The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [16]
The building was a one-story affair. There was a large outer office filled with German clerks scurrying to and fro, a patient horde of other Germans waiting to be interviewed for jobs as mechanics in the motor pool, kitchen help in the mess halls, PX attendants. There were rough-looking men, old women, young men, and a great many young girls, some very pretty. Their eyes followed Eddie as he went by.
Eddie opened the door to the inner office. Here there were two desks face to face, so that their occupants could look each other in the eye. One desk was absolutely bare except for a lettered green-and-white shingle which read, Lt. A. Forte, CPO, and a small neat bundle of papers waiting for signature. On the other desk there were two double-decked baskets overflowing with paper. Almost swamped by other papers scattered over the desk was a small shingle which read Mr. E. Cassin, Asst. CPO. In the corner of the room was a desk at which a tall and very ugly girl was typing, stopping in her work long enough to say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Cassin. The colonel called; he wants you to call him back.”
Eddie winked at Mosca and picked up the telephone. While he was speaking, Mosca lit a cigarette and tried to relax. He made himself not think of Hella and looked at Eddie. Eddie hadn't changed, he thought There was the gray, wavy hair framing the delicate, yet strong features” Hie mouth was as sensitive as a girl's, yet the nose was long and imperial, the set of his jaw determined. The eyes were hooded as if with sensuality and the grayness of his abundant hair seemed to have tinged his skin. Yet the impression was one of youthfulness, a frank warmth of expression that was almost naive. But Mosca knew that when Eddie Cassin was drunk the sensitive and delicately cut mouth twisted into an ugly line, the whole face grayed and went old and vicious. And since (hat viciousness had no real strength behind it and because men would laugh at it as Mosca often had, the viciousness, in words and physical action, was vented on the woman who was his companion or mistress of the moment. He had one set opinion of Eddie Cassin, a crazy bastard about women and a lousy drunk, but otherwise a really nice guy who would do anything for a friend. And Eddie had been smart enough never to make a pass at Hella. He wanted to ask Eddie now whether he had seen Hella or knew what had happened to her but he could not bring himself to do so.
Eddie Cassin put down the phone and opened a drawer of his desk. He took out a bottle of gin and a tin of grapefruit juice. Turning to the typist he said, “Ingeborg, go wash the glasses.” She took some glasses, empty containers of cheese spread, and left the office. Eddie Cassin went to a door that led to a smaller office behind them. “Come on, Walter, I want you to meet a couple of friends of mine.”
In the next office a short, stout, pasty-faced man in the same olive-green Eddie wore was standing by his desk, his foot on the rung of a chair and his body bent over so that his paunch rested on his thigh. He held in his hand a Fragebogen or questionnaire and was studying it. Before him, standing stiffly at attention, was a short squat German, the inevitable gray-teen Wehrmacht cap under his arm. By the window sat a long-looking American civilian with the long jaw and square small mouth of a weather-beaten American farmer, and with his air of self-centered strength.
“Wolf,” Eddie said to the pudgy man, “this is an old buddy of mine, Walter Mosca. Walter, Wolf here is our security man. He clears the krauts before they can get a job on the base.”
After they had shaken hands, Eddie went on. “That guy by the window is Gordon Middleton. He's the man without a job, so he's detailed to help out down here. The colonel is trying to get rid of him; that's why he hasn't anything special to do.” Middleton