Several bottles of red wine were lifted out. The Stormtroopers waved the men on. Paul picked up the satchel and they continued up the street.

Two blocks farther on, the German nodded across the street. “In there.” The place he indicated appeared to be a nightclub decorated with Nazi flags. A wooden sign read: The Aryan Café.

“Are you mad?” Paul asked.

“Have I been right so far, my friend? Please, inside. It’s the safest place to be. Dung-shirts aren’t welcome here, nor can they afford it. As long as you haven’t beaten any SS officers or senior Party officials, you’ll be safe… You haven’t, have you?”

Paul shook his head. He reluctantly followed the man inside. He saw immediately what the man meant about the price of admission. A sign said: $20 U.S./40 DM. Jesus, he thought. The ritziest place he went to in New York, the Debonair Club, had a five-buck cover.

How much dough did he have on him? That was nearly half the money Morgan had given him. But the doorman looked up and recognized the mustachioed German. He nodded the men inside without charging them.

They pushed through a curtain into a small dark bar, cluttered with antiques and artifacts, movie posters, dusty bottles. “Otto!” the bartender called, shaking the man’s hand.

Otto set his carton on the bar and gestured for Paul to do the same with his.

“I thought you were delivering one case only.”

“My comrade here helped me carry a second one, ten bottles only in his. So that makes the total seventy marks now, does it not?”

“I asked for one case. I need only one case. I will pay for only one case.”

As the men dickered, Paul focused on the loud words coming from a large radio behind the bar. “… modern science has found myriad ways to protect the body from disease and yet if you don’t apply those simple rules of hygiene, you can fall greatly ill. With our foreign visitors in town, it is likely that there may be new strains of infection, so it is vital to keep in mind rules of sanitation.”

Otto finished the negotiation, apparently to his satisfaction, and glanced out the window. “They’re still there, prowling. Let us have a beer. I will let you buy me one.” He noticed Paul looking at the radio, which no one in the bar seemed to be paying attention to, despite the high volume. “Ach, you like the deep voice of our propaganda minister? It’s dramatic, yes? But to see him, he’s a runt. I have contacts all over Wilhelm Street, all the government buildings. They call him ‘Mickey Mouse’ behind his back. Let us go in the back. I can’t stand the droning. Every establishment must have a radio to broadcast the Party leaders’ speeches and must turn the sound up when they are transmitting. It’s illegal not to. Here they keep the radio up front to satisfy the rules. The real club is in the back rooms. Now, do you like men or women?”

“What?”

“Men or women? Which do you prefer?”

“I’m not interested in-”

“I understand, but since we must wait for the Brownshirts to grow tired of their pursuit, please tell me: Which would you rather look at while we have the beer you’ve so generously agreed to buy me? Men dancing as men, men dancing as women or women dancing as themselves?”

“Women.”

“Ach, me too. It’s illegal to be a homosexual in Germany now. But you would be surprised how many National Socialists seem to enjoy one another’s company for reasons other than discussing rightist politics. This way.” He pushed through a blue velvet curtain.

The second room was for men who enjoyed women, it seemed. They sat down at a rickety wicker table in the black-painted room, decorated with Chinese lanterns, paper streamers and animal trophies, as dusty as the Nazi flags hanging from the ceiling.

Paul handed back the canvas cap; it disappeared into the man’s pocket with the others. “Thanks.”

Otto nodded. “Ach, what are friends for?” He looked for a waiter or waitress.

“I’ll be back in a moment.” Paul rose and went to the lavatory. He washed the smudges and blood off his face and combed his hair back with lotion, which shortened and darkened it, making him appear somewhat different from the man the Brownshirts were seeking. His cheek was not badly cut but a bruise had formed around it. He stepped out of the washroom and slipped backstage. He found the dressing room for performers. A man sat at the far end, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper. He didn’t pay any attention as Paul dipped his finger into a pot of makeup. Returning to the lavatory he smoothed the cosmetic over the bruise. He had some experience with makeup; all good boxers knew the importance of concealing injuries from their opponents.

He returned to the table, where he found Otto gesturing toward the waitress, a pretty, dark-haired young woman. But she was busy and the man sighed in irritation. He turned back, regarding Paul closely. “Now, you are obviously not from here because you know nothing of our ‘culture.’ I’m speaking of the radio. And of the dung-shirts, whom you would not have antagonized by fighting had you been a German. But your language is perfect. The faintest of accents. And not French or Slav or Spanish. What breed of dog are you?”

“I appreciate the help, Otto. But some matters I’ll keep to myself.”

“No matter. I’ve decided you’re American or English. Probably American. I know from your movies – the way you make your sentences… Yes, you are American. Who else would have a troop of dung-shirts after him but a brash American with big balls? You are from the land of heroic cowboys, who take on a tribe of Indians alone. Where is that waitress?” He looked about, smoothing his mustache. “Now, introductions. I am presenting myself to you. Otto Wilhelm Friedrich Georg Webber. And you?… But perhaps you wish to keep your name to yourself.”

“I think that’s wiser.”

Webber chuckled. “So you beat up three of them and earned the endless affection of the Brownshirts and the bitch brood?”

“The what?”

“Hitler Youth. The boys scurrying among the legs of the Stormtroopers.” Webber eyed Paul’s red knuckles. “You perhaps enjoy the boxing matches, Mr. Nameless? You look like an athlete. I can get you Olympic tickets. There are none left, as you know. But I can get them. Day seats, good ones.”

“No thanks.”

“Or I can get you into one of the Olympic parties. Max Schmeling will be at some.”

“Schmeling?” Paul raised an eyebrow. He admired Germany’s most successful heavyweight champ and had been in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium just last month to see the bout between Schmeling and Joe Louis. Shocking everyone, Schmeling knocked out the Brown Bomber in the twelfth round. The evening had cost Paul $608, eight for the ticket and the six C-notes for the bum bet.

Webber continued. “He will be there with his wife. She is so beautiful. Anny Ondra. An actress, you know. You will have a truly memorable evening. It would be quite expensive but I can arrange it. You need a dinner jacket, of course. I can provide that too. For a small fee.”

“I’ll pass.”

“Ach,” Webber muttered, as if Paul had made the mistake of his life.

The waitress stopped at their table and she stood close to Paul, smiling down at him. “I am Liesl. Your name is?”

“Hermann,” Paul said.

“You would like what?”

“Beers for us both. A Pschorr for me.”

“Ach,” Webber said, sneering at the choice. “Berlin lager for me. Bottom- fermented. A large.” When she glanced at him her look was cool, as if he’d recently stiffed her on a check.

Liesl gazed into Paul’s eyes a moment longer then offered a flirtatious smile and walked to another table.

“You have an admirer, Mr. Not-Hermann. Pretty, yes?”

“Very.”

Webber winked. “If you like, I can-”

“No,” Paul said firmly.

Webber raised an eyebrow and turned his attention to the stage, where a topless woman gyrated. She had loose disks of breasts and flabby arms, and even from a distance Paul could see creases around her mouth, which kept up a fierce smile as she moved to the scratchy sound of a gramophone.