“Let me take your shoes off,” Lasari said in a loud voice. “You’ll never get to sleep like that.” Swiftly Lasari untied the shoelaces, slipped off the shoes, and swung the man’s feet around onto the foot of the bed. Then he pulled open the drawer in a night table and rifled through the contents, a paperback novel, two candy bars, some loose Kleenex and a plastic flask.
He turned and ran his hands over the big sergeant’s body, feeling every pocket and moving down the seams of his trousers. There was no gun.
“I don’t need help from no ginzo,” Strasser muttered. “Get away from me, you cockamamie. If I wanna undress, my girl will do it for me.”
“Yes, sir,” Lasari said and walked out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar.
Chapter Thirty-four
Private Neal had positioned himself in the middle of the room, dominating the space with his lean, taut body. Greta stood facing him. Neither was speaking but Lasari could sense the tension between them.
“No need for you to be sassy with me, Greta,” Neal said with a friendly smile. “I just asked for a stein of beer with an egg in it and some schnapps. Had an errand to run for your boy friend and I missed my lunch.”
“It’s the way you ask,” she said, “like I was a slave.”
“That’s just your kraut imagination, kid. The soldier here and I got business. So go in the kitchen and fix me a little nip, okay?” He laughed. “Ernie don’t always say pretty please with sugar on it, does he, fraulein? By the way, what did you do with First Shirt, Jackson?”
“He’s taking a nap, Eddie.”
“Fuck Eddie, ginzo. It’s Corporal Neal sir. You and the fraulein are getting pretty sloppy with your military discipline.”
“Sergeant Strasser is taking a nap, Corporal Neal, sir.”
“He real drunk?”
“More or less, maybe. I don’t know.”
“You don’t know shit, do you?” The voice was still good-humored but there was a muddy look to Neal’s eyes. “Everybody’s scared around here and it’s the wrong time for it. You, ginzo, you don’t know nothing. Strasser’s got his head in the bottle, the kraut cunt puts her nose in the air like I smell bad...” He took a step toward Greta looking down at her with an almost affectionate smile.
“Let me tell you something, Greta. My old man was over here in World War Biggie, same country, same krautheads, hands out begging for food after they’d thrown their guns away. There was no fraternizing then, my old man told me. He was an MP. One night he’s on duty and a German broad shoves her ass up against him and says, ‘How’d you like to fraternize with that, Yank?’
“Know what he did? He rammed her in that fat German ass of hers with his bayonet, straight through the lard to her hipbone. She didn’t have anything very smart to say after that, Greta, just lay nice and quiet, waiting for an ambulance.”
Lasari caught Greta’s eye and with a slight nod signaled her to leave. “While you’re fixing the corporal’s drink, I’d like a beer, okay?”
When she left, Neal settled down in the big armchair, crossing his long legs at the ankles. Lamplight glinted on his shiny mid-calf boots.
“She handles nice and easy with you, Jackson. You fucking her?”
“No, corporal.”
“How come, you afraid of Strasser? That rummy’s getting so cockeyed, he wouldn’t even know if you were fucking him.” He looked thoughtful. “Maybe that’s the way you swing, Jackson. You go for boys?”
“No, Corporal.”
Eddie Neal grinned his down-home grin and rubbed a finger over his soft lips. “Maybe you’re too scared to go either way now, ginzo. Little old Sicilian cock shriveled up and worried to death about what’s coming. No need for that. We’re not gonna let anybody hurt you. You’re gonna arrive in Chicago safe and sound and I’ll be part of the welcoming committee. Just put a pair of blinkers on, do what you’re told — you got nothin’ to sweat.”
Lasari could hear the sound of Greta’s gold mules tapping around the kitchen. “It’s not Chicago I’m worrying about, corporal. What if I can’t get the stuff through German customs?”
Neal shrugged. “Unless they’re tipped off to something, they don’t check you going out. We’re guests in this country, here by invitation, billeted in more than three hundred towns. The military just come and go like smoke.”
“What you’re saying is, customs does check on the American side...”
“Why should they? On the plane you get a routine customs declaration to till out. What you declare is just nothing. They’ll take your word for it. Nobody’s gonna catch you dirty. You’re red, white and blue, Jackson.
“If they do open your duffel, what are they gonna find? Nothing again. Strasser has those bags custom-made. They hold six to eight pounds of pure white in the lining. There’s nothing suspicious, you sail through like a piece of cake. Customs gave us no trouble on the runs so far...
“You’re worrying about the wrong things, Jackson. You got fucked-up priorities. In this operation, everything starts and ends with Malleck and I’m Malleck’s man. That’s what you should be worrying about. When you get the stuff and leave Lucky Thirteenth, don’t bother to look over your shoulder for me. I’ll be there.”
Eddie Neal craned his neck to look down the hallway, then put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill whistle. “Where the hell is that broad with my drink?”
“Probably making sure the beer is cold, corporal. Greta knows the way I like it.”
“But you don’t know how she likes it, right?” Neal smiled his taunting grin. “You’re gonna be our golden goose, but we didn’t figure you for a faggot goose. No offense, for Christ’s sake,” he said as he noticed the burn of anger in Lasari’s face. “Just joking, Jackson.”
Eddie Neal stood and pushed open the bedroom door. Strasser was lying flat on his back, mouth open, snoring noisily. The man closed the door and shook his head in disgust.
“My old man used to say that a chain was only as strong as its weakest link. He told me that sitting behind wire in the visitors section of the federal pen in Anniston, Alabama, so maybe he didn’t know shit from Shinola anyway, but it’s something to remember.” He looked at his watch and sighed. “Ernie’s not pulling his weight. He’s supposed to take care of these details but everything’s on me all of a sudden.”
The corporal opened his tunic and began to feel through the inside pockets. Lasari caught a glimpse of the handgun in a shoulder holster. He found what he was looking for and handed Lasari a packet of folded forms. “And here’s a pen,” he said, holding out a ballpoint. “Where I put the x’s, you sign all four of them.”
“What are these?” Lasari said, smoothing out the papers.
“What do you care?” Neal said. “It’s part of the deal with Malleck. We want your signature and your ID number on each one.”
The numbered forms were printed in German with blanks left open and an X-marked line at the bottom of each. Lasari shuffled the forms, letting his eyes run quickly over the unfamiliar words and concentrating on the individual row of numbers on the top of each page. Except for the numbers, the forms seemed identical.
“What’s the matter, you read German?” Neal asked.
“No I don’t, but I can put two and two together. Their word ‘Register’ is the same as ours, and I saw this word on a building; ‘Postamt’. That means post office.”
“Just a little something the sergeants have going on the side. They picked some nice loot for you to mail back to a friend in Chicago.”
“Do I get to put in a card?” Lasari said.