Gebhart looked confused by the remark.
“I cannot give up the things I have been taught. It even troubles me to give you a message which might cause violence.”
“Let me tell you something, Werner, I used to have this recurring dream. In the dream I would find Vierhaus tied up in different places here in New York. I would be carrying a cage full of hungry rats and I would spread cheese all over him and then I’d let the hungry rats loose on him and watch them literally gnaw him to death. I had that dream a lot for a while and whenever I had it, I’d wake up all sweaty and out of breath. Then as time went on, I had it less and less and finally it went away and I started dreaming about Jenny. Nice dreams at first but then they went sour, too. The Nazis had her and there was this great pane of glass between us and I couldn’t break that glass. And what they were doing to her was even worse than what I did to Vierhaus. Pretty soon I started having the rat dream again. It was like waves in the ocean. For five years it’s been either one or the other. When I start to get complacent, the rat dream comes back. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I have mixed feelings about all this. I’ve never killed anyone, except in the war. I have no compulsion to kill anyone, not even this Siebenundzwanzig, so other factors enter into it. I respect your religious beliefs, Werner, but you have to respect the way I feel.”
Keegan stood up and motioned Gebhart to follow him.
“Come here, I want to show you something.”
He led Gebhart through the apartment and pulled open one of the French doors. They went out on the balcony. The cold air stirred them both. Keegan turned up the collar of his jacket. His steamy breath was whisked away by the wind. He felt a sudden rush of relief. Now finally, he was shed of the fear of not knowing. Now that part of it was over. But with the relief came a great burden of guilt and there was nothing he could do about that. He would have to learn to live with it.
He pointed to the street below.
“I grew up down there,” Keegan said with obvious pride. “That was my front yard, that street right below you. I went to what you call upper school, we call it high school, right up the street about four blocks. A very hard place, Werner. Down there, if some guy does something to you, you do back to him only twice as bad. The reason is simple: he won’t bother you anymore, he’ll go pick on somebody else. You might call that an eye for an eye or two eyes for an eye or whatever you want to call it, Werner. I call it survival. And if you want to survive down there, you learn three things real fast. You never squeal on a pal. You never go back on your word. And you always pay your markers—your debts. I suppose that’s the closest thing to a religion I’ve got. So I’ll tell you right now, I’m going to find this Twenty-seven. I don’t know how, I don’t even know where to begin, but I’ll find him and when I do. . . then I’ll decide.”
But in his heart, Keegan knew that if he found 27 he would most certainly kill him. Not because he was a threat to the U.S. or because he was a Nazi superspy. Keegan would kill him because he owed Avrum. And Jenny. And, in the end, because he owed it to himself.
Keegan was surprised at how fast he got from the cashier to the manicurist to the owner of the shop, who was also the barber, and finally to the man himself. He recognized the high-pitched, hoarse, voice immediately.
“Who you say this is again?”
“It’s Frankie Kee, Mr. Costello. You remember me?” “Yeah, I remember you. You still drivin’ that Rolls?”
“I switched to a twelve-cylinder Packard.”
“So you’re that Frankie Kee.”
“One and the same.”
“I heard you was outa the country.”
“I’m back.”
“You was where, Germany?”
Costello obviously kept in touch. He was a man who never forgot information, no matter how unimportant it might seem. It went into the old memory bank and stayed there.
“That’s right.”
“What were you doin’ over there?”
“Hating Hitler.”
Costello broke out laughing, then yelped. “Jesus, Tony, you almost cut my throat. . well I can’t help it, the guy made me laugh. . . you, Frankie Kee, you almost got my throat cut for me.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know you were getting a shave.”
“Okay, you’re back. What’s your problem?”
“Mr. C., my problem is I’m lookin’ for a guy and I’ve got almost nothing to go on.”
“This guy one of ours?”
“No. He’s a European. Nothing to do with the business.”
“So why you come to me?” There was a touch of irritation in his husky voice.
“Because I need a name. Somebody who can keep his mouth shut and can give me some pointers, like how to find somebody who doesn’t want to be found.”
“This is personal, am I right?”
“Very personal.”
“I heard you never packed a heater.”
“That’s true.”
“This ain’t any of my business, but this guy you’re lookin’ to hire, does he have to do anything else? I mean, if he turns this noogle up, do you want him to do anything else for you?”
“I want to turn him up, Mr. C. All I want to know is how to go about it.”
“Must be real personal,” Costello said with a chuckle.
“You hit it on the button.”
There was a pause, a long pause. Vaguely in the background he could hear the sound of a razor being drawn across a whiskered face, the sound of an emery board on fingernails and, way in the background, H. V. Kaltenborn was delivering his daily news broadcast on the radio. Finally Costello spoke again.
“It could cost you a bundle, the guy I got in mind.”
“The cost doesn’t figure in.”
“Jesus, you really do want this guy bad. You got a pencil handy?”
“Right.”
“Eddie Tangier. Gramercy 5-6608. It’s a candy store on the East Side. They’ll take a message. You can use my name.”
“Thanks. That’s one I owe you.”
“You’re okay, Frankie Kee, I’ll remember that. Maybe someday you hear from me.”
“Grazie. Addio.”
“Addio.”
At four o’clock a man entered the saloon. He stood in the doorway for a moment, a hazy shape, haloed by sharp sunlight from outside. He was short and square, a boxy little man who kept his hands in his overcoat pockets as he strolled slowly around the room, checking the booths. He went to the back, opened the men’s room door with one hand, leaned over and looked under the booth doors. He did the same with the ladies’ room, then went back to the front. A moment later a second man, a slender man nearly six feet tall dressed in black, entered followed by two others who stood on either side of the entrance like palace guards.
Keegan sat in his rear booth reading the afternoon paper. He watched the little drama at the door with casual interest, then turned back to the tabloid.
The tall man in black walked cautiously toward the booth. He did everything cautiously. 1-le walked cautiously, he looked around cautiously, he talked cautiously and he sat down as if he expected the seat to be cushioned with nails. He was a dapper man with a pencil mustache and he wore a vested suit under a black chesterfield coat. He walked down the length of the bar, stopped at its corner and stared across the room at Keegan before he finally approached the booth.
“Frankie Kee?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
He sat across from Keegan, shook out his shoulders and stared at him for ten or fifteen seconds. Then he smiled.
“Eddie Tangier.” His voice was low and soft, almost a monotone.
“Thanks for coming.”
“This your joint?”
“It’s one of my enterprises.”
“One of my enterprises, I like that. That uptown talk tickles me to death. So . . . ?“