The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [105]
Mosca said, “I wanted to kill the bastard, that's why.” But the reaction had set in. He couldn't keep his hands from shaking when he lit his cigarette and he felt a chilly sweat over his body. Christ, he thought, over a lousy fist fight, trying to keep his hands still.
They stood together in the dark street. ‘TU try to fix it,”
Eddie said, “but you're washed up with the Army. You know that? Don't wait, shoot down to Frankfort tomorrow and try to get those marriage papers. Ill cover you here. Don't worry about anything but the papers.”
Mosca thought for a moment. “I guess that's it. Thanks, Eddie.” For some reason he shook hands with Cassin, awkwardly, knowing that Eddie would do everything he could to help.
“You going home now?” Eddie asked.
“No,” Mosca said. “I have to see Yergen.” He turned and walked away from Eddie, then called back over his shoulder, “TU phone you from Frankfort.”
A cold, autumn moon lit his way to the church. He ran up the steps and before he could knock Yergen had opened the door.
“Be very still,” Yergen said, “my daughter has just fallen asleep after much trouble.” They went into the room. Behind the wooden partition came the sound of the child's heavy breathing. Mosca could hear a curiously halting stitch in it., He saw that Yergen was angry and almost belligerent.
“Were you here earlier this evening?” Yergen asked.
“No,” Mosca lied. But he had hesitated a fraction of a second and Yergen knew.
“I have the drugs for you,” Yergen said. He was glad that Mosca had frightened his child and given him the angry courage to do what he must do. “I have the penicillin vials and the codeine tablets, but they cost a great deal.” He took out of his pocket a small cardboard box, uncovered it to show Mosca the four dark-brown vials and the square box of large, red-shelled codeine tablets. Even now his instinct was to tell Mosca that the penicillin had only cost a fraction of the usual black-market price and therefore might be useless; to charge him a reasonable price for the drugs. But in that wavering moment there was a great stitching gasp in his daughter's breathing, the room was completely still. He could see Mosca looking at the wooden partition, then before either of them could move, the breathing started again, regularly, in the heavy rhythm of sleep. Yergen relaxed. “The cost will be fifty cartons of cigarettes.” He saw the tiny black lights in Mosca's eyes focusing on him with a sudden cruel insight and understanding.
“All right,” Mosca said. “I don't care what I pay. You sure it's good stuff?”
In time Yergen paused only for a moment but many thoughts flashed through his mind.
He needed as many cigarettes as possible, then he could swing a big deal he had planned and be out of Germany in a month. Hella probably did not really need penicillin, the Bremen doctors when they knew a girl had an American friend always asked for penicillin so that they could keep some for themselves. And he thought of his daughter again, she came before everything.
“You can be certain. I guarantee it,” Yergen said. “This source has never betrayed me.” He touched his breast with his hand. “I take the responsibility.”
“All right,” Mosca said. “Now listen. I have twenty cartons, maybe I can get some more. If I can't I'll pay you at the rate of five dollars a carton in scrip or American Express checks. Is that okay?” He knew that he was being fair and that Yergen was making a real steal, but the reaction of his encounter with the adjutant still affected him. He felt an immense weariness, hopelessness, and isolation. In his mind he bowed before the little German, asked for pity, for mercy. And Yergen, sensing this, became cautiously arrogant
“I have to pay in cigarettes,” Yergen said. “I think you will have to give me cigarettes.”
Behind the wooden partition the little girl moaned in her sleep. Mosca remembered Hella whimpering with pain; she had expected him home long ago. He made a last try. “I need this