Ross Thomas - The Eighth Dwarf

“Your facts, sir, are essentially correct.”

“How ’bout you, Lieutenant: you think I’ve got the facts right?”

“Yes, sir: except that we’re having copies made of Oppenheimer’s photograph, and we’ll distribute them throughout the Zone.”

“You know what they call that down in Texas?”

“No, sir, I don’t,” Lieutenant Meyer said, wondering how long this dimwit was going to continue with his reaming out of Baker-Bates — who, in Lieutenant Meyer’s estimation, had slyly got in a few licks of his own, especially that one about the Texas accent.

“Well, I’ll tell you what we call it down in Texas,” Knocker Grubbs said. “We call it locking the barn after the horse is gone.”

“Gosh, sir, that’s vivid,” Lieutenant Meyer said.

“They don’t say that in England, do they, Major?”

“Not recently, General,” Baker-Bates said.

“Well, I’m gonna tell you one final thing, sonny. You’re down here because Berlin wants you down here. But you fuck up one more time, and Berlin or no Berlin, I’m gonna have your sweet ass for Sunday breakfast. Do I make myself clear?”

“Quite clear, General,” Baker-Bates said. “In fact, extremely so.”

“Dismissed,” the General snapped.

Baker-Bates and Lieutenant Meyer rose.

“Not you, Lieutenant,” Knocker Grubbs said with a mean smile. “Hell, I haven’t even half started with you yet.”

After the plane landed at Frankfurt’s Rhine-Main airport, Jackson and Bill Swanton, the INS man, watched as the Army wives filed out of the aircraft first. While the two men waited, Swanton took out a notebook and a pen.

“You ever see one of these?” Swanton said.

“What?”

“The pen. They call ’em ball-points. I bought it for twenty-nine ninety-five on sale in New York.” He wrote his name and his Berlin address in his notebook, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Jackson. “Maybe if you get up to Berlin, I could be of some help on your book.”

“Thanks very much,” Jackson said.

Swanton gave his pen one more admiring glance before returning it to his shirt pocket. “You know what they say these things will do?”

“What?”

“Write underwater. Now, just what in hell would you want to write underwater?”

Jackson thought about it. “Maybe a suicide note if you were drowning yourself.”

Swanton brightened. “Yeah, that’s a possibility, isn’t it?”

He followed Jackson off the plane. When they reached the terminal, he held out his hand. Jackson took it. “Thanks for the booze, Brother Jackson,” Swanton said. “And in Berlin. If you get up there, look me up.”

“I’ll do that”

When they entered the terminal, a loudspeaker was calling Jackson’s name. “Will Mr. Minor Jackson report to the information desk. Mr. Minor Jackson.”

The information desk was manned by a harassed Air Corps staff sergeant

“I’m Jackson.”

“Okay, Mr. Jackson,” the Sergeant said, opening a drawer and taking out an envelope. “This is for you, and so is the Lieutenant over there.” He nodded at Lieutenant Meyer, who was standing nearby and trying not to stare at Jackson.

“What’s in the envelope?” Jackson said.

The Sergeant sighed. “I don’t know, sir. I didn’t open it. I don’t usually open other people’s envelopes, but if you’d like me to, sir, I will. All I know is that an Air Corps captain gave it to me about three hours ago and made me swear that I’d get it to you. And that’s what I’ve just done, haven’t I, sir?”

“You’ve been swell,” Jackson said.

“Can I be of assistance, Mr. Jackson? I’m Lieutenant Meyer.”

“From Milwaukee.”

“Yes, sir.”

“My nursemaid.”

“Liasion, Mr. Jackson, but if you want to call me a nursemaid, or anything else that might come to mind, even something a little vulgar, well, that’s just fine, because I’m used to it on account of this very afternoon I spent one hour and fifteen minutes having my ass chewed out by a one-star general who’s not very bright, but who does know how to chew ass, and who called me names that are a lot worse than nursemaid. So if you want to call me that or, as I said, anything else that comes to mind, that’s just fine, Mr. Jackson, sir.”

Jackson stared at him. “You’re in shock, pal.”

“Probably. It’s been a very long, very rough day.”

“What kind of orders did you get from Washington about me?”

“Very explicit ones. I’m to be at your beck and call and worm my way into your confidence.”

“We’re off to a good start.”

“Yes, sir. I was hoping you’d think so.”

“Think you could beckon or call up a drink around here?”

“Yes, sir. There’s a VIP lounge. With only a little skillful lying I can probably get us into that.”

“Let me see what this is all about first,” Jackson said, and ripped open the envelope. Inside were a key and a plain white card. On the card were written an address and the message “Try to make it by nine.” The message was unsigned.

Jackson handed the card to Lieutenant Meyer. “You know where this address is?”

Lieutenant Meyer glanced at it. “Yes, sir. It’s a rather nice address not too far from the zoo. I mean it will be a rather nice address if it’s still standing.”

“Can we have a drink and still make it by nine?”

Lieutenant Meyer glanced at his watch. “Easily.”

“Well, let’s go do that and you can worm your way into my confidence some more.”

It took Lieutenant Meyer, talking steadily, a little more than fifteen minutes to relate virtually all that he knew about Kurt Oppenheimer. When he was finished, so were the drinks. Lieutenant Meyer tipped his up, let an ice cube bounce against his teeth, swallowed the last drop, put the glass down, and stared at Jackson.

“Tell me something,” he said with the air of a man ready to receive a confidence.

“Sure.”

“Why’re you looking for him?”

He really expects an answer, Jackson thought. Not only that, but he also expects a truthful answer. Jackson smiled and said, “I don’t think I said I was looking for him.”

“Washington says you are.”

Jackson kept his smile in place. “Washington hopes that I am.”

It was a long, bleak stare that Lieutenant Meyer gave Jackson. “Well, shit, mister.”

“Disappointed?”

“Oh, hell, no,” Lieutenant Meyer said. “I don’t feel silly, either.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“You used to be with the OSS, didn’t you?”

“Is that what Washington says?”

“That’s what it says.”

“Then it must be true.”

“How good were you?”

“Average,” Jackson said. “Maybe C-plus.”

Lieutenant Meyer shook his head. “They wouldn’t let you run like this if you were just C-plus.”

“I wouldn’t put too much faith in Washington if I were you.”

Lieutenant Meyer’s mouth tucked itself down at the corners as he again shook his head. “Jesus, that’s all I need, a mystery man.” He reached into the pocket of his blouse and brought out several cards. “Well, here you go, mystery man,” he said, and slid the cards over to Jackson. “One of them will get you into the PX so you can buy cigarettes and toothpaste. Another one’s for the Class Six Store where you can buy your booze. That one you’ve got your finger on will let you eat at the officers’ club. The food there’s not so hot, but it’s cheap, and if you don’t eat there, then you’re going to have to depend on black-market restaurants. They’re as expensive as hell, but since you’re a mystery man, and probably rich with it, maybe you can afford them. And the last one’s for gasoline, if you should get hold of a car — which I hope to hell you will, since I don’t much like playing chauffeur. As for where you’re going to sleep, Washington said that’s going to be up to you, so I don’t really give much of a shit.”