Garden of Beasts

about two bucks, four bits, he guessed.
    Liesl took the difference to be a tip and thanked him heartily, gripping his hand in both of hers. He was afraid she’d kiss him. He didn’t know how to ask for the rest of the money back and decided to put the loss down to a lesson about German customs. With another adoring glance, Liesl left the table then instantly grew sullen at the prospect of waiting on other tables. Webber clinked his stein against Paul’s and both men drank deeply.
    Webber eyed Paul closely and said, “So. What kind of cons do you run?”
    “Cons?”
    “When I first saw you in the alley, with that gun, I thought: Ach, he’s no Soci or Kosi—”
    “What?”
    “Soci—a Social Democrat. It used to be a big politicalparty until it was outlawed. Kosis are the Communists. They’re not only outlawed; they’re dead. No, I knew you were not an agitator. You were one of us, a con runner, an artist-of-dark-dealings.” He glanced around the room. “Don’t worry. As long as we’re quiet it’s safe to talk. No microphones here. No Party loyalty either, not inside these walls. After all, a man’s dick is always more reliable than his conscience and National Socialists have no consciences to start with.” Webber persisted: “So what kind of cons?”
    “I don’t do cons. I came over for the Olympics.”
    “You did?” He winked. “There must be a new event this year that I’ve not heard of.”
    “I’m a sportswriter.”
    “Ach, a writer . . . yet one who fights Brownshirts, keeps his name to himself, walks around with a peashooter of a Luger, changes clothes to avoid pursuers. And then slicks back his hair and puts on pancake.” Webber tapped his own cheek and smiled knowingly.
    “I happened to run into some Stormtroopers attacking this couple. I stopped them. As for the Luger, it was one of theirs. I stole it.”
    “Yes, yes, so you say. . . . Do you know Al Capone?”
    “Of course not,” Paul said, exasperated.
    Webber sighed loudly, genuinely disappointed. “I follow American crime. Many of us do, here in Germany. We are always reading crime shockers—novels, you understand? Many are set in America. I followed with great interest the fate of John Dillinger. He was betrayed by a woman in a red dress and shot down in an alley after they’d been to the cinema. I think it was good he saw the film before they killed him. He died with that small pleasure within him. Though it would have been better yethad he seen the film, gotten drunk, bedded the woman and then been shot. That would have been a perfect death. Yes, I think that, despite what you say, you are a real mobster, Mr. John Dillinger. Liesl! Beautiful Liesl! More beer here! My friend is buying two more.”
    Webber’s stein was empty; Paul’s was three-quarters full. He called to Liesl, “No, not for me. For him only.”
    As she disappeared toward the bar she tossed Paul another adoring look, the brightness in her eyes, the slim figure reminding him of Marion. He wondered how she was, what she was doing at the moment, which would be six or seven hours earlier in America. Call me, she’d said in their last conversation, thinking he was bound for Detroit on business. Paul had learned you could actually place a telephone call across the Atlantic Ocean but it cost almost $50 a minute. Besides, no competent button man would think of leaving such evidence of his whereabouts.
    He looked over the Nazis in the audience: some SS or soldiers in their immaculate black or gray uniforms, some businessmen. Most were tipsy, some were well into their afternoon drunks. All smiled gamely but seemed bored as they watched a very unsexy sex show.
    When the waitress arrived she did indeed have two beers. She set one in front of Webber, whom she otherwise ignored, and said to Paul, “You may pay for your friend’s but yours is a present from me.” She took his hand and placed it around the handle of the stein. “Twenty-five pfennigs.”
    “Thank you,” he said, reflecting that the extra marks from the fiver would probably have bought him a keg. He gave her a mark this time.
    She shivered with pleasure, as if he’d slipped her a diamondring. Liesl kissed his forehead. “Please enjoy.” And headed off again.
    “Ach, you got the familiar discount. Me, I have to pay fifty. Of course, most foreigners pay a mark seventy-five.”
    Webber drained a third of the stein. He wiped the residue from his mustache with the back of his arm and