The Cold War Swap by Ross Thomas

thing about owning your own restaurant: the service is excellent.
    “What’s it all about, damn you?” she said.
    I shrugged. “It’s no secret, I suppose. Padillo and I have been thinking about opening up another place in Berlin. Good tourist town. Lot of military. When I was up there I made a tentative deal. It looks as if it might have fallen through. So Mike wants me to come up.”
    “And the Christmas help? It’s April.”
    “Padillo worries.”
    “You’re lying.”
    I smiled. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”
    “You’re going, of course.”
    “Why the ‘of course’? Maybe I’ll call Mike, maybe I’ll write him a letter. I had the deal all set, and if he screwed it up in one day, then he can damn well unscrew it.”
    “You’re still lying.”
    “Look, one of us has to be here to run the place. Padillo likes to travel more than I do. I’m sedentary. Like Mycroft Holmes, I’m devoid of energy or ambition. That’s why I run a saloon. It’s a fairly easy way to keep on eating and drinking.”
    Fredl rose. “You talk too much, Mac, and you don’t lie well. You’re a rotten liar.” She opened her purse and tossed an envelope on the table. “There’s your ticket. I’ll send you a bill when you get back. The plane leaves Düsseldorf at eighteen hours. You’ve plenty of time to catch it.” She learned over and patted my cheek. “Take care of yourself,
liebchen
honey. You can tell me some more lies when you get back.”
    I stood up. “Thanks for not pressing.”
    She looked up at me, her brown eyes wide and frank and tender. “I’ll find out sometime. It might be at three o'clock in the morning, when you’re relaxed and feel like talking. I’ll wait till then. I have time.” She turned and walked away. Horst darted over to open the door for her.
    I sat down and took a sip of the brandy. Fredl hadn’t finished hers,so I poured it into mine. Use it up, wear it out, make it do, do without. Even with booze. On one of the rare occasions when Padillo had mentioned what he termed his “other calling,” he had said that one of the drawbacks was having to work with the Christmas help, which might be anything from the Army’s CID to tourists armed with two Canons and a Leica and a fascination for the photogenic qualities of Czechoslovakian armament factories. They always seemed to get caught, and they invariably listed their occupation as student.
    Circumstances, not will, determine action. I could ignore the airline ticket and Padillo’s distress signal and sit there, cozy in my own little saloon, and get unpleasantly drunk. Or I could call Horst over, give him the keys to the cashbox, go home and pack, and then drive to Düsseldorf. I left the brandy and went over to the bar. The customers had gone and Karl was reading
Time
. He thought it was a funny magazine. I tended to agree.
    “Where’s Horst?”
    “Out back.”
    “Call him.”
    He stuck his head through the door and yelled for Horst. The thin, ascetic little man marched sharply around the bar and up to me. I thought he was going to click his heels. Our relationship during the five years he had worked for us continued on a completely formal basis.
    “Yes, Herr McCorkle?”
    “You’re going to have to take over for a few days. I’m going out of town.”
    “Yes, Herr McCorkle.”
    “How come?” Karl asked.
    “None of your goddamned business,” I snapped. Horst shot him a look of disapproval. We had given Horst five percent of the net, and he felt a certain proprietary regard toward the decisions of management.
    “Anything else, Herr McCorkle?” Horst asked.
    “Call up that firm that patches the carpet and see how much it will cost to get the cigarette burns out. If it’s not too much, tell them to go ahead. Use your own judgment.”
    Horst beamed. “Yes, Herr McCorkle. May I ask how long you will be away?”
    “A few days; maybe a week. Neither Mr. Padllio nor I will be here, so you’ll have to run the