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12

It was nearly midnight. Bern Heller could still hear the bulldozer as he sat in his condo. He was going through his grandfather’s papers, taking a few at a time from the briefcase, then moving them to a file, or the trash.

The photo of the unidentified woman, though, remained on the table. The woman with her film-star face, full lips, hair brushed glossy onto her shoulder, dark eyes smoldering through cigarette smoke.

Idiotic, to keep the picture out. The woman had to be—what?—in her late sixties. Maybe seventies. An old hag, if she wasn’t already dead.

Even so…

Her eyes. Mostly, it was her face and eyes. Beautiful, that wasn’t the word. Sexy—she was, but that didn’t say it, either. Looking at her gave Bern a strange feeling. It was a swelling sort of feeling, but an emptiness, too. Like there were things he could want and work for all his life, it didn’t matter because they would never, ever be his.

This woman—just another example.

It created an emptiness. Anger, too.

He left her photo at his elbow, and turned his attention to the briefcase.

There were three passports—not one—he’d discovered. One German, one U.S., both issued to Bern’s grandfather, the same young man in the photos with Henry Ford and Charles Lindbergh.

The third was also U.S. but newer, issued July 1956. The photo was nearly twenty years older, and it at least resembled the old man. The blond hair almost gone, but the vicious smile unmistakable.

Bern had the passports on the table, comparing them, the woman’s photo nearby, Moe and the bulldozer still out there rumbling and beeping, forward and reverse.

His grandfather’s German passport had a green cover. Bern took it into his hand. There was a Nazi eagle embossed on the front, the eagle holding a swastika in its talons.

It was the same eagle he’d seen on the medal that Moe had handed over to the cops.

Bern wiggled in his chair. He opened the passport, finally getting somewhere.

The inside pages were yellowish. His grandfather’s photo—in his late teens—was on the right, his signature beneath, written with an old-timey flourish.

On the left was the Nazi eagle again, and REISPASS printed in bold script. Next to the eagle, but twice its size, was a faded red J. The J had been stamped over words in German, a language that Bern never bothered to learn because so many people in his family spoke it it was the best way to ignore their constant bickering.

What did the J mean?

He leafed through the passport, seeing that the old man had done some traveling. France, Switzerland, Denmark, some other countries with names that Bern didn’t recognize. Probably places that no longer existed. The Nazi swastika was stamped in black upon each return.

The last stamp, though, was U.S. customs, New York. It was dated February 1939.

The pages were empty after that.

Bern opened his grandfather’s first U.S. passport. It had a blue cover, and had been issued five years later, 1944—his grandfather a citizen by then, already a nickel-dime hoarder, and owner of several thousand acres of Florida land that was supposedly worthless, sometimes a buck an acre.

Not a customs stamp in the book.

Hmmm…

Bern opened the third passport, also U.S., issued in ’56, Miami. There were trips to South America, Europe, Africa documented, the late 1950s being a fun time to travel, apparently. Or maybe it was a way for the old man to avoid his daughter, and the oversized baby she never stopped bitching about—Bern. Even in his teens, she’d say to him, “I’ve never been the same, you tore up my insides so bad.” Or: “You know why you hate Grandy so much? ’Cause you two’re alike. You even look alike.”

The thought of that made Bern want to spew.

Was it true?

He opened the German passport, then the newest American passport. Bern held the photos side by side, trying to imagine himself at similar ages. Studied his grandfather’s nose, the eyes, the shape of the jaw and head…then stopped, puzzled, as he compared one photo with the other.

There were similarities: the hair, the prominent nose, the light colored eyes. But could age change a jawline? The width of a forehead?

These are photos of the same person?

In a little more than a decade, the old man had changed from a decent-looking guy into a pig.

Was that possible?

Bern imagined himself as a football player, five years college, two and a half in the NFL. They’d taken tons of pictures. He’d never been great looking, but, yeah, his face had changed over the years. Maybe a lot.

It scared him. One day, he’d be as nasty looking as his grandfather?

The photo of the woman was at his elbow.

Hard to believe, a girl this pretty. She’d let the old pig touch her?

