The Hunt

“Donny Ebersole.”

“Donny Ebersole!”

“What’s the matter with Donny Ebersole?”

“Donny Ebersole. He’s . . . so. . . little. He’s not as tall as you are.”

“Size has nothing to do with it,” Vanessa snapped back.

“Was it . . . fun?”

“Not the first time.”

“You did it more than once?”

“Well, once you start what’s the difference? I mean, we just did it all the way through the holiday, Deenie. And yes, it was a lot of fun.”

“I just always figured I’d wait until I got married.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Deenie, grow up! This is 1933.” She thought for a moment, then added, “Maybe we ought to leave. Take a cab around town for a while, then come back.”

“Will they let us in upstairs without escorts?”

“Oh, who knows?” Vanessa said, obviously getting annoyed by Deenie’s constant blathering.

They were both aware that most of the men at the bar were staring at them, and why not? They were both gorgeous women and Vanessa was wearing what she called her “shimmy” dress, a white, form-fitting number, covered with rhinestones, that ended above the knee. She glittered like a handful of polished diamonds and when she walked the shimmering garment turned every step into an invitation. A rhinestone tiara topped off the package. Vanessa suddenly felt oppressed by the crowded room.

“I am not going to waste this evening on these two jerks,” she said. “Come on, let’s leave and come back a little later. Maybe they’ll get the idea and leave.”

“What if they don’t?”

“We’ll snub them when we come back.”

“Vanessa!”

“Deenie, will you kindly please just grow up

“At least we should wait until they come back. That’s the right thing to do.”

“Deenie, if you keep doing the right thing all your life, you’re going to be a virgin when you’re fifty.”

At the bar, Keegan waited impatiently for the chorus to finish its work. A voice behind him said, “Francis?” He turned to find Bert Rudman, a reporter for the Herald Tribune, standing behind him. Rudman was one of their better-known correspondents, a good writer relegated at first to personality pieces, lately spending more time on European politics. They had known each other briefly in France during the war and had renewed their friendship during the year Keegan had been in Europe, bumping into each other all over the continent. A pretty boy who looked ten years younger than the thirty-five he claimed to be, Rudman was wearing a leather trenchcoat with the collar turned up and a brown fedora.

“I thought that was you,” Rudman said. “Haven’t seen you since that terrible bash in Rome.”

“The Italians throw the worst parties in Europe.”

“No, the Russians throw the worst parties in Europe.”

“The Russians don’t throw parties at all, Bert. It’s against the law to enjoy yourself in Russia.”

“Speaking of parties, are you going down to Bavaria for the Runstedts’ boar hunt this weekend?”

“My horse is running at Longchamp. I’ll be in Paris.”

“He’s been doing well,” Rudman said. “I’ve been following him.”

“I’ve made a little money on him this season. If he shows anything in Paris, I might try him out in the States.”

“You mean you’d actually go home?” Rudman was surprised. He had heard all the rumors about Keegan. Some, like the bootlegger story, he believed simply because he had met Keegan in an army hospital on the Western Front when the kid was barely eighteen and stone broke. Now he was a millionaire. It had to come from someplace. The fact that he thought his friend was an ex-gangster only made Keegan’s friendship more alluring. But Rudman feared if he pried too deeply into Keegan’s personal life it would damage their Friendship. Keegan was aware of Rudman’s caution and while he would never have held it against the newspaperman if he did pry a little, he let Rudman think it would.

“Just long enough to run him at Belmont and Saratoga,” said Keegan. “See how he shows up. I’ve got a little filly coming along who’ll wear him out in another two years. What brings you to Berlin, anyway?”

“Three guesses,” the reporter answered, looking around the room at the swastikas. He leaned forward and spoke directly into Keegan’s ear. “My editor in Paris thinks World War Two is going to start here sometime in the next five minutes.”

“Here in this saloon?”

“In Berlin, schmuck.”

“Incidentally, you ought to get rid of that coat, everybody’ll think you’re with the Schutzstaffel.”

“That’s very funny, Francis. This coat cost me a month’s salary.”