Seriously? by Duane Lindsay

Author:Duane Lindsay
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Duane Lindsay
Published: 2017-05-18T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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A Fine Mess We’re In

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Monk’s talking with a Nazi.

They’re in the kitchen of the old farmhouse, sitting at the scarred wooden table, still covered with a red and white checked tablecloth. Erich, in a macabre imitation of a perfect host, has set the table with crocheted napkins he found in a drawer in the parlor. He’s placed ashtrays and set out cold beer before sending Aldo out to drag the shackled prisoners out of the barn.

“Sit, sit!” he says, a jovial demon. He’s wearing his Nazi Colonel uniform, complete with the armband Swastikas, the cap and boots and the polished leather belt.

And the Luger in its holster with the snap off.

Aldo shoves Bonnie to a seat against the wall and gestures to Monk to take a seat across the table from Erich. He retreats to the farthest wall and crosses his arms, the perfect guard.

Erich pushes a new pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes across the table next to a shiny silver lighter. “Please feel free to smoke. These are your brand, yes, Mr. Fleener?”

Bonnie starts to speak but is shushed by a tiny nod from Monk. She slumps back in her chair, head drooping.

Monk, though hungry and exhausted, is alert and interested. He’s out of the barn for one thing, and not being punched anymore. His bruises from last night are sore and he’s stiff but it looks like Erich wants to talk. Which beats being beaten.

“Where are the owners of this place?” He looks around the room, a typical Midwest farm kitchen. “This is certainly not your style.”

“They are... away,” says Erich.

“Away. Sure. That’s a Nazi evasion for ‘dead’?”

Erich grins at this, like he’s happy to be accused of murder. “As you wish. If you prefer blunt words... yes, they are dead. Beer?”

“Thanks, I’d love some.” Erich slides a bottle and Monk takes time to open it, shakes a cigarette out of a pack. He picks up the Zippo and studies it before flicking open the lid and lighting it. There’s an engraved picture of a US bomber and the words Ball Aircraft. He sucks in smoke and lets it out through his nose.

“Ah... first one of the day.” He holds out the lighter, watching the glow of the lamp shine off it. “Stolen, I assume, from some pilot.”

“Yes. I prefer to think of it as ‘liberated.’”

“Of course, you do.”

Monk sips some and winces; it’s warm, the way they serve it in Europe. “Why am I here?”

“Because, Mr. Fleener, I wish to know how to find your associate.”

My... associate?”

“Do not play coy, Mr. Fleener. I admit, I first thought the fat man was Lou Fleener, but seeing you, I realize that’s wrong. You run the detective agency and use that man as your, how do you say it? Hired muscle?”

“Sure,” agrees Monk, getting the idea immediately. These guys called Lou, probably got his number from a business card. I answered, said I was Lou and they jumped to the conclusion I’ve got to be the boss because of how I look.

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