Mosca threw the dice as hard as he could against the side of the table. The cubes bounced off the wooden board, tumbled over the green felt and spun like two red tops; then the edges caught in the felt and they stopped dead. It was another seven. “Shoot the eighty bucks,” Mosca said
“And the twenty goes with him,” Eddie Cassin left the money on the table. The colonel covered it
This time Mosca released the dice gently, as if turning loose a pet animal, so that they bounced off the wall and rolled a few niches coming up square red and enormous in the middle of the green felt
It was another seven and one of the officers said, “Rattle those dice.” He said it without malice, a superstitious player against Mosca's luck.
Mosca grinned at the officer and said, “He hundred and sixty goes.”
The adjutant still stood with a drink in his hand, watching Mosca and the dice. Eddie Cassin said cautiously, “Ten goes with him.” And picked up the other tibdrty dollars he had won.
The colonel said, “I'll bet you twenty.” Eddie reluctantly laid down another ten-dollar bill, and catching Mosca's look, shrugged his shoulders.
Mosca picked up the dice, blew on them, and slammed them backhanded against the opposite wooden board. The red dice with their white dots came up a four.
One of the officers said, “HI lay ten to five he doesn't.” Mosca took the bet and several others. He let the dice lie on the table and, unconsciously arrogant, sure of his luck, held his sheaf of bills ready to cover any bets. He was happy, he enjoyed the excitement of the game, and it was rare that he gambled with luck. “Ill take a hundred to fifty,” he said, and when no one anstoered he picked up the dice.
Just before he threw, the colonel said, “Til bet twenty you don't make it.” Mosca threw down a ten-dollar bill and said, ‘Til take that”
“You only put down ten dollars,” the colonel said.
Mosca stopped rattling the dice and leaned against the table. He couldn't believe that the colonel, an old Army man, didn't know the proper odds in dice. “You have to lay two to one against a four point, Colonel,” he said and tried to keep the anger out of his voice.
The colonel turned to one of the officers beside him and asked, “Is that right, Lieutenant?”
“That's right, sir,” the officer said, embarrassed.
The colonel threw down twenty dollars. “All rights shoot.”
Hie red cubes slammed against all four sides of the table, raced swiftly across the green felt, and stopped with a surprising suddenness, each red square framing two little white dots. Mosca looked at them for a moment before picking up the money and spoke his mind aloud, “I never saw a prettier sight”
There was no sense pushing his luck too far, he thought He threw a couple of bills on the table and after a few rolls he sevened out He continued to play with mediocre luck. When the colonel picked up the dice to shoot, Mosca faded him. The colonel threw a point and then sevened out on the second roll. Mosca picked up the money. The colonel said without rancor, “You're too lucky for me,” and smiled, then walked out of the room and they could hear him going down the stairs. Mosca realized that he had been wrong, that the colonel really hadn't known the correct odds, hadn't been trying to pull rank.
Hie atmosphere around the table became more relaxed, the conversation of the officers more natural. The waiter was busy with the many shouted orders for drinks. The adjutant went over to the bar, sat on one of the stools until his glass was filled, tasted it, and thai called, “Mosca, come here for a minute.”
Mosca looked over his shoulder. Eddie Cassin already had the dice and it was his turn next “After my shot,” he said.
Eddie had a good roll, but Mosca sevened out quickly and then went over to the patiently waiting adjutant.
Hie adjutant looked him in the eye with a calm, level glance and said, “Where do you come off telling the colonel what the odds are?”
Mosca was surprised and a little confused. “Hell,” he said, “the guy wanted a bet Nobody'd bet him even money on a four.”
The adjutant, in a quiet voice, as if he were addressing a stupid child, said, “There were at least ten officers at the table. They didn't tell him the odds, and if they had they would have done so in a more courteous manner. Why do you think they didn't tell him?”
Mosca could feel himself flushing. For the first time he realized that there was no sound of dice, the men around the table were listening. He felt a familiar uneasiness that reminded him of his first months in the Army. He shrugged. “I figured he didn't know so I told him.”
