The Proxy Assassin

by John Knoerle

  The joint filled up as the sun went down. Old men in tweed caps, store clerks in bowties, salesmen wearing Derby hats and one-button suits. Not a woman to be seen.

  Lilly had the gents lined up at the bar like trained seals hoping for a bit of herring.

  “You’ll do fine,” I said, nodding in Lilly’s direction, “so long as you don’t let that one get away.”

  Ambrose followed my look and smiled to himself. “Don’t worry, she’s not going anywhere.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  They would make the most beautiful children.

  Sean and Patrick arrived a short time later. They didn’t want handshakes. They dogpiled me with sweaty hugs.

  We adjourned to a table with brimming pints of Guinness. I had never partaken but I’d heard tell. I took a good pull. It tasted sweet and nasty by turns. It tasted, with apologies to Winston, like a carbonated Manhattan.

  I couldn’t tell the Mooney Brothers what really happened without breaking my pact with Julia but that was okay. They didn’t want to hear the truth. What they wanted, in gruesome detail, was the story of how their old pal had dispatched Leonid Vitinov, Ambrose’s vile kidnapper. They listened eagerly as Hal the Hero made shit up.

  I might make an effective counterintelligence officer at that. You can hawk bogus crap in a loud voice all day long and it won’t do you a lick of good, not till you tell the customer what he wants to hear. Effective counterespionage involves tailoring disinformation to what the end user is inclined to believe. We all participate in our own deception.

  It’s a transaction.

  I owed Ambrose one more thing. A fancy wristwatch to replace the one I made him surrender to the Soviet checkpoint sentry in Berlin. I’d only had twenty bucks in my wallet when I went shopping in high-priced downtown D.C. But I found a souvenir shop near Dupont Circle.

  While Ambrose was busy ordering food for the table I slipped the small narrow box his way. He frowned when he saw it.

  “What’s this now?”

  “One way to find out.”

  I expected a rude guffaw when he opened the box to find a cheap wristwatch with an oversized face and a fake leather strap. Little gun barrels formed the hour and minute hands. The 3, 6, 9 and 12 were designated by blood-tipped bullets. And, on the oversized watch face, was none other than the grim visage of J. Edgar Hoover.

  But Ambrose didn’t bust out laughing. He held up the watch and admired it. “Ah jayz, Hal, it’s feckin’ grand.”

  A waitress served us hamburgers and fries. It was a hell of a feed. The patty was two inches thick, topped with cheddar cheese, pickles, lettuce, thick slices of tomato and onion and crowned with a puffy white bun. Ambrose attacked his with gusto.

  “Zis good or what?” he said between bites.

  I nodded, I swallowed. “Also intimidating.”

  “Eh?”

  “Well, I’m thinkin’ you might have a better shot at getting those mopes at the bar to try one of these newfangled hamburgers if the hamburgers aren’t bigger than they are.”

  Ambrose looked to Sean, the smart middle brother. Sean pursed his lips to suppress a smile.

  “Point taken,” said Ambrose. “Arseholes.”

  Red-haired Patrick, who still looked about 19, hoisted his pint. “To our good mate, Hal.”

  We clanked and drank. The Mooney boys scattered to their duties after we finished eating. I made my way to the bar for another Guinness.

  I got to watch Lily in action. She didn’t linger long with any customer so as to spread the wealth. I noticed that she had a pencil tucked behind her ear and another pencil, a nub, that floated in the thick tangle of black curls that spilled down her back. I watched that nub of a pencil dance about as Lilly turned and tucked and stretched and knelt.

  When the crowd thinned she poured me another pint, filling the glass three-quarters full, letting the creamy head settle for a minute, then topping it off.

  I asked her how she came to know Ambrose.

  She laughed. “They said you were keen to make jooks.”

  “Who?”

  Lilly stared intently at my baffled mug. “You don’t know, do you? They’re so protective of me.”

  “Who is?”

  “Me brothers.”

  Holy mother of God.

  Of course. Their hair didn’t match but their features were practically interchangeable.

  “Where, uh, which one…”

  “I’m the second child, a baby sister to Ambrose.”

  “But how…did you live in…”

  She held up a calloused pink and white finger. I waited. She wiped the bar with a rag so as not to look at me.

