“What’s your cover?” Padillo asked.
“Play a little sax in the combo at one of Wolgemuth’s dives. Run a few errands. Get in trouble like this when it’s needed.”
“How about the Frankfurt end?”
“Man’ll meet you with a car, give you the keys, and then you’re on your own.”
“How’ll he know us?”
“He won’t; you’ll know him. He’s my twin brother.”
Chapter 19
An MP captain accompanied by a staff sergeant with a leathery face and squinting blue eyes walked up to Padillo at the Pan American ticket counter just after he had cleared his ticket.
“Let’s see your orders, Sergeant.”
Padillo slowly unbuttoned his raincoat and started to reach for his billfold in his hip pocket when the woman screamed. It was high and piercing and she put her lungs into it. It seemed to come from about a dozen or so yards to our left. I turned and saw a fleshy man of about thirty in a light covert topcoat take a clumsy swing at our Negro driver, who jumped back gracefully and flicked out his razor. He danced around the white man, making little feinting motions with the razor. The white man looked at him and proceeded to peel off his topcoat. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry. A woman stood near the white man and clutched a small black purse to her chin. She was blond and plump and did a good job of looking terrified. A crowd was forming.
The Negro moved around the white man counterclockwise. He shuffled now, no longer dancing. His arms were widespread and the razor glittered, cutting edge up in his right hand. He seemed to know what he was doing.
“Come on, whiboy, come on,” the Negro called softly. His accent was pure molasses again. “You ain’ in the States now; come on, whiboy.”
The white man seemed to study the Negro as he turned with him. Then he suddenly threw his wadded-up topcoat in the Negro’s face. He followed the coat, diving in low at the shuffling legs. He moved fast for his weight. They went down on the floor and rolled around some. The Negro let out a good yell. The MP captain and his sergeant were in the middle of the crowd, trying to untangle the arms and legs. A voice over the loud-speaker announced Pan American Frankfurt-Main flight. Padillo and I prodded Symmes and Burchwood down the passageway that led to the plane.
It was Pan American Flight 675 and it was due to leave Tempelhof at 1630 and arrive at Frankfurt-Main at 1750. It was three minutes late in take-off and we were the last aboard. I thought Wolgemuth’s timing had been cut a bit fine, but we managed to get seats near each other. I sat with Burchwood, Padillo with Symmes. Neither of them was talking to us.
It was a dull flight and I kept my raincoat on. The revolver was in the pocket and I kept trying to remember how many shots I’d fired and if I had any rounds left. I decided it didn’t matter since I wasn’t going to shoot anybody soon anyway. I sat there in the aisle seat and stared at the back of the seat in front of me, and when I got tired of that I admired the hostesses’ legs and engaged in some mildly erotic fantasies. It passed the time.
We landed in Frankfurt at 1752 and went down the landing steps with the rest of the passengers. The bastardization of the lyrics to “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain” kept running through my head. “There’ll be no one there to meet us, there’ll be no one there to greet us,” then some da-da-da-da-da-da-da-da. The other passengers had their hands shaken, their cheeks kissed, and their backs slapped. All we got was a faint nod from the twin of the Negro who, the last time we saw him, an hour and twenty minutes before, had been threshing around on the floor with a straight razor clutched in his right hand.
Padillo walked up to the Negro and said, “Wolgemuth sent us. We just left your brother in Berlin.”
The tall Negro looked us over carefully. He seemed to have a world of time. He wore an open white shirt with long points, a black cashmere coat sweater buttoned only at the last two buttons, lightweight gray flannel slacks without cuffs, black ribbed socks that looked silk, and a pair of burnished-black loafers with cute little tassels. His hands were like his brother’s: big enough to fit around a basketball comfortably. He held a long slim cigar in one of them. It was fitted with an ivory holder. He drew on it thoughtfully and let some smoke find its way out of his thin straight nose.
“I just talked to Wolgemuth,” he said. “You’re to have my car. It’s the fastest one we could lay our hands on. The only thing is I’d kind of like to get it back. In one piece.”
“Something special?” I asked.
He nodded and blew some more smoke out of his nose. “It is to me. I got about 122 hours of my own time invested in it.”
“You’ll get it back,” Padillo said. “If you don’t, Wolgemuth’ll buy you a new one.”
“Uh-huh.” He turned and we followed. Outside the airport he led us to a new Chevrolet Impala two-door hardtop. It was black and its rear end seemed to squat. It had no hubcaps. A big fish-pole aerial adorned the rear end. The Negro took the keys out of his pocket and handed them to Padillo, who handed them to me.
“You didn’t spot any action around the airport?” Padillo asked.
“Couple of MPs more than usual, but that’s normal this time of the month, right after payday. None of the Christians in Action around that I know by sight. I checked real good.”
Padillo shook his head and frowned. “O.K., Mac, let’s go. You drive. You two in the back seat.”
Symmes and Burchwood climbed in. Padillo got in the front.
“What’s so special about this boat?” I asked the Negro.
He smiled. It was as if I’d asked how it felt to win DM 400,000 on Lotto. “It’s got the four-twenty-seven under the hood and a Hurst four on the floor. It’s got a Schiefer clutch, Jahns twelve-to-ones, and an Isky kit. It’s got high-speed shocks and traction masters. Plus the Pittman arm’s down to two-to-one steering.”
“Sounds like a bomb,” I said, getting in.
He placed his big hands carefully on the door and leaned down to look at me. “You done any driving before?”
“Once or twice around the Nürburgring. Sports stuff mostly.”
He nodded. “I’d sure like to get this back in one piece.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
He nodded again, glumly this time. He didn’t have much faith. He patted the door affectionately. “Yeah,” he said. “See what you can do. Well, take care now.” I think he was talking to the car.
“You do the same,” I said, and fitted the key into the ignition, threw the clutch out, started the engine, backed out, and headed for the Autobahn.
“What have we got here?” Padillo asked.
“A hopped-up Chevy with a police radio that’ll probably hit a hundred and twenty-five-maybe a hundred and thirty downhill. How fast you want to try for?”
“Keep it around eighty. If we pick up somebody who wants to play tag, use your own judgment.”
“O.K.”
I concentrated on driving. I had to. The clutch was stiff and the special springs eliminated the royal American bounce. Something special had been done to the steering. It felt like rack and pinion. The accelerator pedal was a massive chrome and rubber affair and I had to keep hard pressure on it. It was a car that was meant to be driven at high speed, and the only power assists it had were locked in the V-8 engine. I got it up to between eighty-five and ninety and kept it there, drifting past the double-trailered trucks that streamed out of Frankfurt, headed north.
About twenty miles out of Frankfurt we stopped at the German counterpart of a Howard Johnson and picked up some cigarettes and a bottle of Weinbrand. We let Symmes and Burchwood go to the bathroom by themselves.