The Hunt

“My God,” he said finally, “you’re not Vannie Bromley!”

“Vanessa Bromley,” she corrected. “Nobody’s called me Vannie since my sixteenth birthday.”

“That makes us even. Nobody’s called me Frankie for a couple of years, either. Where did you hear that name, anyway?”

“Daddy,” she said. “I was eavesdropping after a party once and he was telling mother all about you. I gathered it was kind of his personal secret. He swore her to silence.”

“And you?”

“Never told a soul. Too good to share.”

“How are old David and Linda?”

“The same. Stuffy but nice.”

“What are you two talking about?” Deenie finally interrupted.

“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Deenie Brokestone. Remember her?”

“Your father’s Earl, right? Merrill, Lynch?”

“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 risqué,” he said.

“How risqué?”

“About as risqué 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.

You start something, there’ll be a dozen of them all over you.

Just ease on out the door and go on over to the Speisewagen.

Forget it. No face lost, okay, it’s a no-win thing.”

“You’re a real hero type,” Gerald said.

“Listen, kid,” Keegan said, and his voice became harsh and brittle, “I don’t like the odds. I don’t want to spend the rest of the night sitting beside you in the hospital or calling your folks to tell them you’ve just become part of the cobblestone walk out front. This isn’t football weekend at Harvard, these people are dangerous.”

Deenie’s tiny voice piped up. “Please,” she implored. “I’m frightened.”

“Ahh Gerald said in disgust.

“We’re going to the American diner,” Donald said as assertively as he could. “Are you two coming or not?”

“No,” Vanessa said.

“Then good night.”

“Vanessa ….. Deenie began.

“What, Deenie?”

“I think we better go.”

“Don’t be silly!”

“I want to go with them.”

“Then go. The key is at the desk. Enjoy your breakfast.”

“You really should come along, you know,” she said, her voice barely audible in the din.

“Good night, Deenie.”

Deenie and the two boys left the club. Vanessa turned to Keegan.

“Guess what,” she said. “You’re stuck with me.”

“You have a real stubborn streak, lady,” Keegan said.

“No,” she answered firmly, “I just know what I want. . . and I usually get it. Are you going to take me to Das Goldene Tor?”

He thought for a moment and shrugged. “Why not,” he said. “But I have something to do first”

When he got backstage, Jenny Gould was about to leave the club, having finished her last set for the night. She stood near the door, wrapped in a raincoat, waiting for a sudden downpour to clear.

“Miss Gould?” Keegan said.

She turned abruptly, startled to hear her name. She stared at him with her big eyes.

“Yes?”

“I’m Francis Keegan,” he said. “I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your singing.”

“Danke,” she murmured, looking away.

“I was wondering. . . if we.. . might have lunch tomorrow,” he said.

She seemed frightened by the suggestion, her eyes darting toward the door as if hoping the rain would suddenly stop.

“I don’t think so,” she said, managing a weak smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I must go.”

“It’s raining so hard,” Keegan said with a smile. “At least let my car take you home.”

She looked at him again, then shook her head.

“That’s very kind of you,” she said softly. “But I must refuse.”

And just like that she was gone, huddled against the rain as she scampered out the stage door and down the alley toward the street.

When he got back to the bar, Vanessa studied the look in his face. “It looks like my last obstacle has been removed,” she said. “Shall we go upstairs?”