“Taking only the essentials, I see.”
“Emergency rations,” Cooky said. “I intend to make do with the local stuff.”
He looked down at his suitcase thoughtfully, seemed to hesitate, and then took out a wicked-looking revolver with a short barrel. It was an ugly gun, designed to be used quickly and up close, not for plinking at rabbits off the back porch.
“What’s that?” I said.
“This,” he said, holding the gun delicately by its two-inch barrel, “is a Smith and Wesson .357 Magnum revolver. Note that the forward end of the trigger guard has been removed. Note, too, that the hammer spur has been eliminated, thus removing the possibility of its snagging the clothing if the weapon has to be produced quickly.” He put the revolver carefully down on the bed, fished into his suitcase again, and came up with a short leather holster.
“This was made by a good old boy from Calhoun, Mississippi, name of Jack Martin. It’s called a Berns-Martin holster. The forward edge is open, and it has a spring that passes around the cylinder of the gun to keep it snug.” He picked up the revolver and snapped it into place. “Thusly. I will shortly demonstrate.”
He took off his jacket and belt and threaded the belt through the holster. When he slipped the belt back on, the holster, with the gun, rode high on his right hip. He got into his jacket and tugged at the lapels. The gun was invisible—not even a bulge. “Now, when you wish to produce the weapon rapidly, you just swish it forward. If you’ll count to three by thousands …”
I counted “one thousand.” Cooky’s body relaxed like a loose rubber band. His right shoulder dropped slightly on the count of “two thousand,” and on “three thousand,” he swayed his hips to the left and his hand brushed away the edge of his coat. Before I finished saying “three thousand” I was looking into the barrel of the revolver. It seemed uglier than before.
“You’re fast.”
“About a half-second, maybe six-tenths. The best there is can do it in three-tenths.”
“Where did you learn it?”
Cooky replaced the gun in the holster. “In New York when I was on the flit. I was planning a showdown on Madison Avenue with my two partners. It seemed like a good idea at the time. There was an expert who took advantage of the fast-draw craze a few years back and started accepting pupils. I had it in mind to challenge Messrs. Brickwall and Hillsman of Baker, Brickhill and Hillsman to a duel. I used to lock myself in my office and practice for hours before a mirror. When I got good enough I went up to my farm in Connecticut and started target practice. It was a goddamned obsession. I must have fired fifteen or twenty thousand rounds. And finally I found the perfect target.”
“What?”
“Quart cans of tomato juice. I bought them by the case, set them up—with the ends facing me—against the barn wall, and banged away. Ever see a .357 slug open up a can of tomato juice?”
“I never have,” I said, “but, then, I’m not much on tomato juice.”
“It’s bang and wow and shleep. The goddamn stuff explodes all over everything. Looks like blood. Flattens the can out like you had snipped it open with tin shears and pounded it flat with a sledge hammer. Most satisfying.”
“But you never got satisfaction from your partners?”
“No. I spent a couple of weeks on a funny farm instead, drying out.”
Cooky closed his suitcase and slipped on his topcoat. “Shall we go?” I looked at my watch. It was nine-twenty. We were to be at the Cafe Budapest at ten. “You don’t have to go, Cooky. You’ll probably land in trouble.”
His secret-joke smile flickered for an instant. “Let’s just say that I think I’d like to come along because I’m thirty-three years old and I’ve never done anything really all the way down to the wire.”
I shrugged. “They threw Christ out of the ball game at thirty-three and He got back in. But you’re trying to make it the hard way.”
We took the elevator down and walked swiftly through the lobby. Nobody stared or pointed. John Weatherby must have been still alone and undiscovered and dead in my room. I couldn’t mourn for Weatherby because I han’t known him, although I had liked what had seemed to be a quiet competence. If anything, his death seemed to have been too casual and meaningless, as most violent deaths are. But perhaps they are better than the kind that have the dark, quiet room; the drugged pain; the whispering nurses slopping around in rubber-soled shoes; and the family and the friend or two who give a damn and who also wonder how long you’ll hold out and whether there’ll be a chance to keep that cocktail date at half-past six.
We left the Hilton and walked toward the Kaiser Wilhelm church.
“When was the last time you were in the East Sector?” Cooky asked.
“Years ago. Before the wall went up.”
“How did you go through?”
I tried to remember. “I think I was slightly tight. I recall a couple of girls from Minneapolis who were staying at the Hilton. They were with me. We just caught a cab and sailed through the Brandenburg Gate. No trouble.”
Cooky looked over his shoulder. “Things have changed. Now we foreigners go through Checkpoint Charlie on Friedrichstrasse. It could take an hour or so to get through, depending on whether the Vopos liked their dinner. You have your passport?”
I nodded.
“There used to be eighty official ways to get into East Berlin,” Cooky said. “Now there are eight. We need a car.”
“Any ideas?” I said, and looked over my shoulder.
“Rent one. There’s a place called Day and Night on Brandenburgische Strasse.”
