bat the breeze some more, but Mike had some sort of deadline to meet.
Ordinarily Quint wasn’t much of one to drink alone, and he liked the other’s companionship and knew that Mike liked his. As a matter of fact, Mike was envious of what must of looked to him like an easy way of making a living, and a good living at that, but it wasn’t a spiteful envy. They were as good friends as Quint ever became friends with anyone.
He thought about that. There were friends and friends. There was probably no one in the foreign colony of Madrid with more surface friends than Quentin Jones. People like Martha Dempsey, who called him one of her special boy friends. People like Joe Garcia, who could be called upon to do the minor favors. People like Dave Shepherd, the expatriate American homosexual who lived in Spain because they were more tolerant of his breed than at home.
But how many friends did he have who’d be there in the clutch?
He waved to the waiter for a refill.
How many? Probably Mike was the nearest thing to it. All his alleged charm didn’t buy him loyalty in the clutch, loyalty when all the chips were down.
He took up his new drink. Hell, face it, he wasn’t going to get any work done today. It was already well past five o’clock, and he’d had too many drinks. He should have known better than to start before lunch. Ordinarily, he never drank until afternoon. How’d he get started?
Oh, yeah. That scuffle with the damned Spanish detective. It had unnerved him, and he’d taken a shot of cognac. Foul it, he’d never get back to work today.
He grunted in self-deprecation. Today? If he didn’t look out, he’d wind up on one of his three day binges and louse up the whole week. Steve Black, his agent, would hit the roof. He had his work cut out, keeping Quint on the mark.
Quint grunted, remembering the last time. Afterward Steve had insisted that he do up about a dozen columns, timeless columns that could be slipped in upon emergency. Bits that had nothing to do with current events but dwelt on the American Civil War, changing fashion, eating habits throughout the world, or some such.
So now Steve had the dozen columns on hand, just in case. So if Quint went on a bender, the cash customers wouldn’t complain as they had in the past. Quint’s column always came through, be he drunk or sober.
The waiter filled his glass without needing to be asked.
Quint sent his eyes around the room. One of the tarts across from him was trying to catch his eye. She must have been a newcomer. All the old hands knew Quint wasn’t a John. He grunted cynically. They probably all figured he was queer. In actuality, the very thought of bought love turned his stomach. He wasn’t morally opposed to prostitution. It was just not for him.
So far as the morality of it was concerned, he was of the opinion that the world we live in was such that there was a need for women who sold that which ideally should only be given. Given such a requirement, and if professional weren’t provided, then amateurs or, even worse, rape victims, would fill the need.
Foul It! He ought to get back to the apartment and try to concentrate on work. This thing developing might put him in a position to do some really revealing columns. He was in on what might turn into a world scandal, and in on the very bottom floor. Didn’t he have any newspaperman’s instinct?
He grunted sarcastically. As a matter of fact, he didn’t. He didn’t give a damn about newswork. It was just a job, writing this column of his. A job that he had
He dragged his mind back to Mike Woolman and the case. Let’s think about that for awhile, damn it. Let’s think about that.
Only parts of it made sense. It tied in with the Cold War. An after-effect of the Second World War. Some of the old Nazi team had died in action, some had committed suicide like Hitler, Goebbels, and Himmler, some had been hung, like Jodl and Ribbentrop, some had been imprisoned, like Hess. Some had been turned scott free like Von Papen, Schacht, and, after a token prison term, Krupp. Others had skipped the country and remained in safety —for a time—like Eichmann. And some had disappeared, like Bormann, Mueller and this Doktor Stahlecker, the last of whom he had never heard of before, but who was evidently one of Hitler’s closest.
There was something cynically amusing about these Nazi greats of yesteryear, coming up now to haunt their conquerors. Martin Bormann, who had always been more hated by his fellow associates of Hitler, than he had been known to the West, was now in a position to wreak more evil upon the world than he had in his role as Nazi power behind the throne.
So East and West had their agents in Madrid, looking for the elusive Martin Bormann. And something had been expected to happen there at the Dempsey party. What? Quint grunted. While he hadn’t noticed, the knowledgeable waiter had brought the Fundador bottle and left it at the American’s elbow.
Quint didn’t like that. What did the sonofabitch think he was, some drunk? Hell, he’d just had enough to get his mind working clearly. Let’s get back to the problem. With luck, he might figure it all out. He chuckled to himself, even as he poured another quick one. Foul it, but that’d be something. He’d wrap it all up and present the whole thing to good old Mike. Best pal he had in Madrid. Only pal.
He’d wrap it all up and give it to Mike and Mike would have a scoop. Ooops. That wasn’t the word. Those in the know never called it a scoop. They called it a beat. They said scoop only in the movies. If you knew what it was all about, you called it a beat.
He poured another slug. Most people couldn’t drink this much without getting stoned. They didn’t have the practice. Back in the States you had to be a millionaire to be able to afford to get the practice. In Spain where you could buy top liquor for less than a dollar a bottle, any American could afford to get plenty of practice.
Not that that was why Quint Jones was in Spain. Hell no. Back in the old days, maybe, he’d live in places like Spain and Mexico and Tangier, and Greece, because living was cheap and drinking was cheap, and making a living was hard if you were in the writing game—or wanted to be. But that wasn’t the way it was now. Hell, Quentin Jones could walk right into the Club 21, or wherever, and order until dawn and it wouldn’t make a dent in his bank account.
In fact, he didn’t know what the hell he wanted with all the money. He sure as hell didn’t spend it. Especially since over here he didn’t even have to pay income taxes. Hell, he saved more on income taxes than he used to have as income.
That was the trouble. Well, one of the troubles. Now he had all the scratch in the world and what did he do with it? He sat on it. That’s what he did. Kept it in the bank. He didn’t need a lot of money. His tastes didn’t run to big cars, or estates in Florida, or a yacht, or whatever it was you were supposed to spend your money on when you finally had it made. All he wanted was to kind of take it easy and not have to worry about where the next meal was coming from, and be able to observe the world and what was going on, and all.
But, he’d be damned if he liked this deal he’d got himself into. Being a wise guy on a three times a week assembly line basis. He hadn’t been able to make the grade doing the sort of stuff he wanted to do, so he wound up being bitch-clever in a column. Quentin Jones, the poor man’s Will Rogers, the hip generation’s Mark Twain—or something like that.
Damn it, he had to think about this big deal so he could wrap it all up and hand it over to good old Mike so he’d have a scoop. Ooops, a beat.
There was only one thing that didn’t ring true. So great Brett-Home set it all up so that something was going to happen at that party. What was going to happen? What the hell, probably Martin Bormann was going to turn up, and somebody there would recognize him from the old days.
But why was that feisty Hungarian Ferencsik necessary to the scheme? Answer me that, foul it. He poured another hooker of Fundador. The bottle was getting low, and he considered the fact owlishly. That lousy waiter must have left him a half full bottle.
Somewhere here the tide ebbed out.