The adjutant stood up. “You may think because you're a civilian you can get away with that sort of thing. You showed pretty plainly that the colonel was trying to use his rank to cheat you out of ten dollars. Now just remember one thing; we can ship you back to the States pretty damn quick if we really want to, and I understand you have reasons for not wanting that to happen. So watch yourself. If the colonel doesn't know something, his fellow officers can tell him. You insulted the commanding officer and every officer in this room. Don't let anything like that happen again.”
Unconsciously Mosca hung his head, the shame and anger washing over him. He could see Eddie Cassin watching him, and Eddie had a little smile of pleasure on his face. Mosca through the fog of anger heard the adjutant say in a contemptuous voice, “If I had my way I wouldn't let you civilians into an officers’ club. You don't know what Army means.”
Without thinking Mosca lifted his head. He saw the adjutant's face very distinctly, the gray candid eyes, the bland earnest face, stern now.
“How many battle stars you got, Captain?” Mosca asked. “How many landings you make?” The adjutant had sat down on his stool again, sipping his drink. Mosca almost raised his arm when the adjutant spoke.
“I don't mean that. Some of those officers there are bigger war heroes than I imagine you ever were and they didn't do what you did or take your attitude.” The adjutant's voice was dead calm, cold with reasonableness that was not conciliatory.
Mosca relinquished his anger and adopted the other's cold calm, as if imitating him as they imitated each other in age and height and bearing. “Okay,” he said, “I was wrong telling the colonel, I apologize. But don't you give me that civilian shit.”
The adjutant smiled, no personal insult reaching him, the priest suffering for his religion. “As long as you understand about the other thing,” he said.
Mosca said, “Okay, I understand.” And despite all he could do the words were a submission, and when he went back to the dice table he felt his face burning with shame. He saw Eddie Cassin suppressing another smile, winking at him to cheer him up. The officer rolling the dice, a big easy-going southerner, said in his soft drawling voice, loud enough for the adjutant to hear, “It's a good thing you didn't win another ten bucks; we'd have to take yuh out and shoot yuh.” The officers around the table laughed, but Mosca did not. Behind him he could hear the adjutant talking easily and occasionally laughing, drinking with his friends as if nothing had happened.
ten
Mosca and Gordon Middleton stopped working to eavesdrop; through the slightly ajar door of Eddie's office they could hear a young girls voice. “Eddie, I wanted to see you for just a minute; it is very important” Her voice was a little shaky.
Eddie's voice, cold and formally polite, said, “Sure, go ahead.”
The girl said hesitatingly, “I know you told me I was not to come to your office, but you never visit me any more.”
Gordon and Mosca grinned at each other. Gordon shook his head. They listened.
The girl said, “I need a carton of cigarettes.”
There was a silence. Then Eddie asked with cold sarcasm, “What brand?” But the girl did not catch the inflection, the implied rejection.
“Oh, you know that doesn't matter,” she said. “I need them for the doctor. That is his price.”
Eddie's voice was polite, impersonal. “Are you ill?”
The girl laughed c
oyly. “Oh, Eddie, you know very well. I am going to have a baby. For a carton of cigarettes my doctor will help me lose it.” Then reassuringly, as if anxiety for her welfare might make him refuse, “There is no danger.”
Mosca and Gordon nodded at each other, laughing noiselessly, not at the girl but at Eddie, at what they imagined to be his embarrassment and the fact that this liaison would cost him a carton of cigarettes. Eddie's next words wiped their smiles away.
The voice was still cold, polite, but there was a horrible note of joyous hatred in it. “Tell your German boy friend to help. You won't get any cigarettes from me. And if you come to this office again you will not be working on this air base. Now get back to your job.”
The girl was crying. Finally she protested in a weak voice, “I have no boy friend. It is your child. It is three months, Eddie.”
“That's all,” Eddie Cassin said.
The girl had regained her courage and drawn some anger from his contempt. “You didn't come to me for a whole month. I didn't know if you would come again. That man just took me to some dances. I swear it. You know you were the one. What is a carton of cigarettes to you?”
