Read Online Carousel by J. Robert Janes - Free Book Online

sausage, lentils, cabbage and beer. Bread and borsch on the side.’
    Poised on the balls of his tiny feet, Rudi Sturmbacher took the order with gusto. A Brown Shirt from the days of the Munich Putsch, a man with fists – a survivor – he had received his just reward.
    Chez Rudi’s was on the Champs-Élysées just across the avenue from the Lido through the naked branches of the chestnut trees. Right in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe itself – well, almost. A bustling place, now in its mid-morning quietude.
    The ham-fat fingers stopped their scribbling. The small, pale-blue eyes blinked up and out from their red rims under thatches of ripened flax.
    At 166 kilos Rudi wasn’t losing any weight. Paris had been good. So, too, his little Julie and Yvette who took such care of their ‘big’ Rudi. Big in the loins.
    Greed and larceny brightened his eyes. A student of the black market, Hermann could usually be ‘touched’ when necessary, but Hermann had cut himself. Mein Gott, the whip, it could do wonders!
    â€˜And for your “friend”, my Hermann?’ fluted the mountain, enjoying the sight of the stitches and the gossip they’d entail. ‘I regret there is no asparagus.’
    â€˜What? No limp asparagus?’ shouted Kohler. ‘ Gott im Himmel , Rudi, I thought all things were possible under the Third Reich?’
    The cook-proprietor let his voice fall to caution. ‘Some little things are beyond us, Hermann, but the Gestapo could always oblige?’
    â€˜And change the seasons?’ roared Kohler. ‘Give Louis the hero food, damn it! He needs feeding up.’
    Another whisper came. ‘Or cutting down to size.’
    â€˜What’s that supposed to mean?’ asked Kohler darkly.
    The grin was huge; Chez Rudi the centre of all gossip, a minefield of it. ‘That you are to enjoy your lunches, or your dinners.’
    Or your breakfasts for that matter.
    â€˜Hermann, must you?’ groaned St-Cyr when the man had departed. ‘You know how I hate coming to this place. I cannot eat in any case.’
    â€˜You’ll eat because you have to, and that’s an order.’
    â€˜The Resistance … one of these days they’ll hit it. Me, I would not like to have to scrape you off the walls.’
    â€˜Relax. Rudi’s okay. Try to get on his good side, eh? Use your charm, Louis. Oberg’s on top of the wave, remember?’
    â€˜He doesn’t eat here.’
    â€˜Of course he doesn’t but we need to. Besides, you’re out of ration tickets. Remind me to get you some.’
    Two eggs on horseback … unheard of these days unless one ate in places such as this.
    A few of the regulars sat about. An SS major was slumming with his coffee and Berliner Tageblatt , fresh in on the morning’s Junkers JU-52. Were the papers getting thinner yet again?
    A girl in a short black skirt, red silk jacket, cream blouse, gloves, chic grey-blue angora cloche and black stockings was sitting all alone over by the windows.
    A girl with short, straight jet-black hair, strong, decisive brows, good hips, lips, legs and all the rest. About twenty-two or twenty-three. On her third or fourth cup of coffee and watching the street as if the window was a mirror.
    â€˜She’s waiting for me, Louis. We’ll let her wait.’ Kohler dragged out a vial. ‘Want some?’ he asked.
    Messerschmitt Benzedrine. ‘Take a couple and we can go for a full forty-eight.’
    â€˜You’ll not be of much use to her without them. No wonder you threw up your guts!’
    â€˜Quit suffering. That rafle had to be. It was fate, Louis, just like I couldn’t avoid meeting her. Here, come on, at least take them with you.’
    He shook four of the capsules on to the red-and-white chequered tablecloth. ‘Two for you and two for me.’
    With beer. Rudi was in the kitchen. His youngest sister, Helga, slung the suds,