do it.”
“Where is Mike?”
“In Berlin.”
“How soon do you want it?”
“As soon as possible.”
Cooky picked up the phone and dialed ten numbers. “The guy’s in Düsseldorf.”
He waited while the phone rang. “This is Cooky, Konrad … Fine.… There are two spots in Bonn that need your talents … Mac’s Place in Godesberg—you know where it is? Good. And an apartment. The address is … ” He looked at me. I told him and he repeated it over the phone. “I don’t know. Phones and everything, I would think. Hold on.” He turned to me and asked: “What if they find something?”
I thought a moment. “Tell him to leave them in, but to tell you where they are.”
“Just leave them, Konrad. Don’t bother them. Call me when you’re through and give me a rundown. Now, how much?” He listened andthen asked me: “You go for a thousand marks?” I nodded. “O.K. A thousand. You can pick it up from me. And the key to the apartment, too. Right. See you tomorrow.”
He hung up the phone and reached for a convenient bottle.
“He does my place once a week,” he said. “I got a little suspicious once because of some phone noise when one of the pigeons was calling.”
“Find anything?” I asked.
He nodded. “The pigeon lost her job. I had to find her another.”
He took a gulp of Scotch and chased it with another of milk. “Mike in a jam?”
“I don’t know.”
Cooky looked up at the ceiling. “Remember a little girl named Mary Lee Harper? Used to work downtown. She was from Nashville.”
“Vaguely.”
“She used to work for a guy named Burmser.”
“And?”
“Well, Mary Lee and I became friendly. Very friendly. And one night, after X-number of Martinis, right here in this place, Mary Lee started to talk. She talked about the nice man, Mr. Padillo. I gave her some more Martinis. She didn’t remember talking the next morning. I assured her she hadn’t. But Mary Lee’s back in Nashville now. She left quite suddenly.”
“So you know.”
“As much as I want to. I told Mike I knew, and I also told him that if he needed anything …” Cooky let it trail off. “I guess he decided he did.”
“What’s Burmser besides what it says in his little black cardcase?” Cooky looked thoughtfully into his drink. “A tough number. He’d sell his own kid if he thought the market was right. Ambitious, you might say. And ambition in his line of work can be tricky.”
Cooky sighed and got up. “Since I’ve been here, Mac, the littlepigeons have told me a number of things. You can add them up and it comes out shit. There was this pigeon from the Gehlen organization who talked and talked and talked one night. She—never mind.” He walked into the kitchen and returned with another glass of milk and another half-tumbler of Scotch. “If you see Mike—you are, aren’t you?” I nodded. “If you see him, tell him to play it cozy. I’ve heard a couple of things in the last few days. They don’t add up and I don’t want to be cryptic. Just tell Mike that it sounds messy.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“More coffee?”
“No. Thanks for getting the guy to check us out. Here’s a key to my apartment. I’ll tell Horst to send you a thousand.”
Cooky smiled. “No hurry. You can give it to me when you get back.”
“Thanks.”
“Take it easy,” Cooky said at the door, the faint smile threatening to turn into a grin.
I drove home. Nobody with a Luger was in the apartment. There were no fat little men with shabby brief cases and brown trusting eyes or cold-faced policemen with starched shirts and overly clean fingernails. Just me. I picked up my suitcase, opened it on the bed and packed, leaving room for two bottles of Scotch. I started to close it, then walked over to the dresser and took a Colt .38 revolver from its clever hiding place under my shirts. It was a belly-gun. I put it in the suitcase, closed the hasps, went out to my car, and drove off to Düsseldorf feeling
“Where is Mike?”
“In Berlin.”
“How soon do you want it?”
“As soon as possible.”
Cooky picked up the phone and dialed ten numbers. “The guy’s in Düsseldorf.”
He waited while the phone rang. “This is Cooky, Konrad … Fine.… There are two spots in Bonn that need your talents … Mac’s Place in Godesberg—you know where it is? Good. And an apartment. The address is … ” He looked at me. I told him and he repeated it over the phone. “I don’t know. Phones and everything, I would think. Hold on.” He turned to me and asked: “What if they find something?”
I thought a moment. “Tell him to leave them in, but to tell you where they are.”
“Just leave them, Konrad. Don’t bother them. Call me when you’re through and give me a rundown. Now, how much?” He listened andthen asked me: “You go for a thousand marks?” I nodded. “O.K. A thousand. You can pick it up from me. And the key to the apartment, too. Right. See you tomorrow.”
He hung up the phone and reached for a convenient bottle.
“He does my place once a week,” he said. “I got a little suspicious once because of some phone noise when one of the pigeons was calling.”
“Find anything?” I asked.
He nodded. “The pigeon lost her job. I had to find her another.”
He took a gulp of Scotch and chased it with another of milk. “Mike in a jam?”
“I don’t know.”
Cooky looked up at the ceiling. “Remember a little girl named Mary Lee Harper? Used to work downtown. She was from Nashville.”
“Vaguely.”
“She used to work for a guy named Burmser.”
“And?”
“Well, Mary Lee and I became friendly. Very friendly. And one night, after X-number of Martinis, right here in this place, Mary Lee started to talk. She talked about the nice man, Mr. Padillo. I gave her some more Martinis. She didn’t remember talking the next morning. I assured her she hadn’t. But Mary Lee’s back in Nashville now. She left quite suddenly.”
“So you know.”
“As much as I want to. I told Mike I knew, and I also told him that if he needed anything …” Cooky let it trail off. “I guess he decided he did.”
“What’s Burmser besides what it says in his little black cardcase?” Cooky looked thoughtfully into his drink. “A tough number. He’d sell his own kid if he thought the market was right. Ambitious, you might say. And ambition in his line of work can be tricky.”
Cooky sighed and got up. “Since I’ve been here, Mac, the littlepigeons have told me a number of things. You can add them up and it comes out shit. There was this pigeon from the Gehlen organization who talked and talked and talked one night. She—never mind.” He walked into the kitchen and returned with another glass of milk and another half-tumbler of Scotch. “If you see Mike—you are, aren’t you?” I nodded. “If you see him, tell him to play it cozy. I’ve heard a couple of things in the last few days. They don’t add up and I don’t want to be cryptic. Just tell Mike that it sounds messy.”
“I’ll do that,” I said.
“More coffee?”
“No. Thanks for getting the guy to check us out. Here’s a key to my apartment. I’ll tell Horst to send you a thousand.”
Cooky smiled. “No hurry. You can give it to me when you get back.”
“Thanks.”
“Take it easy,” Cooky said at the door, the faint smile threatening to turn into a grin.
I drove home. Nobody with a Luger was in the apartment. There were no fat little men with shabby brief cases and brown trusting eyes or cold-faced policemen with starched shirts and overly clean fingernails. Just me. I picked up my suitcase, opened it on the bed and packed, leaving room for two bottles of Scotch. I started to close it, then walked over to the dresser and took a Colt .38 revolver from its clever hiding place under my shirts. It was a belly-gun. I put it in the suitcase, closed the hasps, went out to my car, and drove off to Düsseldorf feeling
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