An Ace Up My Sleeve (5 page)

He reached for the peak of his cap, but not finding it, he ran his fingers through his hair.

"Excuse me, ma'am. I didn't mean a come–on. Honest ... I'm just a hick... excuse me."

She sat still, her eyes cold and searching as she regarded him.

"If you want to be on your own, Larry, get up right now and get out of here!"

He flinched, then rubbed his chin with the back of his hand and she could see sweat beads forming on his forehead.

"I don't want to go, ma'am ... excuse me."

"All right, but don't ever try to con me again, Larry," she said quietly. "I know it all. I've seen it all. While you were feeding the hens, I was in the middle of a jungle where men with fifty times your brain–power were cutting each other's throat. The biggest throat cutter of them all was and still is my husband. Let's get this straight. I like you ... you're a nice refreshing kid, but don't try to con me." He nodded. "I didn't mean to ... honest, ma'am."

"All right. Now tell me what your friend told you about getting a passport."

Unhappily and without much hope, he tried to reassert his manhood.

"It's okay, ma'am. I can manage."

She leaned forward.

"Isn't it time you realized you can no more manage without me than you could have changed your nappy when you were three months old?" He hung his head and she could see the depressed misery on his face.

"I guess you're right, ma'am. That sure is laying it on the line. Yeah ... I guess you're right."

"We don't have to make a drama out of this," she said. "What's this about your passport?

"I can get a new passport in a new name. There's a guy here in Basle who can fix it. I have his address right here," and he tapped his shirt pocket. "Why do you have to have a new name, Larry? Why can't you go to the American Consul and tell them your passport has been stolen?"

He said nothing, but stared down at the table and the sweat beads on his forehead grew to drops and began to trickle down his face.

"Larry! I'm asking you a question!"

He looked up miserably.

"I guess the cops are looking for me."

She felt a little jolt under her heart.

"Why?"

"It was this riot, ma'am. I told you it got rough. A guy right with me hit a cop with a brick, then he scrammed. Two other cops grabbed me. This cop had a bust nose. I told them I didn't do it, but they didn't believe me. They took my passport and started lugging me to the wagon when Ron turned up and rescued me. He told me to scram ... so I scrammed." "So this tart didn't steal your passport?" "That's right, ma'am, but she took everything else." She lit another cigarette while she thought.

"So the German police have your passport and they are looking for you ... is that right?"

"That's right, ma'am."

She told herself: What I should do now is to pay the check, walk out and leave him. But because her body was yearning for him, she immediately dismissed this solution.

"You wouldn't be lying to me, Larry?" she asked. "Be careful! I want the truth."

He wiped his sweating face with the back of his hand, then looking at her, he shook his head.

"Swear to God, ma'am."

She regarded him.

"Does God mean anything to you?"

He stiffened.

"Why, sure... God is God."

She lifted her shoulders. She didn't really care if he was lying or not. God is God ... how simple it was to say that. Again she felt the hot blood move tormentingly down to her loins.

"Tell me about the passport. Who is this man?"

"I have his address right here." He took a scrap of paper from his shirt pocket and pushed it across the table. "He's a friend of Ron." He hesitated, then went on, "It costs three thousand francs." 

Three thousand francs!

"You're becoming a little expensive, aren't you, Larry?" She looked at the typewritten address. The man's name was Max Friedlander. The address meant nothing to her.

"Look, ma'am, I'll manage. I'll find a job..."

"Oh, stop it! We'll go together and we'll get the passport." He looked uneasily at her.

"I wouldn't want you to get involved. You've already been too good for me. If you really mean to help, then give me the money and I'll get it fixed." "If you imagine I am going to give you three thousand francs without being certain how you spend it, you need your head examined," she said curtly. She signalled to the waiter. As she was paying the check she asked him where the street was, written on the paper.

The waiter went away and returned with a street map and showed her exactly where to find the street. She slid him a tip that made his eyes widen, then she put on her wet mink coat and left the restaurant.

His shoulders hunched against the driving snow, Larry followed her.

