Page 101 of Shadow Ticket
“Some might call that supernatural,” observes Zoltán.
“Especially Chicago fans,” Hicks adds. “What’re you doin down this neck of the woods anyway, Zoli, you’re supposed to be in Budapest.”
“Business, I’ll be gone again before you know it, like Petofi in the fog. Our mutual pal Praediger has a screaming obsession with the mysterious disappearance off the dock in Hamburg—Praediger says a hundred kilos, possibly more—of raw Peruvian coca paste en route to the lab, allegedly intercepted by a gang of apportists based in Budapest with whom I have always done respectable business, transferred to a submarine, at present here in Fiume, to be delivered to points beyond, one of whose crew members is not unknown to you, a Mr. Keegan…”
“Stuffy. Him and that sub, they’re here in town? He said they might be.”
“I’m only the go-between here, as usual. Mr. Keegan seems anxious to confer with you.”
“This sub—you’ve seen it?”
“Maybe. It was at night, they told me that’s what it was. If it apported in, it was on a scale bigger than I’ve ever been comfortable working at…in any case I’m told not everybody gets to see it.”
“I went through the same routine back in M’waukee.”
Sudden screaming, followed by a tremendous crash full of jingling crystal drops and brasswork, as three partygoers sitting up in a chandelier too flimsily anchored in the ceiling to hold them for long land without injury on a conveniently located overstuffed sofa, one of whom seems to be Egon Praediger, nose merrily aglow, presently able to scramble away on hands and knees, giggling. Bruno gazes after him. “Well. So-fa, so good…”
“Congratulations,” Hicks with a touch to his hat brim, “there goes the collar of his career, he’s been after you forever.”
One of the deeper lessons of grand opera for the working gumshoe that Boynt forgot to pass on to Hicks is that even the most villainous of bass-baritones may turn out to be a nervous soul trembling with anxiety for the high notes just a few bars ahead. “Time to be making tracks then, ain’t it,” is how Bruno puts it.
“You’d really be better off in the Gray House,” ZvK assures him. “Trust me, I can read the future. Compared to what’s waiting for you out there on the run, the Josefstadt lockup is a suite at the Ritz.”
“My combination’s just outside,” Ace offers. “Case somebody needs a ride in a hurry.”
“You?” Bruno fooling with his hair like Hitler in the newsreels, “a free ride from you? Sure, straight into the clutches of that Austrian flatfoot you’ve no doubt been stooging for.”
“Aw, lookit, his feelings are hurt ’cause I skipped? You had me on your target list, Bruno, what was I supposed to do?”
“Maybe all that time I was trying to educate you on the sly, even about to name you as the official Deputy Al Capone of Cheese—you’re telling me you never saw it happen back in the War? C.O. gets put out of commission, wise old-timer of a sergeant steps up, brings the outfit through?”
“And me thinking I was always just cannon fodder. You coming or not?”
Takes them a while to find their way out among early departures from the all-night jollification, the reluctant, the fugitive and piratical and later,emerging somehow untouched into the yet unbroken day, bickering in whispers, looking around for their shoes, even a few drowsy advertisements for love at first sight.
“You might want to keep an eye peeled,” advises Bruno, “for anybody looks like Praediger’s posse of Inter-police down from Vienna. Any of them we can shake, so much the better.”
At the parking lot finally, “Here’s the bike, climb on in the sidecar, we’ll be on our way.”
“What happened to the Harley-Davidson?”
“Thanks for asking. I was about to bring that up. You OK in there? Good. Hang on.”
Local coppers out in the street are no happier than they ever are around here with motorcycles after dark, but as if Bruno is broadcasting do-not-disturb signals or something, the route to the elegant Hotel Bonavia remains strangely clear all the way.
“Now as to the matter of who’ll be springing for this combination here. How exactly I came by it need not detain us, but at some point I do recall passing along your name and address, and they said they’d send you an invoice. Should run you in the neighborhood of a grand, U.S.”
“Me? Somebody took your word that I’d—and, and then they just let you—ride off?”
“Your name must still work magic.”
“My daughter says you have an honest face.”
“Sure, that must be it. Thank her when you see her.”
“She might be here at the moment, if you—”
“What’s this, Boss? Branching out into the lonely hearts racket, now?”
