An Honest American, historical thriller

[Ken Jautz]

Early scene that introduces primary conflict and teases protagonist’s background. It follows opening chapter in which protagonist is arrested while committing what was to be his final burglary.

The room was dim and small and tucked away on an empty floor of a commercial building in the Garment district: no windows, a battered metal table, three straight-backed chairs. The walls were bare and the wood-planked floor littered with cigarette butts. A tired-looking man with dark hair slumped sideways in one of the chairs, his wrist handcuffed to the leg of the table.
    Purvis sat down heavily across from the prisoner and dug a key out of his pocket. He handed it to Rhinelander and said, “Think you can manage to uncuff him?” The accountant walked around the table and fumbled with the lock before removing the cuffs and retreating to the chair next to Purvis.
    The detective stared at the prisoner for a long moment, letting an uncomfortable silence settle over the room. “Your name is Gebhard Janzen,” he said finally. “And you don’t speak English. Is that right?”
The prisoner kept his face blank and studied the two men. Both wore rumpled suits with white shirts and black ties, not uniforms as he’d expected. The younger one looked like he couldn’t be much more than twenty-three, twenty-four. He had a friendly face, blue eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses, and hair combed back at the sides. The older man was barrel-chested and heavyset, with fleshy jowls and mottled skin and a big red nose that was squished and flattened like it had been broken long ago, and maybe more than once. 
Purvis turned to Rhinelander and growled, “Translate.”
“I go by Hardy,” the prisoner replied. “Gebhard sounds too German.”
 “And you don’t understand me?” Purvis said after waiting for the translation.
Hardy had been working hard on his English, spending hours listening to the radio serials, repeating the dialogue, writing down new words. The Lone Ranger. The Shadow. Fred Allen. They’d helped him become quite fluent. But he took in the older man’s big thick hands and chafed knuckles and decided it would be best to avoid as much direct contact with him as possible.
“My English is still very weak.”
Rhinelander began to speak. Purvis held up his hand, stopping the translation in mid-sentence. He stood up slowly, walked around the table and looked down, not saying a word. Then, without warning, he smacked the side of Hardy’s head, his hand moving fast enough Hardy didn’t see it coming, the blow so hard he fell off the chair and his head hit the floor.
“I think you know god-damn well what I’m saying,” the detective said calmly.
Hardy pulled himself up slowly, a trickle of blood dribbling down his nose. He wiped it with the back of his hand and licked the blood off his skin.
“You finished?” Purvis asked and without waiting for a reply he hit him again, this time knocking the chair over backward. Hardy’s head hit the floor again and he felt blood at the back of his mouth. 
Purvis sighed and walked back around the table. He sat down slowly, no sign of exertion on his face, and straightened his tie. He turned to Rhinelander and said, “Fists make a mess. Use an open hand, you leave no marks.” 
He dug a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and took his time lighting one while Hardy righted the chair. He took a long drag and exhaled slowly, aiming the smoke in Hardy’s direction. Then he flicked some ash on the floor and said, “Now, let’s try again. You sure you don’t understand?”
Hardy made a show of cocking his head slightly and scrunching his forehead into a puzzled frown, like he’d seen dogs do when they’re trying to understand what a human is saying.
Purvis let the silence lengthen, and Hardy thought the man was going to smack him around some more. Finally, the detective spoke: “Ask him if he reads the papers.”
“I would if I could,” Hardy replied after waiting for the translation.
Purvis’ face twitched in a humorless smile. “Saw that trap, did you? Okay, I’ll play along. If you could read the papers, you’d know lots of politicians are bitching about illegal immigrants these days. Worrying they might bring all those European problems over here.”
The comment surprised Hardy. They’d caught him red-handed in a burglary, why was this guy talking about illegals?
“I arrived here properly,” he said.
“Glad to hear that. On the Bremen, right?” 
Hardy was stunned. How did they know that? And why? He said, yes, the SS Bremen, trying to sound casual.
Purvis nodded. “Hope it was an easy crossing. The Atlantic can be rough in the fall.” Then, like something had just occurred to him, he leaned forward and added, “Do you recall buying your ticket?”
Hardy, uncertain how to answer, was glad the translation gave him time to think. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Maybe a little.” 
The detective arched his eyebrows. “That’s interesting. Buying a ticket to America usually takes a person’s whole life savings. Means he’s decided to leave everybody he knows behind, probably forever. I would have thought you’d remember everything about a moment like that.” 
Purvis drummed his fingers on the table, making a show of trying to think of an explanation, then said, “Do you remember arriving? Your first look at America? Must have been quite a sight, all those tugboats nudging the Bremen into its slip. The big crowd of people waiting at the pier, all the porters and taxis. The 15th of September, wasn’t it?”
