A Despicable Profession Book Two of the American Spy Trilogy by John Knoerle This is a work of fiction. Published By Blue Steel Press Chicago, IL [email protected] www.bluesteelpress.com First edition – first printing 2010 Copyright ©2010 by John Knoerle. All rights reserved. Cover art and design by Katherine Bennett. ISBN 978-0-9820903-0-5 Library of Congress 2010908640 Printed in the United States. Also by John Knoerle: “A Pure Double Cross, Book One of the American Spy Trilogy” “Crystal Meth Cowboys” “The Violin Player” The author would like to thank the following for their help and support: Duff Kennedy Professor Richard Münchmeier Jane Knoerle Mark A. Ward Richard Procter Jeanne Jenkins Waldemar and Gabriele Unkel Joe and Anne Schram Wolfgang and Ulrike Wagner and Mr. Helmut Lang for JJ “You talk of honor, but you are far away.” -- Prince Paul of Yugoslavia, 1942 I’m back on my well-polished barstool at The Harbor Inn. It’s July, 1946. I’ve been dubbed the ‘Little Deutsch Boy’ by the Cleveland Press. Is that dumb or what? So called because I kept my finger in the dike against the rising tide of Soviet Communism. The rising tide hasn’t receded. The Russians control everything east of “Stettin in the Baltic to Trieste in the Adriatic” as Churchill said earlier this year. But they haven’t crossed the Elbe. The local newshounds say I deserve much of the credit for that but I know different. I never met the man who was primarily responsible for stemming the tide and keeping Western Europe safe for democracy. I couldn’t tell you his name to this day. They say that history is written by great men but that’s not strictly true in my opinion. Sometimes a little man, in the wrong place at the right time, can make all the difference. Chapter One Being a hero is a rotten job. Yeah you get a lot of free drinks and claps on the back but once John Q. Public has paid and clapped he just sits there and looks at you. And looks some more, waiting for you to rescue a kitten from a tree or bend I- beams into pretzels. I’m not looking for a big payday any longer. Never was, though I didn’t know it at the time. What I was really after was some recognition for what I’d done. Got that now, in a backass way. Got my picture in the paper for shooting a bank robber, a bank robber in a bank robbery I willingly took part in. I felt lousy about that. The paper also mentioned my behind-the-lines work for the OSS during the war. I felt good about that, till those stares started boring in. Americans love their heroes, in more ways than one. The only thing they love more than seeing a hero ascend to greatness is to watch him take a header off the pedestal. I didn’t intend to give them that satisfaction. And I wanted to atone for my sins. How I intended to do that by drinking beer with my pal Wally at The Harbor Inn I couldn’t tell you. Wally’s the mail boy at FBIHQ and he keeps me up on all the scuttlebutt since the feebs and I parted company three months ago. He was making chin music about nothing and everything one Thursday in May when I noticed the flat beer. Guy next to me hadn’t touched it, which made me nervous. He was a burly man with a shiny dome, wearing a brown suit and a blue tie. Could be one of the dear departed Schooler’s armbreakers or 2 John Knoerle one of Jimmy Street’s playpals likewise, but I didn’t think so. No self-respecting mob goon wears a brown suit. I grabbed a shaker. “Throw some salt in there, it’ll kick the head up. Nothing worse than a flat beer.” The man took the salt shaker with his gun hand, the hand his beer stein handle was turned toward. That was good. “I’m Hal, this is Wally. What’s your name?” “Herbert.” This set Wally to giggling for some reason. “D’you ever hear that radio piece? When the announcer says the President of the United States?” Herbert said he had not. “He says - the announcer - he says, in his big radio voice, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States, Hoobert Heever.’” Wally collapsed into a puddle of beery mirth. I joined him. We were three sheets to the wind and if old Herbie wanted to talk to me, as I suspected, he would just have to wait till we came to our senses. It took awhile. Herbert salted his beer and didn’t drink it. He waited until