“You too. Mind if I ask you one question?”
“Shoot.”
“How much did you make on the Series fix?”
Rothstein laughed. “You‘ll never know, “ he answered.
Less than two weeks later, Arnold Rothstein, the great fixer, the man who devised the criminal blueprint for the Mafia, a blueprint they followed almost to the letter, was in a card game with “Titanic” Thompson and “Nigger Nate” Raymond, two West Coast gamblers. Rothstein dropped $320,000 and walked out without paying, claiming the game was rigged. An hour later he was dead with four bullet holes in his back. Nobody was ever booked for his murder. But Rothstein was good to his word, even in the grave. Nobody in the mob ever bothered Keegan again.
Francis Scott Keegan, Bootlegger to the Kings. He laughed thinking about it.
What the hell, he thought, why close the window. In retrospect he liked the view. How many people did he know who had snookered Albert Anastasia, the most dangerous man in America, and Arnold Rothstein, its greatest fixer, both in the same week, who had defied the mob and lived to tell about it and who had sold short in the market in September, two months before the bottom dropped out, and made a killing?
And anyway, this had all started because Vanessa had called him Frankie Kee. So if his conscience was having a problem dealing with her, forget it. Little girls grow up. And grow up she had. Hell, it was too late to worry about it and besides, his head was throbbing from lack of sleep and too much champagne and he was in no shape to deal with his conscience or his memories and here it was, dawn again, and every muscle in his body ached.
He scribbled a note to her and put it on the pillow beside her, then he covered her up and headed for the steam baths in the basement.
He had heard her whisper to him when she thought he was asleep. He, too, hoped she wasn’t falling in love with him.
She was a nice kid, Vanessa. Beautiful, charming. But in the two days he’d been with her, something strange had happened to him. He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about the singer, about Jenny Gould. Her voice haunted him, her eyes pierced him still.
He hoped he hadn’t fallen in love—with a German torch singer he didn’t really.
A burly blond sat behind the desk, dozing.
“Is Werner at work yet?” Keegan asked in German.
“Nein,” the young man, said shaking his head, and told him in German that the masseur was not due in for another hour. Keegan went back to the locker room, stripped, wrapped a towel around his waist and entered the empty steam room. He poured a bucket of water over the hot, glowing coals in the corner of the small room and sat with his elbows propped on his knees, letting the hissing steam urge the poisons out of his body.
He was dozing when he heard the door open and close.
Through the swirling steam he saw the little man from the embassy party, swathed in towels to cover the unfortunate hump on his back, smiling across the room at him.
“Good morning,” the little man said in almost perfect English.
“I suppose,” Keegan answered.
Was he a guest in the hotel? Keegan wondered. What was he doing here at seven in the morning? Was he following Keegan? Or was Keegan’s hangover making him a little paranoid?
Keegan couldn’t have cared less at that moment. The hangover was now a thunderstorm in his head and he was trying to avoid any kind of movement or thought.
“Have you been in Berlin long?” the humpback asked finally.
“I move around a bit, but I spend about half my time here.”
“You like Berlin then?”
“I like the chaos. Reminds me of home.”
“Chaos?”
Keegan looked over at him. “You haven’t noticed?”
“The chaos is over,” the professor said. “The Führer has the country under control.”
“Ah, that’s reassuring.”
“Are you one of those Americans who thinks Hitler is some kind of human devil?”
“I don’t think about it at all. Believe me, not at all.”
“You know what I mean.”
The little bird’s trying to get a handle on my political views, Keegan thought. What the hell’s his game?
“Chancellor Hitler’s a bit radical for a lot of Americans, how’s that?”
The professor laughed and nodded vigorously.
“A bit radical, ja, I like that. That’s quite funny.”
Keegan leaned forward and stared over at the humpback. He wiped the flat of his hand across his flat belly, sweeping away the puddles of sweat that were collecting around the towel at his waist. He smiled faintly and the smile stayed on his lips.
“And how about you, do you think he’s a bit radical?” the little man asked.
He s fishing for something, Keegan thought. Well, whatever he wants he’ll have to work for it. So Keegan did not take the bait.
“I told you, I don’t think about it. I’m your typical tourist. I spend money and give the economy a little boost, that’s all.”
“Your name is Keegan, is that correct? I saw it when you signed in at the desk.”
“Keegan. That’s correct. You are?”
“Vierhaus. Professor Wilhelm Vierhaus.”
“Pleased to meet you.”
“Keegan, Keegan. You are Ire?”
“Also correct. Irish-American. My parents both came from Ireland.”
“Ah, what part?”
So that‘s it. He figures I’m an Irish patriot, an English-hater. This guy wants something. Maybe I should play his game, lunch with the little guy. Pick his brains, subtly, of course, and pass the info on to Wally in the states, just to show him I do have feelings about what’s going on.
“Belfast,” Keegan said. “They weren’t interested in politics either.”
“Ah. And were you in the war?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“Please forgive me. Just curious. I don’t often have an opportunity to talk with Americans.”
“Yes, I was in the war. The other side.”
The professor laughed again. Keegan’s smile remained the same, a little arrogant, a little mysterious. He poured another bucket on the coal pile. Steam hissed and swirled into the room. Keegan leaned back, closed his eyes.
“I don’t suppose you have a cigarette tucked away in that pile of towels you’re wearing?” he asked the professor.
“Sorry. I left them outside.”
“Excuse me a minute.”
Keegan got up and stepped outside the steam room. He opened his locker and took out his pack of Camels and lit one. There were two men in hats standing in the hallway outside the club room, trying hard to ignore him.
He went back inside and sat down.
“Hope the smoke doesn’t bother you.”
“Not a bit, not a bit.”
“I’ve got a hangover, Professor. It may be terminal.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“That’s okay. I don’t want you to think I’m unfriendly.”
“Not at all.”
They sat in silence for a minute or two, Keegan leaning back against the wooden slats with his eyes closed, smoking, the professor sitting uncomfortably, staring at the floor.
Now what‘s he going to do? Make his play or call the game? Keegan didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“I am in charge of a small bureau. It comes under the Ministry of Information, although I pretty much am left alone. To my own devices, so to speak.”