Max Friedlander had a ground–floor apartment in a shabby block in a derelict–looking courtyard.

Plastered with snow and very cold, Helga looked at the name plate screwed to the door.

"This is it," she said.

Larry took off his cap and shook the snow from it, replaced it and read the name plate.

"Yeah. Look, ma'am, I don't want you to get involved. I guess..."

"Oh, stop it! We've gone over that part of the script before," Helga said impatiently and she rang the bell.

There was a delay while they stood in the steadily falling snow, then the door opened. A small, shadowy man stood in the doorway. There was a dim yellow light at the end of the passage that made more shadows.

"What is it? Who is it?" The voice was a little shrill and very querulous.

A pansy! Helga thought. She loathed the breed, and she moved forward, pressing the man back, determined to get out of the falling snow. "Mr. Friedlander?"

"Yes ... yes. What is it? You're making a mess on my floor!"

"Larry ... talk to him," Helga said, an edge to her voice.

Larry moved past her, snow dropping from his shoulders. His big body blocked the little man from her sight. She heard him say softly, "Ron Smith told me to come."

"Well, shut the door for pity's sake! Look at the mess you're making!"

Helga closed the door, then because she already hated this little man, she shook the snow off her coat and taking off her hat, shook that too making a snow puddle on the floor.

Larry had moved forward. Now a door opened and a brighter light came out into the narrow, dimly lit passage.

Welcome heat came from the room and she moved in. The room was shabbily furnished with heavy antique, knocked about furniture. On the table stood a silver pheasant. Looking around, Helga decided this was the only good piece in the room and she would have liked to have owned it. She could now see this man more clearly as he stood under the light coming from an ornate chandelier: only three of its many electric lights functioning.

He was around sixty years of age. His pinched, sallow–complexioned face wore the marks of suffering. His black eyes had the cunning of a cornered fox. His lank grey hair sprouted from under a black beret. Wearing a soiled polo– necked green sweater and a shapeless pair of green corduroy trousers, he looked dirty and she saw his fingernails were long and black.

"Ronnie told you to come? How do I know?" he said, looking at Larry.

"Ron said Gilly thinks of you ... he said you would know what that means."

Friedlander squirmed with pleasure and giggled. Watching him, Helga hated him.

"Yes, I know ... how is Ronnie?"

"Right now he is in jail."

Friedlander nodded.

"I saw it in the papers, Ronnie's smart. Did they hurt him?" "No."

"That's good." A long pause while the three looked at each other, then Friedlander said, "What can I do for you, dear? Any friend of Ronnie's my friend."

"I want a passport," Larry said. "One of your specials."

Friedlander's foxy eyes shifted to Helga.

"Who is your friend, dear?"

"I'm the one who is paying for it," Helga said. "That's all you need know."

Friedlander's eyes took in her mink coat and her hat. Then his eyes shifted to her lizard skin bag and he smiled.

"You got photographs, dear?"

Larry groped in his hip pocket and brought out a soiled envelope. "All the dope's here."

"It will be four thousand five hundred francs," Friedlander said as he took the envelope. "Cash down and a beautiful job ... it's cheap at the price." The old come–on, Helga thought and looked at Larry who was staring at Friedlander. I'll give him a chance, but if he can't handle it, then I will. "Ron said it would be three." She was pleased to hear Larry's voice sounded firm.

Friedlander lifted his dirty hands with a shrug of regret.

"Dear Ron ... he isn't keeping pace with the rising cost of living. It's now four thousand five, and it'll be a beautiful job."

"Ron said I shouldn't pay more than three," Larry said.

"So sorry ... Ron isn't with it any more." The smile, foxy and shifty moved from Larry to Helga.

"That's too bad," Larry said. "We don't pay more than three."

"Goodbye," Friedlander said, waving to the door. "When you see Ronnie again, tell him my price has gone up."

"I don't have too," Larry said. "Ronnie told me something. He said you were a great artist." He leaned forward to peer at Friedlander. "What would it cost you if you got your hands crushed in a door?"