Gordon and Mosca could hear Eddie pick up the phone and ask the operator for the base provost marshal. Then the girl's voice with a note of terror in it said, “Help me, Mr. Cassin, please help me.” They then could hear the hall door open and slam shut and Eddie saying, “Never mind,” to the operator.
Eddie Cassin pushed through the door to their room and his delicate pale-gray face wore a pleased smile. “Did you enjoy our little scene?” he asked.
Mosca leaned back in-his chair and said contemptuously, “You're a real prick, Eddie.”
Gordon Middleton said, “I'll give you the cigarettes for her, Eddie.” He said it with none of the contempt Mosca had shown, simply as a statement of fact, as if the only reason Eddie had refused was because of the value he would lose.
Eddie looked them both over with a derisive smile. “Gee, what nice guys. Willing to help a poor kid like that. listen. That little tramp had a guy on the side all the time. He smoked the cigarettes I gave her, ate the chocolate bars and food I meant for her.” He laughed with real good humor. “Besides, I've been through this before. And I know that the black-market fee for abortions is only half a carton.”
The door of the office opened and Wolf came in. He said, “Hi ya, fellas.” He put his briefcase on the desk and sat down with a weary sigh. “What a bunch of cheerful bums.” He grinned at them, his pasty-white face lit with genuine happiness. “Caught two krauts stealing coffee. You know that soup the mess officer lets them take home in their little pots? Well, they put the ground coffee on the bottom, sand over that, then the soup over. Don't ask me how they get the sand out later.”
For some reason this soured Eddie. He said gloomily, “Wolf Tracy always gets his man. Tell us how you do it, Wolf.”
Wolf grinned. “Hell, who would ever figure it out? Same as usual. Stool pigeon.”
Middleton rose. “Guess FU go home early. Okay, Eddie?”
“Sure,” Eddie said.
Wolf raised his hand. “Wait a minute, Gordon.” Gordon stopped by the open door. ‘Don't say I told you, and you other guys keep it quiet. But you'll be getting your shipping orders back to the States in about a week. Okay?”
Gordon lowered his head to stare at the floor. Wolf said kindly, “Hell, you expected it, didn't you, Gordon?”
Gordon raised his head and smiled slowly. “I guess so,” he said. “Thanks, Wolf.” He went out the door.
Eddie said quietly to Wolf, “That security check came back from the States?”
“Yeah,” Wolf said.
Eddie Cassin began to clear off his desk. Twilight darkened the windows of the personnel office. He opened his briefcase and filled it with two bottles of gin, a large tin of grapefruit juice, and some chocolate bars he took from a desk drawer.
Wolf said, “Why don't you give me your cigarettes and booze, Eddie? You'll wind up with money in the bank instead of a dose.”
Eddie put the briefcase under his arm and went to the door. “I'm living,” he said. “Wish you scavengers luck. Fm off to tame a gorilla.”
During supper Wolf said to Mosca, “You know, I must have been the first to spot Gordon. I gave him a lift to town one day and on the road he told me to stop. He got out of the jeep and walked back. Then he picks up a jagged hunk of metal that my wheel had just missed. He throws it off into the bushes and says with that nice, quiet smile, a little embarrassed, ‘Save a guy a flat tire.’ Now, you say that's a nice thing to do, and sure Gordon is a nice guy. But thafs going to a little too much trouble. He puts himself out too much. So when my boss told me he had to keep an eye out for Gordon because he was a Party member I wasn't surprised. They eat up guys like that Poor stupid bastard.”
Mosca lit up a cigar and took a sip of coffee. “He's got balls,” he said.
Wolf swallowed the food in his mouth. ‘Wrong attitude. Use your head now. How many times a day do we get Germans that want to join our Army? They want to fight the Russians. How many times there been rumors Russian troops invaded the British and American sectors? I see the “secret reports. It won't be long now, I give it two years before everything blows up. So guys like Gordon have to get the ax. Right here.” He made a chopping motion at his throat. “And me I'm going back to the States. I won't wear that PW in Siberia.”
Mosca said slowly, “I hope I can get out of here before then.”
