said.
Harry slid the shifter in reverse, turned the steering wheel trying to maneuver out of the space. He heard a siren in the distance. Saw an ax handle hit his side window. The glass shattered and buckled. Two ax handles smashed the windshield. It cracked and cobwebbed. The window next to Cordell exploded, glass flying. Harry could feel his heart pounding. He shifted into first, cut the steering wheel hard left, floored it and pulled out, hit a Blackshirt, man bouncing over the hood and off. The rest of them were running next to the BMW, ax handles banging into sheet metal. He saw flashing lights approaching, heard the siren getting louder, a police car pulled up in front of him, and the Blackshirts took off.
They were taken to the Kriminalpolizei station, escorted to a conference room, just the two of them. Door closed. Sitting across a long table from each other, waiting for someone to take their statements. They had given their passports to a cop in uniform when they arrived.
Harry looked around the room at the light-green walls and nondescript decor, fixed his attention on Cordell. “Thanks for helping me.”
“Didn’t have much choice. It was us or them.”
The adrenalin had worn off and Harry felt the pain in his side getting sharper, more intense. It was hard to breathe.
“Yo, Harry, you all right?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe you better have someone look at that. Might’ve busted something.”
“I’m OK.”
“What was that all about back there?”
The door opened and a detective came in. He was pale, mid-forties, thin dark hair combed back, shirt and tie, small semiautomatic in a holster on his hip. He introduced himself as Huber. Sat at the end of the table between them. He had a pocketsize notebook in his hand, opened it to a blank page, put it on the table. Took their passports out of his shirt pocket, opened the first one, looked at the photo and handed it to Cordell. He put Harry’s in front of him.
“What is your purpose for coming to Munich?” Heavy Bavarian accent. Sounded like he was interrogating them.
“Visiting,” Harry said.
Huber looked at Cordell.
“Same here. Seein’ the sights.”
Huber turned back to Harry. “What happened tonight?”
He took a pen out of his pocket, pulled off the cap and fit it on the bottom.
“We were attacked by six skinheads carrying ax handles.”
Huber glanced at Cordell. “Do you have anything to add?”
Cordell said, “Wore black shirts‚ had swastikas on them.”
“Did you provoke them?”
“Did we provoke them?” Harry said to Cordell.
“Not hardly.”
“They came in swinging,” Harry said.
“Why do you think they attacked you?” Huber said to Harry.
“Maybe they don’t like Americans.”
“Or maybe it was me. Black men scare these master-race dudes.”
Huber wrote something on the pad. “You are able to identify them?”
“They looked a lot alike,” Harry said. “Six skinheads in black shirts. Not much more to tell you. It was dark, it happened fast. Talk to the bartender at the ratskeller. She might be able to give you a description. She got a good look at a couple of them.”
“I was you I’d check the hospitals. One of them is going to need a whole lot of stitches in his forehead.”
Harry said. “You know who they are, Detective?”
“The Blackshirts,” Huber said in the same flat monotone.
“Sound like a heavy metal group,” Cordell said. “Teach ’em to play music, spit blood, make a fortune.”
Huber ignored him. “They are the new Nazis, terrorizing in the name of nationalism. You are fortunate. You might have been injured or killed. If you see them again, call the police immediately.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to do anything?”
“They have thousands of members. Without accurate descriptions, what can we do?”
Cordell was happy to get out of there. Police stations made him nervous. They stood out front, waiting for a taxi. “These Germans are a lot of fun, huh?
Harry slid the shifter in reverse, turned the steering wheel trying to maneuver out of the space. He heard a siren in the distance. Saw an ax handle hit his side window. The glass shattered and buckled. Two ax handles smashed the windshield. It cracked and cobwebbed. The window next to Cordell exploded, glass flying. Harry could feel his heart pounding. He shifted into first, cut the steering wheel hard left, floored it and pulled out, hit a Blackshirt, man bouncing over the hood and off. The rest of them were running next to the BMW, ax handles banging into sheet metal. He saw flashing lights approaching, heard the siren getting louder, a police car pulled up in front of him, and the Blackshirts took off.
They were taken to the Kriminalpolizei station, escorted to a conference room, just the two of them. Door closed. Sitting across a long table from each other, waiting for someone to take their statements. They had given their passports to a cop in uniform when they arrived.
Harry looked around the room at the light-green walls and nondescript decor, fixed his attention on Cordell. “Thanks for helping me.”
“Didn’t have much choice. It was us or them.”
The adrenalin had worn off and Harry felt the pain in his side getting sharper, more intense. It was hard to breathe.
“Yo, Harry, you all right?”
“I think so.”
“Maybe you better have someone look at that. Might’ve busted something.”
“I’m OK.”
“What was that all about back there?”
The door opened and a detective came in. He was pale, mid-forties, thin dark hair combed back, shirt and tie, small semiautomatic in a holster on his hip. He introduced himself as Huber. Sat at the end of the table between them. He had a pocketsize notebook in his hand, opened it to a blank page, put it on the table. Took their passports out of his shirt pocket, opened the first one, looked at the photo and handed it to Cordell. He put Harry’s in front of him.
“What is your purpose for coming to Munich?” Heavy Bavarian accent. Sounded like he was interrogating them.
“Visiting,” Harry said.
Huber looked at Cordell.
“Same here. Seein’ the sights.”
Huber turned back to Harry. “What happened tonight?”
He took a pen out of his pocket, pulled off the cap and fit it on the bottom.
“We were attacked by six skinheads carrying ax handles.”
Huber glanced at Cordell. “Do you have anything to add?”
Cordell said, “Wore black shirts‚ had swastikas on them.”
“Did you provoke them?”
“Did we provoke them?” Harry said to Cordell.
“Not hardly.”
“They came in swinging,” Harry said.
“Why do you think they attacked you?” Huber said to Harry.
“Maybe they don’t like Americans.”
“Or maybe it was me. Black men scare these master-race dudes.”
Huber wrote something on the pad. “You are able to identify them?”
“They looked a lot alike,” Harry said. “Six skinheads in black shirts. Not much more to tell you. It was dark, it happened fast. Talk to the bartender at the ratskeller. She might be able to give you a description. She got a good look at a couple of them.”
“I was you I’d check the hospitals. One of them is going to need a whole lot of stitches in his forehead.”
Harry said. “You know who they are, Detective?”
“The Blackshirts,” Huber said in the same flat monotone.
“Sound like a heavy metal group,” Cordell said. “Teach ’em to play music, spit blood, make a fortune.”
Huber ignored him. “They are the new Nazis, terrorizing in the name of nationalism. You are fortunate. You might have been injured or killed. If you see them again, call the police immediately.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to do anything?”
“They have thousands of members. Without accurate descriptions, what can we do?”
Cordell was happy to get out of there. Police stations made him nervous. They stood out front, waiting for a taxi. “These Germans are a lot of fun, huh?
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