Hardy, not sure where this was going, said he couldn’t recall the date.
The detective nodded, like he’d been expecting that. “What about your friend Anton? You remember him picking you up?”
Hardy hesitated. “Anton?”
“Yeah, you know, Anton Kohler. Scary-looking guy with a big red scar that runs down the side of his face, makes him easy to identify. Works at a garage uptown, steals stuff on the side?”
Purvis didn’t wait for an answer. He said Anton Kohler stabbed a guy in a bar fight, but claimed he was across town at the time, meeting his friend Gebhard Janzen, arriving on the Bremen. Only they couldn’t find any Janzen on the passenger list.
“Which means you’re an illegal,” the detective concluded, rubbing his right fist with the palm of his left hand, like he was polishing it, getting ready for action. “An illegal and a thief. Any judge will send you away for as long as he can.”
 The image of a prison cell filled Hardy’s mind and he felt a stab of despair. He wondered where people from New York do time.
He realized he’d miss the city. He’d miss the tall buildings that soared to the sky and made you want to reach high and dream big. He’d miss how everybody was from someplace else and nobody cared what you used to be. He’d even miss the screeching din of the overhead trains that drowned out the world for a passing moment and reminded you that all over the city people were moving, above you and below you, and you’d better be sharp if you wanted to keep up. 
A deep sadness settled on him. All he’d wanted was the American dream: set aside enough money to open a watch shop, find a nice American girl, teach her to cook sauerkraut and Eisbein, make American babies. What was wrong with that? So what if he had to bend a few rules to make it happen? Immigrants had to scramble if they wanted to get ahead, become honest Americans.
Purvis gave it some time, then leaned forward and said, “Of course, it’d probably be easier to send you back to Germany, let a thief like you be somebody else’s problem.” He gave a leering grin. “But you can’t go back, can you?”
A prickly frisson of fear danced down the back of Hardy’s neck and he struggled to keep any expression off his face. 
“Turns out you’re on some fugitives list,” Purvis continued. “Seems the Gestapo wants to talk to you.” He shook his head and tutted theatrically. “That can’t be good.”
Hardy tried to swallow but his throat and mouth were suddenly dry. He could feel the sweat gathering in his armpits.
“Want to tell me why they’re after you?”
“I don’t know. It must be some mistake.”
 Purvis pasted an exaggerated look of surprise on his face. “Now there’s an answer I never heard before.”
“I don’t understand,” Hardy replied.
“You don’t remember buying a ticket to America,” the detective said. “You don’t remember when you got here. And now you don’t even remember why the Gestapo is looking for you? Seems you got one hell of a lousy memory.”
Hardy stared at the floor, thinking if only that were true. He’d longed for it often, but no matter how hard he tried to forget, he remembered every detail. How he got to America. When he’d arrived. And, most importantly, why he’d come. He remembered every sight and sound and color and smell. The images haunted his dreams.
“You understand what he’s offering?” Rhinelander said, repeating himself.
Hardy shook off his memories and forced himself to refocus on the room. He realized the detective and the translator were studying him closely, waiting for a response. He had no idea what they’d said or how much time had passed.
“He’s giving you an out.”
“An out?” Hardy said, confused.
“You agree to work for him, you won’t go to jail.”
“You are sending me back to Germany?”
“No, you won’t be deported either. If you agree to work with us.”
“What do I have to do?”
When the question was translated, Purvis laughed. “Does it matter? If you believe half of what they say about the Gestapo, I’d think you’d do anything to avoid talking to them.”
He outlined the job: join the American Nazi party and come up with enough dirt on their leaders to send them to prison. He said he’d kept Hardy away from the precinct in case they had any spies on the force. 
Hardy was surprised. “Are Nazis that powerful here?”
“Our mayor thinks so. Says they’re a threat to democracy.” Purvis scoffed and shook his head. “Most people think he’s all worked up about nothing, but he calls the shots.”
After that Hardy kept his mouth shut, listening to the details and trying to weigh his options. The detective was a thug. The kind of old-school cop who considered informants disposable tools, something to be gotten rid of when they were no longer useful. But the translator was different. He didn’t even seem like a cop. He’d seemed almost sympathetic. That might be useful.
“Alright,” he said, “I’ll be your informer. But one condition.” He pointed at the kid. “I report to him only.” 
Purvis shook his head, but Hardy argued that he couldn’t risk being seen meeting two men, one of them translating for the other. Encounters with another German-speaker could be arranged to look coincidental. 
Purvis wanted to put the wise-ass Kraut in his place, remind him this wasn’t a negotiation. He thought for a moment and it occurred to him that Rhinelander could be reporting back to the captain. And, if he was honest with himself, he’d have to admit the Kraut had a point. More importantly, the captain would think so too.
“Okay,” he said reluctantly, “we’ll give it a try.” Then he pointed a finger at Hardy and growled, “But if you screw me, you’ll wish you only had Nazis to worry about.”