Wolf wiped his mouth and leaned back to let a waiter pour coffee. “Don't worry,” he said. “I got some inside dope they have to lift the marriage ban so we cm make honest dames out of the FrUuleins. Lots of pressure from the churches back home. Don't want anybody screwing dames without a fighting chance of getting hooked.”
They left the mess hall and went out to Wolfs jeep. Outside the wire f ence of the air base they took the turn in the road that led away from town and to a far end of the Neustadt. It was only a short ride, and Wolf pulled up in front of an isolated house that was extraordinarily narrow, as if it consisted of one strict line of rooms from front to back. There were three other jeeps parked near by, a few German Opel cars with wood-burning motors and tin smokestacks. Some bicycles were chained to an iron bar cemented into the stone steps.
Wolf rang the bell, and when the door opened Mosca was startled. The tallest and largest German he had ever sera stood before them. “We have an appointment with Frau Vlavern,” Wolf said. The giant stood aside to let them enter.
The room was almost full. Two GIs sat close together with a stuffed green duffel bag between them. There were three officers, each of them with a bulging briefcase of shiny pigskin. There were five Germans with empty flaccid briefcases of black leather. They all waited patiently; everyone went in turn, Germans and Americans alike. There were no conquerors here.
The giant took them one by one into the next room and also took care of the door as more officers and GIs and Germans arrived. Some Mosca recognized as base personnel, crew chiefs, a mess sergeant, the PX officer. All acted as if they did not know each other after the first nod erf greeting.
The windows were heavily shuttered but the sound of jeep motors starting and dying to a halt could be heard in that room. When someone disappeared with the giant, they never returned. At the other end of the house was a door that served as exit.
Their turn came, and the giant took them into the next room. He indicated they were to wait. The room was empty save for two wooden chairs and a small table on which was an ash tray. When they were alone Mosca said, “That's a big guy.”
“Her protection,” Wolf said, “but if she has the scrip that won't mean nothing. That giant is nearly a moron. She keeps him here to scare people, like drunken GIs and krauts. But for the real McCoy he can't do much.” He smiled at Mosca.
After a short wait the giant came in again. He said, in German, in a huskily soft voice that did not fit his body, “Would yon care to see something I personally w
ish to sell?” He took out a band of gold in which was fastened a large diamond. He gave it to Mosca. “Only ten cartons.”
Mosca handed it over to Wolf and said, “That looks like a good buy. A carat at least.”
Wolf turned it over and smiled. ‘It's not worth anything,” he said. “See, it's fiat backed. I told you this guy was a moron.” He threw the ring to the giant who snatched at it clumsily but missed and had to stoop down from his great height to pick it up from the floor. Then determinedly he gave the ring to Mosca again. “Ten cartons, a bargain, but do not tell the old Frau.” He put a huge finger, childlike, on his lips.
Mosca tried to give the ring back to him but the giant refused to take it. “Ten cartons, keep it for ten cartons,” he said over and over again. Mosca put the ring on the table. Slowly, sadly, the giant picked it up.
Then he motioned them to follow and opened the door to the next room. He stood by the door to let them pass, first Mosca, then Wolf. But as Wolf went by he gave a malicious push that sent the American hurtling to the center of the room. Then the giant closed the door and stood by it.
A small, stout, gray-haired woman sat in a wide wicker chair, beside her a desk on which stood an open ledger. There were stacks of PX goods against one wall, hundreds of cartons of cigarettes, yellow boxes of chocolate bars, bars of toilet soap, and other toilet goods with bright wrappers. A small German man was arranging the goods neatly into piles. The pockets of his black, ill-fitting jacket bulged with German currency, and when he turned to watch them a bundle of it feU to the floor.
The woman spoke first and she spoke in English. “I am very sony,” she said. “Once in a great while Johann takes a dislike to someone and does such a thing. There is nothing to be done.”
Wolf had been taken by surprise and stood in momentary bewilderment But now his heavy dead-white face turned crimson. The woman's insolent tone angered him even more. He saw Mosca smiling at him and that Mosca had stepped to a wall where he could command everyone in the room if he showed a weapon. Wolf shook his head, then turned to the old woman and saw the glint of amusement in her shrewd eyes.