Wally peglegged off to the john to say his piece, quick and quiet like. “Mr. Schroeder I work for Hendricks and Lee Construction. We’re an international concern based in New York City.” “What brings you to Cleveland?” “You do.” “Me?” “Yes sir.” “Well, I’m not much good with a hammer.” Herbert’s smile was brief. He wanted to get this said. And I wanted to hear it. It wasn’t every day that portly gentlemen from New York came calling. “Our company has major construction projects underway throughout most of the cities of Europe, with one exception. Berlin.” A Despicable Profession 3 “And Berlin, I’m guessing, is chock full of major construction opportunities.” “Yes sir.” Again with the sir. I’m 25 years old fer Chrissakes! Wally stumped out of the whizzatorium about then. He’s got a short leg from polio. Herbert picked up the pace. “You served in Germany, you speak Deutsch. You’re a hero, people know your name…” “Not in Berlin they don’t.” “They will,” said Herbert. He said it with a cool certainty. Wally heaved himself onto his barstool with a sigh and said, as always, “You don’t buy beer, you rent it.” Then he laughed. As always. “So you want a front man for your construction company. A glad-hander to open some doors.” Herbert winced at my crudity, but nodded. “Why so hush-hush?” Herbert leaned in. “We face a great deal of competition.” Wally and I looked right. We looked left. We saw only late afternoon sad sacks shelling peanuts and sounding out words in the early edition of the Press. Wally’s lower lip quivered. He was ready to bust a gut provided I provided a punch line. I declined to do so. I was getting barstool calluses on my keester. Not to mention my bank balance was lower than a snake in snowshoes. Herbert’s proposal sounded pretty ridiculous but how does that old joke go? An out-of-work jester is nobody’s fool. I needed to be somebody’s fool. I said I was interested. Herbert looked pleased, Wally did not. “And now a bottoms up toast to seal the deal.” Herbert stared forlornly at his salty beer. Sweet Rita served up two more Carlings. We poured. Wally raised his brimming stein. “A faithful friend is the medicine of life.” “Where’d you get that from?” “It’s in the Bible, dumbass.” 4 John Knoerle We clanked and chugged. Herbert raised his mug but did not partake. I shook Wally’s hand and promised to drop a postcard. Herbert poured me into a taxi. I told the hackie to drive up the block to Mrs. Brennan’s rooming house and sobered up quick. I was about to travel to New York with a guy I’d known for ten minutes. “You got a business card Herbert?” Herbert did, with raised gold lettering. Herbert W. Merckle, Vice-President of Sales, Hendricks and Lee Construction, New York, NY. “What are some of your construction projects in Europe?” He rattled off a few. They sounded plausible. “How did you hear about me?” I knew I hadn’t made the New York papers. I’d checked at the library. “We subscribe to a news clipping service.” “Who am I supposed to meet with in New York?” “The President of the company and the Executive VP of sales.” Guy had answer for everything but I was still on edge. What kind of salesman doesn’t like beer? “You didn’t join us in our toast Herbert.” Herbert patted his ample gut. “Ulcers.” Yeah, beer and ulcers, the salesman’s friends. Mrs. Brennan would be sad to see me go, ditto assorted bartenders in the greater metropolitan area. And Jeannie, I supposed, though I hadn’t seen her since she whelped her pup. A baby girl, Margaret Ann Pappas. She called to tell me. Mother and daughter were doing fine. I asked her how it felt to be a mom. Overwhelming was her reply. I asked if there was anything she needed. She paused a long time before she said a sad, crisp no. I wished her all the best and hung up the phone. It was time for Hal Schroeder to move on. At the rooming house I dumped the contents of my dresser into my beat up suitcase. I took my Walther P-38 and my folding knife from the nightstand, grabbed my penlight and my A Despicable Profession 5 lock picks, threw ‘em in my dop kit and locked up my suitcase. I shrugged into my topcoat and clumped back down the stairs to Mrs. Brennan’s kitchen. She wasn’t around. I left her a month’s rent and a note that said Gone fishin’.