  “Our pa died of typhoid when I was twelve. We had to move in with Grandma Kaye, Pa’s mum. She was a widow lady, lace curtain Irish with a fine house. She did not.…well, she took a liking to me but she did not enjoy having three young hellions tearing about. Grandma Kaye made me mum a proposition. She would pay for their passage to the States, to join our uncle in Cleveland, so long as I was left behind to look after her.”

  “Your mother swapped you for boat tickets?”

  Lilly looked up at me. “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Were you angry about that?”

  “I was,” she said, “but me mum did what she thought best. And now it’s all come round.”

  I raised my eyebrows. Lilly answered by way of looking about the Mooney Brothers Bar & Grill. “Everyone is here who needs to be.”

  I took a swig and wiped foam from my upper lip. “And your mum?”

  “She lives upstairs. She will be so wanting meet you.”

  No doubt. Things had worked out swell all in all. But I had almost gotten Mrs. Mooney’s darlin’ boys killed on two separate occasions. I wouldn’t be a hero in her eyes.

  I stood up. “We must do this again sometime, Lilly.”

  “I shall be here tomorrow, Mr. Schroeder.”

  I returned her smile. “Me too. And please call me Hal.”

  “A pleasant evening to you, Hal.”

  I left before I made a fool of myself and walked on air for a full block. Lilly was all too perfect and all wrong. And I was due in Paris in three days in any event. Still, no woman had ever pronounced my dull name in such a lovely way. Ha-all.

  The cold damp air snapped me to. I put my hands in my pockets and trudged the last block. It felt good to be on to a new adventure, I looked forward to it. But Special Agent Schram’s parting words of wisdom sat like an undigested lump in the belly of my brain.

  Making it back down to level ground was the hardest part.

  Wisps of fog from the Celtic Sea twined through the empty streets as I walked and pondered. What I think Schram meant was that it’s not all heartbreak and horror up there on Breakneck Ridge. There’s also the sweet tang of victory and a godlike sense of power.

  Like life in the Woodrow Wilson Suite, a fella could get used to that. I’d had a good run of it lately. Could be I liked being Hal the Hero more than I let on. Hal the Hero might get bored sending young men into battle while he paced the sidelines.

  They say good players make bad coaches. No patience. If I wanted to be a good case officer I would have to suffer an altitude adjustment, and learn patience.

  Ugh. Times ten.

  But I would do what I had to do.

  I was too keyed up to sleep so I sat at the small sturdy desk in my second floor room and wrote my parents a letter. I apologized for not staying in touch. I told them I had an exciting job opportunity in Europe working for the government. They would know what that meant. I assured them it wasn’t dangerous and I promised, scout’s honor, to come home to Youngstown on Christmas Eve and stay till New Years.

  No doubt you’ve heard about my exploits in D.C. I’m not quite the dashing hero the newspapers made me out to be but I hope that I have made you proud. That would make it all worthwhile.

  The letter looked incomplete so I added a P.S.

  Dad, Wild Bill Donovan send
s his best.

  I got a little blurry writing that. How in the name of God had I – juvenile delinquent, insubordinate OSS agent and on-the-make FBI sting operator – been privileged to act as liaison between these two fine men?

  The answer was simple. I had been very fortunate, a lucky man in an unlucky world.

  Poker, rummy and pinochle were the favored ways to pass the time on my first Atlantic crossing in 1943. A young Army chaplain, not much older than his captive flock of 19-year-olds, made note of this in his service on the deck of our troop ship. A remark I have always remembered.

  “It’s important to count your cards, gentlemen. Do so religiously.”

  He grinned as he surveyed us fuzzy-cheeked hatchlings shipping off to defeat the Axis Powers. We had no idea what horrors we would be asked to face or how important our sacrifices were to become. We had no idea how privileged we were to be there.

  It took me a long time to understand that.

  “Count your cards, gentlemen,” repeated the young Army chaplain, hands on his hips. “But, when day is done, don’t forget to count your blessings.”

  Amen, brother.

  I got up from the writing desk and threw open a sash window to breathe the salty night air. I felt good, I felt complete, after a long race successfully run.

  Only one thing nagged. Was Anna pregnant when I killed her with that hand grenade? Or did Leonid make that up to torture me?

  I would never know the answer to that question. The Napoleonic little prick had won.

  Leonid Vitinov died with superior knowledge.

  The author’s bio and information about John Knoerle’s other titles are available at:

  www.johnknoerle.com

  Contact the author at:

  bluesteelpress@att.net