More Beer

2

The Roma was one of those Italo-German Frascati joints that demonstrate what cultural exchange is all about. Amid the oak paneling and furniture, the red-and-white checked tablecloths and fluted windows, the Pope in a gold frame looked just as good on the wall as the poster of the local bowling club. Juventus Turin shared a wall with the players of the Doppenburg team, and the pickled eggplant in the glass case tolerated a display of frankfurters right next to it. The flags of both countries were attached to a string stretched across the room. The place was empty, no waiters, no patrons. I found Slibulsky in a corner, between Bello Adriano and a mounted set of elk antlers. He was grumpily studying the menu.

“You must have had a great time. I’ve been sitting here for three hours.”

I gave him a brief report. He looked at my arm and growled, “Have something to eat, my boy, and get your strength back.”

I picked a mutton dish from the menu. No waiter appeared.

“Seems like this place is a little shorthanded.”

“Once in a while you can see one pass.”

Eventually a small, friendly Italian came to the table, and I ordered. Then I lit a cigarette and waited for Slibulsky to tell me about his morning. When he remained silent, I prodded him.

“What did the night watchman tell you?”

Slibulsky tongued his toothpick into a corner of his mouth.

“He didn’t tell me anything. He wasn’t even there.”

The waiter brought two cups of coffee.

“This morning he left the house with some suitcases. That’s what the baker across the street told me. Then he went to the airport. I heard that from the cabbie.”

“He took a taxi?”

Slibulsky nodded.

“Paid with a five-hundred-mark bill.”

“And his wife?”

“Left just a little later, went to the railroad station, and took the first train to Frankfurt.”

“To buy her vodka. Is that all?”

Slibulsky gazed out the window.

“I talked to your lawyer. The ‘Freedom and Nature’ people haven’t called again.” After a pause: “Why should they? Now that there’s a warrant out for you, for murdering that guy.”

“Schmidi?”

“Right. Murder, and robbery too. There’s a police artist’s sketch of your partner that looks quite a bit like me. I’ll put it up on the wall between the Playmate and the barred window. If they allow pinups in the joint.”

My mutton arrived.

“I could turn you in. Then I might stand a chance.”

“Go ahead.”

“It would be too tacky.”

The waiter stood behind the counter, tuning the radio to the two o’clock news. The headlines were followed by a police announcement. They were looking for a Turk who spoke German without an accent and traveled in the company of a short man with curly dark hair. “… The suspects are thought to be in the Frankfurt or South Hesse area. You may call any …”

“Let’s get the check.”

Slibulsky was getting into his overcoat when the waiter came over.

“Gentlemen, please. Enjoy your meal. Don’t worry.”

He squeezed my hand.

“I’m from Naples. Beautiful city, beautiful people, but police,” he made a fist, “tutti figli di una putana!”

We sat down again. The waiter wished us guten Appetit and went back to the counter. Slibulsky growled, “Let’s do our next heist in Italy.”

“For the murder, I’ve got an alibi,” I said.

“You do?”

“Yes. It happened while we were breaking into the Criminal Investigation office.”

“That’s reassuring. So it’s breaking and entering and grand larceny. Maybe they’ll let us share a cell. You play chess?”

He looked out the window again.