Mack Reynolds - Once Departed

There was something cynically amusing about these Nazi greats of yesteryear, coming up now to haunt their conquerors. Martin Bormann, who had always been more hated by his fellow associates of Hitler, than he had been known to the West, was now in a position to wreak more evil upon the world than he had in his role as Nazi power behind the throne.

So East and West had their agents in Madrid, looking for the elusive Martin Bormann. And something had been expected to happen there at the Dempsey party. What? Quint grunted. While he hadn’t noticed, the knowledgeable waiter had brought the Fundador bottle and left it at the American’s elbow.

Quint didn’t like that. What did the sonofabitch think he was, some drunk? Hell, he’d just had enough to get his mind working clearly. Let’s get back to the problem. With luck, he might figure it all out. He chuckled to himself, even as he poured another quick one. Foul it, but that’d be something. He’d wrap it all up and present the whole thing to good old Mike. Best pal he had in Madrid. Only pal.

He’d wrap it all up and give it to Mike and Mike would have a scoop. Ooops. That wasn’t the word. Those in the know never called it a scoop. They called it a beat. They said scoop only in the movies. If you knew what it was all about, you called it a beat.

He poured another slug. Most people couldn’t drink this much without getting stoned. They didn’t have the practice. Back in the States you had to be a millionaire to be able to afford to get the practice. In Spain where you could buy top liquor for less than a dollar a bottle, any American could afford to get plenty of practice.

Not that that was why Quint Jones was in Spain. Hell no. Back in the old days, maybe, he’d live in places like Spain and Mexico and Tangier, and Greece, because living was cheap and drinking was cheap, and making a living was hard if you were in the writing game—or wanted to be. But that wasn’t the way it was now. Hell, Quentin Jones could walk right into the Club 21, or wherever, and order until dawn and it wouldn’t make a dent in his bank account.

In fact, he didn’t know what the hell he wanted with all the money. He sure as hell didn’t spend it. Especially since over here he didn’t even have to pay income taxes. Hell, he saved more on income taxes than he used to have as income.

That was the trouble. Well, one of the troubles. Now he had all the scratch in the world and what did he do with it? He sat on it. That’s what he did. Kept it in the bank. He didn’t need a lot of money. His tastes didn’t run to big cars, or estates in Florida, or a yacht, or whatever it was you were supposed to spend your money on when you finally had it made. All he wanted was to kind of take it easy and not have to worry about where the next meal was coming from, and be able to observe the world and what was going on, and all.

But, he’d be damned if he liked this deal he’d got himself into. Being a wise guy on a three times a week assembly line basis. He hadn’t been able to make the grade doing the sort of stuff he wanted to do, so he wound up being bitch-clever in a column. Quentin Jones, the poor man’s Will Rogers, the hip generation’s Mark Twain—or something like that.

Damn it, he had to think about this big deal so he could wrap it all up and hand it over to good old Mike so he’d have a scoop. Ooops, a beat.

There was only one thing that didn’t ring true. So great Brett-Home set it all up so that something was going to happen at that party. What was going to happen? What the hell, probably Martin Bormann was going to turn up, and somebody there would recognize him from the old days.

But why was that feisty Hungarian Ferencsik necessary to the scheme? Answer me that, foul it. He poured another hooker of Fundador. The bottle was getting low, and he considered the fact owlishly. That lousy waiter must have left him a half full bottle.

Somewhere here the tide ebbed out.

The creature followed him. Stalked him, might be the better word. Through the narrow streets of old Madrid. To wait in a doorway, inconspicuously, while the quarry stumbled into still another tasca or bodega. To wait, although not with patience. Its eyes were empty, as usually only the eyes of the dead can be empty, the pupils, once perhaps gray or green, were now hardly distinguishable from the white.

When there were no other pedestrians near enough to hear, it allowed itself to mewl its discomfort. The creature didn’t like to be out on the streets amongst so many. Deep within, as all its feelings were deep within, it was afraid of humanity in the mass.

It couldn’t understand why the master had sent him to follow after this lurching, stumbling one, who kept himself in the most crowded streets of the city.

When the tide flooded in again, Quint vaguely bacame aware of a voice across from him. He shook his head, and automatically reached for a glass. But it was tomato juice, and he put it down in disgust.

The voice was saying, “Quentin, you simply must eat more. You must get something into your stomach.”

He looked up at the impossibly blonde hair, shook his head again and stared into the improbably blue eyes. He said accusingly, “Marylyn, what in hell is a nice girl like you doing in Chicote’s?”

“Please don’t swear, Quentin. I’m… I’m not used to it. This isn’t Chicote’s. Don’t you remember? I saw you on the street, from my taxi. You were… distressed.”

“Distressed!” He leered at her. “I’m drunk.”

He looked about the room in which they were seated. It was a cellar converted into a restaurant. An age old celler, vaulted and with red walls of small flat bricks, the bricks of a construction period of long ago. He tried to bring his mind to focus. It must be one of the establishments beloved of tourists, which had been built into the old walls of Madrid. Once these cellars had held supplies, spare arms, forage for the horses. Now they were tourist drops.

He finally recognized the place. He’d been here many a time before. If a visiting fireman hit town and was to be in Madrid only a day or two, you brought him here.

“Botin’s” he chuckled.

She said anxiously, “You told me that if I insisted you must eat, then what you wanted was roast suckling pig and Valdepenas wine. You said if it was good enough for Papa, it was good enough for you.”

It came back to him now. Papa Hemingway’s favorite restaurant in Madrid. The last scene in Papa’s first best seller was laid here in Botin’s. Quint seemed to be on a Hemingway kick, tonight. Get drunk in Chicote’s and then eat at Botin’s, both Hemingway favorites.

Before him was a quarter of a roast suckling pig. He had the full left ham. Enough meat for three people. He never had been able to figure out why the management served such large portions. Right now food looked horrible to him.

Marylyn Worth was saying, a scolding in her voice, “You said the best thing to sober up on was roast fat pork.”

His mind was clearing by the minutes, but he could use a drink. He growled, “Where’s the Valdepenas?”

She said defiantly, “I ordered tomatoe juice instead.”

“Oh, great. Listen, why did you bother to take charge at all? I’m all right.”

She said, in a gush, “Oh, Quentin. You’re such a potentially wonderful person. And… and all you’re doing is throwing yourself away.”

He grunted self deprecation, and poked at the meat before him as though with sour fascination, and as though he didn’t quite understand what it was for. Certainly he couldn’t be expected to eat it.

“Potentially wonderful, eh? Why potentially? I thought you loved me just the way I am, pet. How do you mean, throwing myself away? I haven’t any responsibilities, no dependents. What difference is it if I hang one on every once in awhile?” He felt like a fool, hearing his own words.