Jeffery Deaver - Garden Of Beasts

“What?”

“Men or women? Which do you prefer?”

“I’m not interested in-”

“I understand, but since we must wait for the Brownshirts to grow tired of their pursuit, please tell me: Which would you rather look at while we have the beer you’ve so generously agreed to buy me? Men dancing as men, men dancing as women or women dancing as themselves?”

“Women.”

“Ach, me too. It’s illegal to be a homosexual in Germany now. But you would be surprised how many National Socialists seem to enjoy one another’s company for reasons other than discussing rightist politics. This way.” He pushed through a blue velvet curtain.

The second room was for men who enjoyed women, it seemed. They sat down at a rickety wicker table in the black-painted room, decorated with Chinese lanterns, paper streamers and animal trophies, as dusty as the Nazi flags hanging from the ceiling.

Paul handed back the canvas cap; it disappeared into the man’s pocket with the others. “Thanks.”

Otto nodded. “Ach, what are friends for?” He looked for a waiter or waitress.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Paul rose and went to the lavatory. He washed the smudges and blood off his face and combed his hair back with lotion, which shortened and darkened it, making him appear somewhat different from the man the Brownshirts were seeking. His cheek was not badly cut but a bruise had formed around it. He stepped out of the washroom and slipped backstage. He found the dressing room for performers. A man sat at the far end, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. He didn’t pay any attention as Paul dipped his finger into a pot of makeup. Returning to the lavatory he smoothed the cosmetic over the bruise. He had some experience with makeup; all good boxers knew the importance of concealing injuries from their opponents.

He returned to the table, where he found Otto gesturing toward the waitress, a pretty, dark-haired young woman. But she was busy and the man sighed in irritation. He turned back, regarding Paul closely. “Now, you are obviously not from here because you know nothing of our ‘culture.’ I’m speaking of the radio. And of the dung-shirts, whom you would not have antagonized by fighting had you been a German. But your language is perfect. The faintest of accents. And not French or Slav or Spanish. What breed of dog are you?”

“I appreciate the help, Otto. But some matters I’ll keep to myself.”

“No matter. I’ve decided you’re American or English. Probably American. I know from your movies – the way you make your sentences… Yes, you are American. Who else would have a troop of dung-shirts after him but a brash American with big balls? You are from the land of heroic cowboys, who take on a tribe of Indians alone. Where is that waitress?” He looked about, smoothing his mustache. “Now, introductions. I am presenting myself to you. Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber. And you?… But perhaps you wish to keep your name to yourself.”

“I think that’s wiser.”

Webber chuckled. “So you beat up three of them and earned the endless affection of the Brownshirts and the bitch brood?”

“The what?”

“Hitler Youth. The boys scurrying among the legs of the Stormtroopers.” Webber eyed Paul’s red knuckles. “You perhaps enjoy the boxing matches, Mr. Nameless? You look like an athlete. I can get you Olympic tickets. There are none left, as you know. But I can get them. Day seats, good ones.”

“No thanks.”

“Or I can get you into one of the Olympic parties. Max Schmeling will be at some.”

“Schmeling?” Paul raised an eyebrow. He admired Germany’s most successful heavyweight champ and had been in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium just last month to see the bout between Schmeling and Joe Louis. Shocking everyone, Schmeling knocked out the Brown Bomber in the twelfth round. The evening had cost Paul $608, eight for the ticket and the six C-notes for the bum bet.

Webber continued. “He will be there with his wife. She is so beautiful. Anny Ondra. An actress, you know. You will have a truly memorable evening. It would be quite expensive but I can arrange it. You need a dinner jacket, of course. I can provide that too. For a small fee.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Ach,” Webber muttered, as if Paul had made the mistake of his life.

The waitress stopped at their table and she stood close to Paul, smiling down at him. “I am Liesl. Your name is?”

“Hermann,” Paul said.

“You would like what?”

“Beers for us both. A Pschorr for me.”

“Ach,” Webber said, sneering at the choice. “Berlin lager for me. Bottom- fermented. A large.” When she glanced at him her look was cool, as if he’d recently stiffed her on a check.

Liesl gazed into Paul’s eyes a moment longer then offered a flirtatious smile and walked to another table.

“You have an admirer, Mr. Not-Hermann. Pretty, yes?”

“Very.”

Webber winked. “If you like, I can-”

“No,” Paul said firmly.

Webber raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to the stage, where a topless woman gyrated. She had loose disks of breasts and flabby arms, and even from a distance Paul could see creases around her mouth, which kept up a fierce smile as she moved to the scratchy sound of a gramophone.

“There is no live music here now, in the afternoon,” Webber explained. “But at night they have good bands. Brass… I love brass. I have a gramophone disk I play often. The great British bandleader, John Philip Sousa.”

“Sorry to tell you: He’s American.”

“No!”

“It’s true.”

“What a country that must be, America. They have such wonderful cinema and millions of motorcars, I hear. And now I learn they have John Philip Sousa too.”

Paul watched the waitress approach, slim hips rocking back and forth. Liesl set the beers down. She’d put on fresh perfume, it seemed, in the three or four minutes she’d been away. She smiled at Paul and he grinned back then glanced at the check. Not familiar with German currency and not wishing to draw attention to himself fumbling with coins, Paul gave her a five-mark note, which was about two bucks, four bits, he guessed.

Liesl took the difference to be a tip and thanked him heartily, gripping his hand in both of hers. He was afraid she’d kiss him. He didn’t know how to ask for the rest of the money back and decided to put the loss down to a lesson about German customs. With another adoring glance, Liesl left the table then instantly grew sullen at the prospect of waiting on other tables. Webber clinked his stein against Paul’s and both men drank deeply.

Webber eyed Paul closely and said, “So. What kind of cons do you run?”

“Cons?”

“When I first saw you in the alley, with that gun, I thought: Ach, he’s no Soci or Kosi-”

“What?”

“Soci – a Social Democrat. It used to be a big political party until it was outlawed. Kosis are the Communists. They’re not only outlawed; they’re dead. No, I knew you were not an agitator. You were one of us, a con runner, an artist-of-dark-dealings.” He glanced around the room. “Don’t worry. As long as we’re quiet it’s safe to talk. No microphones here. No Party loyalty either, not inside these walls. After all, a man’s dick is always more reliable than his conscience and National Socialists have no consciences to start with.” Webber persisted: “So what kind of cons?”

“I don’t do cons. I came over for the Olympics.”

“You did?” He winked. “There must be a new event this year that I’ve not heard of.”

“I’m a sportswriter.”

“Ach, a writer… yet one who fights Brownshirts, keeps his name to himself, walks around with a peashooter of a Luger, changes clothes to avoid pursuers. And then slicks back his hair and puts on pancake.” Webber tapped his own cheek and smiled knowingly.