mrs. Cohen. She was eighty-three, and a little shaky behind the wheel. Her daughter should have taken her license away, but she didn't want to interfere with her mother's independence. The old lady didn't drive more than once or twice a week. Dad was eighty-one. His eyesight was going and his reflexes weren't so good. But he could still drive during the day and he only drove to church and the doctor's office, so I didn't do anything about his license, either.

“Well, we both have to live with that, Mrs. Cohen's daughter and me. Except sometimes I
think she got the best of it. Her mother is dead. I have to live with Dad. It's awful. I hate it. I think I hate him, too. I didn't used to. I admired the old man because he was so independent. But now he's wearing me down, and I promised him I wouldn't put him in a home as long as the money doesn't run out.”

He looked down at the floor, ashamed, and went back to picking at his sweater. I softened my voice. “I'm sorry, Frank. I really am. But you can't let him send those letters anymore.”

“I know that. But what am I going to do with him all day? When he's bored he gets so mean, I know the sitter will quit again. It's hell finding another one, and each new one wants more money because he's such a difficult case. And I don't have any more money. You don't understand.”

I felt sick, sad, and sleazy for forcing my way into this small-time tragedy. “Fraaaank!” the Aryan Avenger called. “Get me some water, goddammit.” Frank went back to wait on his father. I let myself out the front door. So much for Francesca and the Adventure of the Aryan Avenger.

Maybe Detective Mark Mayhew was right. Ralph died of natural causes. Burt was murdered in a holdup. One unknown murderer did not kill both men for an unknown reason. I should quit searching for someone who didn't exist. I should mourn them and let them go. I should grow up. The search on Klocke Street was one of the low points of my life.

Mayhew said it, but I didn't hear him: Not everyone is murdered. Poor Burt died because he lived in a bad neighborhood. Poor Ralph died because he didn't take care of himself. I owed Mayhew a lunch and an apology. Boy, was I glad I didn't follow Marlene's advice and tell him about the Aryan Avenger. I didn't want to think about the razzing he'd give me.

I'd get it over with, tell Marlene I'd found the Avenger but he wasn't a killer. He wasn't anything but a sad old man. Oh, well. He did live on Klocke. At least some of my detecting skills were working. What time was it? I checked my watch. Not even four o'clock. My visit had taken less than half an hour. Uncle Bob's was a few minutes away. The place was usually half empty at this hour. The dinner rush didn't start for another thirty minutes. Marlene and I could have a quiet talk and I could have my third scrambled egg of the day.

I pulled into the lot and parked back by the alley. The lot was deserted, except for the staff cars parked by the side fence. I stepped carefully out of my car, because there was black ice on the back lot. I heard a car roaring down the alley. People drive too fast in that alley all the time, but I could tell this car was booking—moving faster than usual. I looked up and saw it swing into the lot. That car is heading straight for me, I thought, slowly. Too slowly. Why was I standing there?

Because I couldn't believe it. Someone was actually trying to run me down. On purpose. I also
couldn't believe how big that sucker was. All I could see was the shiny bumper and grille, like an evil smile, coming straight for me. The car must have been six feet away when I finally had sense enough to jump back. The car swerved and missed me, then slammed on the brakes, backed up and went for me again. I looked around for help, but no one saw me. No Uncle Bob's cooks looking out the kitchen. No neighbors looking out their windows. No customers pulling into the lot. I might as well be in the middle of the desert, instead of the center of the city. Unless a customer drove into the lot, I was roadkill.

The car drove straight at me again. I ran between two staff cars, Marlene's blue Dodge and the cook's old tan tank. I hit a patch of ice, slipped, and grabbed on to a fender. The car backed up and went after me again. This time, it looked like he was going to ram into the staff cars and squash me between them, so I ran out of there and the driver veered away. I kicked off my heels for better traction. The ground was cold. I didn't realize I could run so fast. When your life depends on it, you can give Jackie Joyner-Kersee a run for her Olympic gold. I jumped the speed bump to the fried chicken place next door. That was a mistake. That lot had even more open space and no back windows. Now nobody could see me and the car had a straight shot at me. No staff cars and no Dumpster for me to hide behind.

I turned and ran back down the alley to Uncle Bob's lot. The car roared behind me like a hungry
animal. The driver was going to catch me. I was out of breath. My coat was heavy and I was sweating. I was going to get run down. Suddenly, I saw a big red commercial laundry truck lumbering down the alley. At last! Help. It was turning into Uncle Bob's lot. The car couldn't chase me back to Uncle Bob's with that big old truck there, blocking the way.

I ducked behind the truck. I saw the white shed at the corner of Uncle Bob's lot. I had no idea what was in the shed, but if it wasn't locked I was about to find out. The shed looked strong enough to withstand a direct car hit. I grabbed the doorknob, threw myself in, and landed headfirst in a cart full of dirty napkins. I just lay there in the cart in the dark, trying to catch my breath.

I realized I didn't get a license number for the car. I wasn't sure of the color, except it was beige or gray or dirty white, probably American, maybe ten years old. I couldn't tell you much about the driver because he was wearing a black-and-red ski mask, a beige coat, and gloves. I wasn't even sure the driver was a he, except there was something about the set of the shoulders that made me think it was a man. But if you told me it was a woman, I wouldn't argue with you. All I could say for sure was, somebody wanted to kill me.