The Cold War Swap (27 page)

Burmser sighed. He turned to Hatcher. “You understand.”

“It could be done,” Hatcher said. “We could leak it here and there.”

“Call them,” Burmser said.

“A few more items,” I said. “You might save a telephone call or two. First, this whole thing was expensive. It cost me a lot. And I’ve a few items hanging over me in Berlin—like Weatherby being found dead in my room. I want that cleared up. And then there’s the matter of financing this operation. Somebody blew up my saloon, and with only a little effort I could make a good case against you, but I won’t. We were overinsured anyway. Padillo saw to that. But cash out of hand amounts to—” I paused and grabbed a figure out of the air. “Fifteen thousand dollars. Cash. Small bills.”

Burmser gasped. “Where do you think I can get that kind of money?”

“That’s your problem.”

He thought a moment. “All right. Fifteen thousand. What else?”

I looked at him for a full fifteen seconds. “Remember this: I’m going to be around for a long time and, one way or another, I’ll keep track of you. And someday I may change my mind, just to do Padillo a favor. It’ll be on impulse, an idle whim maybe. But it’s something for you to think about at night or when you’re thinking about how nicely the career’s going and what the chances are for you to make GS 17 or bird colonel—whatever the grade is in your outfit. And especially when you stumble onto a real cute one that might cost somebody more than he wants to pay. Just think of me, the friendly saloon keeper, and wonder how much longer I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

Burmser got up stiffly. “Is that all?”

“That’s all.”

“They should come with us,” he said, motioning toward Symmes and Burchwood.

“That’s up to them. If you think about it, they don’t have to unless they want to.”

He thought about it and turned toward them. “Well?”

They got up together. I managed to raise myself out of the chair. They nodded shyly at me and at Fredl. I nodded back. We didn’t shake hands. They looked very young and tired and I almost felt sorry for them.

I never saw them again.

You can probably find a couple of thousand spots like Mac’s Place in New
York, Chicago or Los Angeles. They are dark and quiet with the furniture growing just a little shabby, the carpet stained to an indeterminate shade by spilled drinks and cigarette ashes, and the bartender friendly and fast but tactful enough to let it ride if you walk in with someone else’s wife. The drinks are cold, generous and somewhat expensive; the service is efficient; and the menu, although usually limited to chicken and steaks, affords very good chicken and steaks indeed.

In Washington you can walk up Connecticut from K Street and turn left after a couple of blocks or so and find Mac’s Place. It might have a slight aura of sauerkraut, but the head bartender speaks a very bright line of chatter and cruises around town in a prewar Lincoln Continental. The maître d’ is of the old school and runs the place with the firm hand of a Prussian martinet, which he used to be.

The owner, a little grayer and spreading a bit in the paunch, usually arrives around ten-thirty or eleven, and his eyes dart toward the bar, and he has been told that there is a slight look of disappointment in them because whoever he’s looking for is never there. And sometimes, on rainy days, he goes to the bar and pulls down the Pinch bottle and has a couple by himself, waiting for the luncheon trade. He usually has
lunch with a blonde who looks something like a younger Dietrich and who, he says, is his wife. But they seem to like each other too much for that.

If you went to the bother, you could check the liquor license and learn that it’s made out to the owner, whose name is McCorkle, and to a man named Michael Padillo, whose address is listed as a suite in the Mayflower Hotel; but if you call there they’ll tell you that Mr. Padillo is out of town.

Once the owner got a postcard from Dahomey in West Africa. All it said was “Well,” and it was signed with a “P.” After that the same advertisement started to appear in the Personal Columns of the
Times
of London every Tuesday. It reads:

MIKE
: AD is forgiven. Come

home. The Christmas Help.