The Hunt

“That’s right,” she said brightly. “Should I remember you?”

“Probably not,” he said and let the subject die. “What are you two doing in this place?”

“We came to see the show. The one upstairs. Our dates are absolute dinosaurs. Personally I think they’re afraid to go up.”

“Hardly the place for proper Bostonians,” Keegan said.

“Who said anything about being proper?” Vanessa’s green eyes worked over every line in his face. There was no doubting her intentions.

Jesus, Keegan thought, here I am in the worst den of iniquity in Europe and the daughter of the president of the Bank of Massachusetts is sending out very definite signals. She had turned into a real dish. Big trouble, but a real dish. His dilemma ended abruptly with the arrival of their dates.

“What’s going on?” one of them demanded in a voice that sounded like it was pitched an octave lower than normal. Vanessa turned to him, linked her arm in Keegan’s and said, “We’ve just run into an old friend.”

“Oh?”

“Francis, this is Donald, this is Gerald. Donald has blond hair, Gerald has brown hair. That’s how you tell them apart.”

“Take it easy,” Keegan growled under his breath. He held out his hand.

“I’m Frank Keegan,” he said, “friend of the family.”

Donald, the blond, shook hands, then stuffed his in his pockets and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. Gerald, who was built like a football player, was more aggressive.

“We’ve decided to go to the Speisewagen for breakfast,” he said, ignoring Keegan’s hand. “A lot of the gang will be there.”

“I’m sick of the gang,” Vanessa answered. “We’re going upstairs.”

“C’mon,” Donald whined. “Your old man’ll nail us to the wall if he finds out we took you up there.”

Vanessa looked at Keegan for support. “Is it that bad?”

“Pretty risque,” he said.

“How risque?”

“About as risque as it gets.”

“See?” Donald said.

“Well, we just won’t tell him.”

“No!” Donald said firmly. “They’ll find out. Parents always find out those things.”

“Donald,” Vanessa said firmly, “get lost.” And she turned her back on him.

As Donald started toward her, three burly Nazi youths in brown shirts walked by. One of them slammed into Gerald’s back. He turned angrily toward them.

“Watch it, buddy,” the football-type snarled. The brown- shirt bristled. He turned to his two friends, scowling, and said, “Buddy . . buddy. . Was ist los, buddy, eh? ” He turned back to Gerald and leaning against him forced him back against the bar.

“Schweinehund,” he said viciously.

Gerald shoved back.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said to nobody in particular.

“I think he called you a pig,” Deenie said without thinking.

“Just a minute Keegan started, but Gerald was already bristling from the insult.

“Well, tell him he’s a goddamn clown in that Boy Scout uniform,” he said. “1 can take all three of these assholes with one hand behind my back. We’ll just step outside and

Vanessa covered her eyes with her hand. “Oh my God,” she moaned, “he thinks he’s back on fraternity row.”

Keegan waved Herman over to the bar and whispered quickly, “Get these brownshirts away from here or you’re going to have a riot on your hands. Give ‘em a free pitcher of beer, anything.”

Herman flashed his most sincere smile and herded the three Germans back into the club, jabbering in German as he did.

“Let me tell you something, boys,” Keegan said coldly. “These guys have all the nickels on their side of the table. Do you understand the situation here?”

“We’re Americans,” Donald said with bravura, “we don’t have to take this stuff.”

Keegan kept talking.

“These people have the heart of a weasel, the soul of a

rutabaga and pure muscle between the ears. They work in packs.