Garden of Beasts

restaurants and had elegant parties. Even costume balls, and we invited politicians and police officials. We were criminals, yes, but we were respectable. We were proud and we were skillful too. Someday I may boast to you of my better cons.
    “I don’t know much about your mob, Mr. John Dillinger—your Al Capone, your Dutch Schultz—but ours began as boxing clubs. Laborers would meet to box after work and they began protection rings. We had years of rebellion and civil unrest after the War, fighting with the Kosis. Madness. And then dreadful inflation . . . It was cheaper to burn banknotes for heat than to spend them on wood. One of your dollars would buy billions of marks. Times were terrible. We have an expression in our country: ‘The devil plays in the empty pocket.’ And all of our pockets were empty. It’s why the Little Man came to power.And it’s how I made myself a success. The world was barter and the black market. I bloomed in such an atmosphere.”
    “I can imagine,” Paul said. Then he nodded at a boarded-up cabaret. “And the National Socialists have cleaned everything up.”
    “Ach, that’s one way to put it. Depends on what you mean by ‘cleaned up.’ The Little Man isn’t right in the head. He doesn’t drink, doesn’t smoke, doesn’t like women. Or men. Watch how he holds his hat over his crotch at rallies. We say he’s protecting the last of Germany’s unemployed!” Webber laughed hard. Then the smile faded. “But it’s no joke. Thanks to him, the inmates have taken over the prison.”
    They continued in silence for a time. Then Webber stopped and pointed proudly to a decrepit building.
    “Here we are, my friend. Look at the name.”
    The faded sign read in English, The Texas Club.
    “This used to be our headquarters. Of my gang ring, the Cowboys, I was telling you. It was far, far nicer then. Watch your step, Mr. John Dillinger. There are sometimes men sleeping off hangovers in the entryway. Ach, did I lament already how times have changed?”
    •   •   •
    Webber had delivered his mysterious shopping bag to the bartender and collected an envelope.
    The room was filled with smoke and stank of garbage and garlic. The floor was littered with cigarette and cigar butts, smoked down to tiny nubs.
    “Have only beer here,” Webber warned. “They can’t adulterate the kegs. They come sealed from the brewery. As for everything else? Well, they mix the schnapps with ethyl and food extract. The wine . . . Ach, do not even ask. And as for food . . .” He nodded at sets of knives, forks andspoons chained to the wall next to each table. A young man in filthy clothing was walking around the room rinsing the used ones in a greasy pail. “Far better to leave hungry,” Webber said. “Or you might not leave at all.”
    They ordered and found seats. The bartender, staring darkly at Paul the whole time, brought beers. Both men wiped the lips of the glasses before drinking. Webber happened to glance down and then frowned. He lifted his solid leg over his opposite knee and examined his trousers. The bottom of his cuff had frayed through, threads dangling.
    He examined the damage. “Ach. And these trousers were from England! Bond Street! Well, I’ll get one of my girls to fix it.”
    “Girls? You have daughters?”
    “I may. Sons too perhaps. I don’t know. But I am referring to one of the women I live with.”
    “Women? All together?”
    “Of course not,” Webber said. “Sometimes I’m at one’s apartment, sometimes at another’s. A week here, a week there. One of them is a cook possessed by Escoffier, one sews as Michelangelo sculpted, one is a woman of considerable experience in bed. Ach, they’re all pearls, each in her own way.”
    “Do they . . .”
    “Know of each other?” Webber shrugged. “Perhaps, perhaps not. They don’t ask, I don’t say.” He leaned forward. “Now, Mr. John Dillinger. What can I do for you?”
    “I am going to say something to you, Otto. And you may choose to stand up and leave. I’ll understand if you do. Or you can stay and hear me out. If so, and if you can help me, there will be some very good money in it for you.”
    “I’m intrigued. Keep talking.”
    “I have an associate in Berlin. He just had a contact of his do some research on you.”
    “On me? I’m flattered.” And he truly seemed to be.
    “You were born in Berlin in 1886, moved to Cologne when you were twelve and back here three years later