Bern touched his huge index finger to the woman’s photo. He looked into her face, feeling her eyes.

In the photo, there were details he’d missed. Each time he looked, he noticed something different. It was fun.

The lighting was fancy. It took awhile to figure it out. The photographer had set up the shot so that the woman’s eyes were shaded, staring through smoke from shadows, but her hair was glossy blond. There had to be lights to her left, but also behind her because the smoke from her cigarette was backlit, a translucent curling haze.

Bern smiled. There was more.

In the sequined dress, the woman’s hip was canted because she was leaning against a grand piano, a black one. There was a silver cigarette case in her left hand. The silver case was partially hidden because the hand was on her hip. Her right hand was at ear level, cigarette between her fingers, nails polished but clear.

The cigarette case, that was interesting.

Were those engraved initials showing above her fingers?

He wished he had a magnifying glass; decided he’d get one. Maybe take this picture to one of those camera places, and have it blown up. Why not?

Had he had even touched a woman as beautiful as this? Or seen a woman who came close? In movies, sure. A few. But not in person. Not where he could reach out and put his fingers on her flesh.

The woman’s face. She had the fullest, most sensual lips. Those eyes…

Bern stared until he began to experience the strange swelling sort of feeling that had become familiar over the years. The feeling that there were things in life that were out of his reach, no matter how badly he wanted them. It created an emptiness in him…then anger. A woman who looked like this would never come to him willingly. Was that fair? No. Did he have a right to resent it? Yes.

One way to deal with the feeling was to go ahead and take what he wanted. It was something Bern had done before. Never around home, but if he was on a trip…Meet a woman who lived alone, don’t give her a name, but follow her. Or spot someone attractive in a parking lot, walk up and smile.

It was justifiable, as long as he didn’t overdo it—which had happened only twice, both mistakes recent, both here in Florida. Both times, buying garbage bags at convenience stores afterward, then driving half the night to a place he knew was safe.

For an instant, images moved through Bern’s mind: a white hand sinking into a fifty-gallon drum, a small shape in fetal position, the diesel machinations of burying an object beneath fill dirt. A redhead was next, only a month later…

He shook himself. Get over it!

Think positive.

He replaced the image with another, and immediately felt better because picking a woman, getting her alone, and taking her was okay. Healthy, when the feeling got too strong, or the timing was right, or he met someone he considered especially beautiful, and got the hots for. Then it was worth planning.

Planning was good. Exactly what he hadn’t done both times he overdid it, and had to buy garbage bags, bleach, rubber gloves. All because he hadn’t planned, and got a little carried away.

There was a word for that. The word made him nervous, too, when he heard it.

None of his women had the haunting, gaunt beauty of this one.

Her lips, God. In those days, the lips had to be real, not all shot up with plastic crap. Full lips, so sensual.

The feeling the woman in the photograph gave him…

Okay…so what if she was an old hag by now? If she wasn’t already dead, it didn’t matter. A woman like this, even in her seventies, he’d do it. Just to touch her…check out where things used to be, get his skin on her—like visiting a museum!

Plan it. That’s what he should do. Somewhere in the briefcase, there had to be a clue to her identity. The old man didn’t do anything by accident. He’d put her photo on top of the pile for a reason.

There were lots of papers, most in German. Maybe she was mentioned. Or in the old man’s leather-bound journal, handwritten, the last entry dated October 18, 1944, also in German. Augie spoke the language. He could get Augie to translate, maybe—the kid was scared shitless of him now.

Or…he could call his grandfather’s personal assistant, Jason Goddard. The man smelled of mothballs, but he had a brain that filed details away like evidence. Jason might know the woman’s name, if she was still alive. Even if he didn’t, what the hell?

Just trying to find out who she was made her seem more real when he imagined how it would be: Putting his hands on her. Taking her. Covering those amazing lips with his mouth as he stripped her clothes off. Do it better than his grandfather ever could’ve, much better, harder, too.

Make her old body bounce like a young girl!—punishment for allowing an animal like the old man to touch her.

Punish. That was another word that fit. In Bern, it helped the swelling sort of feeling last.