Garden of Beasts

Madness!”
    “My father’s plant was right on the river in Brooklyn. It had a dock and a large warehouse for storing paper and the finished jobs. One of the gangs wanted to take it over and use it to store whisky they’d smuggle in from the harbor. My father said no. A couple of thugs came to see him one day. They beat up my brother and, when myfather still resisted, they put his arms in our big letterpress.”
    “Oh, no, my friend.”
    Paul continued. “He was mangled badly. He died a few days later. And my brother and mother sold the plant to them the next day for a hundred dollars.”
    “So you were out of work and you fell in with a difficult crowd?” Webber nodded.
    “No, that’s not what happened,” Paul said softly. “I went to the police. They weren’t interested in helping find these particular killers. You understand?”
    “Are you asking if I know about corrupt police?” Webber laughed hard.
    “So I found my old army Colt, my pistol. I learned who the killers were. I followed them for a week straight. I learned everything about them. And I touched them off.”
    “You—?”
    He realized that he’d translated the phrase literally; it would have no meaning in German. “We say ‘touching off.’ I put a bullet into the backs of their heads.”
    “Ach, yes,” Webber whispered, unsmiling now. “‘Snuffing,’ we’d say.”
    “Yes. Well, I also knew whom they worked for, the bootlegger who’d ordered my father tortured. I touched him off too.”
    Webber fell silent. Paul realized he’d never told the story to anyone.
    “You got your company back?”
    “Oh, no, the place had been raided by the feds, the government, before that and confiscated. As for me, I disappeared underground in Hell’s Kitchen in Manhattan. And I got ready to die.”
    “To die?”
    “I’d killed a very important man. This mob leader. I knew that his associates or someone else would come to find me and kill me. I’d covered my tracks very well, the police wouldn’t get me. But the gangs knew I was the one. I didn’t want to lead anybody to my family—my brother’d started his own printing company by then—so instead of going back into business with him I took a job in a gym, sparring and cleaning up in exchange for a room.”
    “And you waited to die. But I can’t help but notice that you’re still extremely alive, Mr. John Dillinger. How did that transpire?”
    “Some other men—”
    “Gang leaders.”
    “—heard what I’d done. They hadn’t been happy with the man I’d killed, the way he’d done business, like torturing my father and killing policemen. They thought criminals should be professionals. Gentlemen.”
    “Like me,” Webber said, thumping his chest.
    “They heard how I’d killed the gangster and his men. It had been clean, with no evidence left behind. And no one innocent was hurt. They asked me to do the same to another man, another very bad man. I didn’t want to but I found out what he’d done. He’d killed a witness and the man’s family, even his two children. So I agreed. And I touched him off too. They paid me a lot of money. Then I killed someone else. I saved up the money they paid me and bought a small gym. I was going to quit. But do you know what it means to get into a rut?”
    “Indeed I do.”
    “Well, this rut has been my life for years. . . .” Paul fell silent. “So that’s my story. All truth, no lies.”
    Finally Webber asked, “It bothers you? Doing this for a living?”
    Paul was silent for a moment. “It should bother me more, I think. I felt worse touching off your boys during the war. In New York, I only touch off other killers. The bad ones. The ones who do what those men did to my father.” He laughed. “I say that I’m only correcting God’s mistakes.”
    “I like that, Mr. John Dillinger.” Webber nodded. “God’s mistakes. Oh, we’ve got a few of those around here, yes, we do.” He finished his beer. “Now, it’s Saturday. A difficult time to get information. Meet me tomorrow morning at the Tiergarten. There is a small lake at the end of Stern Alley. On the south side. What time would be good for you?”
    “Early. Say eight.”
    “Ach, very well,” Webber said, frowning. “That is early. But I will be on the moment.”
    “There’s one more thing I need,” Paul said.
    “What? Whisky? Tobacco? I can even find some cocaine. There’s not much left in town. Yet I—”
    “It’s not for me. It’s for a woman. A