“I think so,” the yellow-haired man said, and pulled the car to a stop, but left the engine running.
“You know where I’ll be,” Baker-Bates said as the yellow-haired man got out of the car.
“I know.”
Baker-Bates slid underneath the steering wheel of the car and watched for a moment as the yellow-haired man moved off after the young woman in the fur coat. He’s very good, Baker-Bates thought as he noted how the yellow-haired man kept at least five or six pedestrians between himself and the woman. The Abwehr chaps must have trained their people well, at least when they weren’t soul-searching all over the place. Pity about the yellow hair, though. It was like a beacon.
Baker-Bates watched as the woman in the fur coat rounded a corner. The yellow-haired man waited until he could use a couple of pedestrians as a shield and then turned the same corner. Baker-Bates put the car into gear and realized that he was hungry. That meant either a black-market restaurant or the Americans. Baker-Bates sighed and decided on the Americans, not because they were the lesser of the two evils, but because they were cheaper.
Three minutes after he left the woman in the fur coat, Bodden ducked into the door of a closed shop and took out the yellow book, which he noted, was a volume of Heine’s saatiric poems. That was good. He could use a laugh. He opened the book and glanced at the slip of paper inside. The name written on the paper was the Golden Rose, which meant either a Bierstube or a Gasthaus. There was also an address with precise directions about how to get there. She was quite thorough, he thought, the miss in the fur coat, which was fine with Bodden because he liked thorough women. You also like easygoing ones with careless ways, he told himself, and grinned. What had the Pole said the Americans called them? Bimbos. That was it. You like bimbos, printer, he thought; grinned again; took out his pipe; and decided to smoke it there in the doorway out of the rain until it was time to start for the Golden Rose.
Baker-Bates stood at the bar in the Casino, which housed the American officers’ club with its two dining rooms, and studied the menu. It seemed that something called chicken-fried steak was featured that day, along with mashed potatoes and gravy, stewed tomatoes, creamed corn, and, for dessert, tapioca pudding. With raisins, so the mimeographed menu said.
The Casino was located just behind the seven-story I.G. Farben building, which was headquarters for the United States Forces, European Theater — or USFET, as it was called. After his lunch of chicken-fried steak, whatever that was, Baker-Bates had an appointment with Lt. LaFollette Meyer, whose office was in the Farben building. Meyer was to take him for a look at the house where the black-marketeer had been killed. What was his name? Damm. Karl-Heinz Damm. For a fleeting moment, Baker-Bates felt a small twinge of sympathy for the dead man — not because he had been murdered, but because he had had to bear up under a hyphenated name.
“Buy you a drink, Major?”
Baker-Bates turned toward the American voice that had made the offer. It came from a tallish, slim man with a major’s oak leaves on his shoulders and eyes that were more green than blue. About thirty-three, Baker-Bates thought as he debated whether to accept the offer.
“I’m just celebrating my promotion,” the American said, sensing the hesitation.
“In that case, I’ll be most happy to join you. Thank you very much.”
“What’re you drinking?”
“Scotch and soda,” Baker-Bates said. “But no ice this time, please.”
“Two Scotch and sodas, Sammy,” the new Major ordered from the Sergeant bartender. “And hold the ice on one.”
“Two Scotch sodas and hold the ice on one,” the Sergeant echoed. He mixed the drinks quickly with an expert’s minimal motion and slid them across the bar. “Congratulations on your promotion, Major,” Sammy said. “This one’s on the house.”
The new Major thanked the bartender with a thanks-a-lot and lifted his glass to Baker-Bates. “Mud in your eye, whatever that means.”
“I’ve never quite figured that one out myself,” Baker-Bates said.
“Thanks for having the drink with me,” the new Major said. “I’ve been hanging around here in limbo for about three weeks waiting for my orders to come through, and about the only person I’ve gotten to know is Sammy here. Sammy listens to my problems — right, Sammy?”
“Right, Major,” the Sergeant said with a good bartender’s automatic indulgence.
“You’re not assigned here, then?” Baker-Bates said.
“Nope. Just a casual. But my orders came through along with my promotion this morning, and tomorrow I’m off to Berlin.”
“That should be interesting.”
“Yeah, I think it might be. Where’re you stationed?”
“Place called Lübeck, up north.”
“Don’t believe I know that one.”
“Not too bad a place. A bit crowded now. We hit it during the raids, but not too much. Where’re you from in the States?”
“Texas, Abilene, Texas.”
“If you don’t mind my saying so, you don’t sound much like a Texan.”
The new Major grinned. “Before the war I was a radio announcer. They sort of like you to talk pretty.” He lapsed into a drawl and said, “But when I’m of a mind to, I can talk Texan prid near as good as anybody.”
Baker-Bates smiled. “Almost incomprehensible. Not quite, but almost.”
“Must sound to you like Cockney sounds to me.”
“Probably.”
“Well, sir,” the new Major said, finishing his drink, “it’s been real nice talking to you.”
“Thank you very much for the drink, and congratulations again. On your promotion.”
The new Major gave the bar a small slap with the palm of his hand. “Appreciate that,” he said with a smile, drawling the words out in a mock-Texas accent, turned, and wandered off into the crowd of lunchtime drinkers.
At lunch, Baker-Bates discovered that chicken-fried steak wasn’t quite as bad as it looked or sounded, although the gravy that came with it had the texture, the appearance, and possibly the flavor of library paste.
A German waiter came by and refilled Baker-Bates’s coffee cup without asking. Baker-Bates leaned back in his chair, lit a Lucky Strike, and gazed out over the crowded dining room. They do do themselves well, he thought. The best-paid, best-fed, best-equipped amateur army in the history of the world. And already demobilized. An army totally uneasy in its role of conqueror and slipping now, almost unconsciously, into the more comfortable role of liberator. And why not? Liberators are liked, conquerors aren’t, and the Americans do so want and need to be liked, even by yesterday’s enemies.
The new Major, for example. Not a bad chap for an American. A bit lonely, a bit overly friendly, but pleasant enough, without being completely overbearing, as so many of them were. All the new Major had wanted was a friendly face to help him celebrate his promotion. A radio announcer. Baker-Bates tried to imagine the life of a radio announcer, whatever that was, in a place called Abilene, Texas, but failed utterly. What did he announce — the news? But one doesn’t announce the news; one simply reads it, in a rather bored manner, as they did on the BBC. Baker-Bates sighed; finished his coffee; ground out his cigarette; watched as the German waiter swooped down on it, removed the butt, deposited it quickly in a small tin box that he took from his pocket, cleaned the ashtray, and put it back on the table.
Baker-Bates glanced at his watch and thought about his next American of the afternoon, Lt. LaFollette Meyer. Well, Lieutenant Meyer wasn’t one of your overly friendly Americans. Lieutenant Meyer was a very self-contained young man, a bit cool, a bit distant, who had a brain that he didn’t at all seem to mind using. Lieutenant Meyer, Baker-Bates thought with approval, was looking out for Lieutenant Meyer. He would have to tell him about the dwarf this afternoon. That should cause a tremor in all that cool composure. The dwarf, in that one respect at least, was really quite useful.