The Dark Arena - Mario Puzo [56]
“All right,” he said. They went back to the bedroom and he gave the father five cartons of cigarettes. “These are the last I can give for a few months,” Wolf said warningly. “I have a very big deal ready.”
“Don't worry,” the father said, “this will last a long time. My daughter and I get along as sparingly as we can, you know that, Wolfgang.” Wolf nodded his head reassuringly, and also in admiration of the man's nerve, thinking, The old robber will make his fortune out of me yet
Before he left the room, Wolf took the heavy Walther pistol from his bureau drawer and slipped it into the jacket of his coat. This always captured the father's attention, made him more respectful, and this also pleased Wolf.
As they left the room together the older man threw his arm in a confidential, fatherly way around Wolfs shoulders. “Next week I am getting a great supply of brown and gray gabardine. I'll have some beautifcil suits made for you, as a present. And if any of your friends wish to buy I will give them a special price, as a favor to you.”
Wolf nodded gravely. As he went out the door Ursula called out, “Be careful.” He left the basement and walked up a few steps to the street. Then he strode briskly in the direction of the Rathskellar. It was only, fifteen minutes away, he would be in plenty of time. As he walked he marveled over the father. A load of gabardine. His gabardine really. And then he was supposed to sell it without commission. He'd fix that. He'd make himself a little something. He'd give Mosca, Cassin, and Gordon a good break, maybe even the Jew, but still earn a little something. But he should be able to sell a lot of it. At a nice cut for himself. Well, that was chicken feed, but every bit helped.
In the Rathskellar, the great underground restaurant that before the war had been one of Germany's finest, he found Eddie Cassin and Mosca at a table by the giant wine casks. These huge barrels reaching to the ceiling formed a shadow over the two men, cutting them off from the rest of the olive-drab officers and the few women who spotted the vast, cavernous room. A string orchestra played quietly, the lights were dim, and small white-clothed tables stretched out as far as the eye could see; then clustered in white eddies like foam; in alcoves and small private dining-rooms.
“Wolf, the living cigarette tree,” Eddie Cassin shouted.
His voice rose above the music and rose to the almost invisible ceiling high above them and became lost there. No one paid any attention. He leaned over the table and whispered, “What you two hustlers got planned tonight?”
Wolf sat down. “Just making a little trip around town. See if we can pick up any bargains. Stop using your butts for gash, and ITl make you a few pennies.” Though he joked, Wolf was worried. He could see Mosca was nearly as drunk as Eddie and he was surprised. He had never seen Mosca drunk before. He wondered if he should cancel the whole deal for this night. But it was all set up, this was the first night they would hit the big black-market wheels, they might even get a lead on who had the dough. Wolf ordered a drink, watching Mosca to see if he would be okay.
Mosca noticed this and smiled. “I'll be all right, a coupla minutes fresh air. I'll be okay.” He tried to enunciate carefully but the words slurred together. Wolf shook his head with an impatient disgust he could not hide.
Eddie shook his head in drunken mimicry. “The trouble with you, Wolf, is you think you're clever. You wanna be a millionaire. Wolf, you'll never make it. Never in a million years. One, you got no brains, just a little cunning. Two, you haven't got real guts. You can slap kraut prisoners around but that's all. That's all, that's all.”
“How can you stand this gash hound?” Wolf asked Mosca, his voice deliberately quiet, insulting. “He's had so many dames