Helga stiffened, feeling a chill move up her spine. She looked at Larry. He seemed the same friendly, gum chewing boy, but this new note in his voice told her his threat was genuine.

Friedlander stared at Larry, then he took a quick step back.

"What are you saying?"

"Are you deaf? I want the passport, buster and I'm not paying more than three." Larry was chewing gum and he seemed mild and friendly. "Do we make a deal or do I feed your fingers in the door?"

Friedlander's face showed terror. His back was now against the wall.

"I'll do it for three," he said huskily. "I wouldn't do it for anyone else."

"I'm not asking you to do it for anyone else," Larry said. "Go ahead ... we'll wait."

Friedlander shifted his feet.

"I would like the money first."

"We'll wait," Larry repeated.

Friedlander looked hopefully at Helga.

"Can I rely on you to pay me?"

"I'll pay you," Helga said and went to a chair and sat down.

Friedlander looked at her, then at Larry, then he went out of the room, closing the door behind him.

There was a long pause, then Helga said, "You handled that rather well, Larry."

He pulled at the peak of his cap.

"Thank you, ma'am. It was your money. You've been generous enough to me. I couldn't let you get gypped."

"Thank you." She regarded him. "That was quite a thought ... about crushing his hands in the door. Would you have done it?" Again he pulled at his cap, shaking his head.

"No, ma'am. I don't believe in hurting people."

Again she looked at him, remembering the note in his voice that had sent a chill up her spine. Was he really such a warm, friendly simple boy as he seemed?

"How am I going to pay him?" she asked suddenly. "I have only Traveller's cheques. While we are waiting, I'd better find a bank."

He crossed to the window, lifted the dirty curtain and looked out at the steadily falling snow.

"You can't go out in this. Couldn't you pay it into his bank?"

"I don't want him to know my name."

He turned and looked at her, nodding.

"Yeah ... there's that." He hesitated, frowning. "You've done enough for me. I ..."

"All right, Larry, I know what I'm doing for you. I don't have to be reminded." She got to her feet. "I'll find a bank. You wait here," and she went out into the passage and to the front door. She hoped he would have come after her, but he didn't. Shrugging, she pulled her coat around her and went out into the falling snow.

As she looked for a bank, she wondered if she shouldn't go back to where the Mercedes was parked and drive away. She had a growing conviction that by remaining with this boy she was building a complication around herself that she was going to regret.

But she found a bank at the end of the street and she cashed five thousand dollars into Swiss francs which she stuffed into her bag. Coming out of the bank, she looked to the left, knowing, not far away, the Mercedes was waiting under a blanket of snow. She hesitated only for a few seconds. She was lonely and needed a man. She walked to the right, and in five minutes she was knocking on Friedlander's front door. Larry opened the door.

"Is it all right, ma'am?" he asked, standing aside to let her in.

"It's all right." She walked into the shabby living–room, feeling the heat seeping through her. "How long do you think we will have to wait?" "I don't know, ma'am." He closed the door and leaned against it, his big hands thrust into the pockets of his jeans. His jaw moved rhythmically as he chewed.

She took off her coat and hung it over a chair, then she sat down. "We can't hope to go further today in this blizzard. We'd better find an hotel." "We can go on if you want to, ma'am. I'm used to driving in the snow."

She looked at her watch. The time was 15.15. She yearned for the luxury of the Adlon hotel. She longed to sink into a hot, relaxing bath and then rest on a bed until dinner time. She realized she couldn't take Larry to the hotel, looking the way he did and without luggage. She was well known there. Then she remembered passing a store on her way to the bank. She made an instant, impulsive decision.

"Listen, Larry, I don't want to go on. I want to rest. You can't come with me to an hotel, dressed as you are." She opened her bag and took out some Swiss money. "There is a store at the end of the street: turn right as you leave here. I want you to buy yourself a dark suit, a white shirt and black tie. You will also need a lined mackintosh and shoes. You will come to the hotel as my chauffeur. Please take this money and buy these things. Will you also change at the store? Put what you have on in a suitcase." He was staring blankly at her. "But I can't do that, ma'am. It wouldn't be right. I ..."