place.”
Horst almost saluted.
Karl said, “Christ, the way you guys run a business. What about the Continental, anyway?”
“When I get back.”
“Sure. Swell.”
I turned to Horst. “There will be a man, perhaps two who will be checking the telephones, probably tomorrow. Give them every cooperation.”
“Of course, Herr McCorkle.”
“Good.
Auf wiedersehen
.”
“
Auf wiedersehen
, Herr McCorkle,” Horst said.
“See you around,” Karl said.
I got in the car and drove six blocks to a twin of the apartment that Fredl lived in. I parked in an empty slot across the street and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. I knocked on 614, and after a few moments the door opened cautiously. An inch. A panel of a long lean pallid face peered at me.
“Come on in and have a drink.” The voice was deep and mellow.
The door opened wide and I went into the apartment of Cook G. Baker, Bonn correspondent for an international radio news service called Global Reports, Inc. Baker was the one and only professed member of Alcoholics Anonymous in Bonn, and he was a backslider.
“Hello, Cooky. How’s the booze barrier?”
“I just got up. Care to join me in an eye opener?”
“I think I’ll pass.”
The apartment was furnished in a haphazard manner. A rumpled day bed. A table or two and an enormous wingback chair that had a telephone built into one arm and a portable typewriter attached to a stand that swung like a gate. It was Cooky’s office.
Around the room were carefully placed bottles of Ballantine’s Scotch. Some were half full, others nearly so. It was Cooky’s theory that when he wanted a drink he should only have to reach out and there it would be.
“Sometimes when I’m on the floor it’s a hell of a long crawl to the kitchen,” he once explained to me.
Cooky was thirty-three years old that year, and according to Fredl he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was a couple of inches over six feet, lean as a whippet, with a high forehead, a perfect nose and a wide mouth that seemed continually to be fighting a smile over some private joke. And he was immaculate. He wore a dark-blue sport shirt, a blue and yellow Paisley ascot, a pair of gray flannels that must have cost sixty bucks, and black loafers.
“Sit down, Mac. Coffee?”
“That’ll do.”
“Sugar?”
“If you have it.”
He picked up one of the bottles of Scotch and disappeared into the kitchen. A couple of minutes later he handed me my coffee and then went back for his drink: a half-tumbler of Scotch with a milk chaser.
“Breakfast. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
He took a long gulp of the Scotch and quickly washed it down with the milk.
“I fell off a week ago,” he said.
“You’ll make it.”
He shook his head sadly and smiled. “Maybe.”
“What do you hear from New York?” I asked.
“They’re billing more than thirty-seven million a year now and the money is still being banked for me.”
At twenty-six Cooky had been the boy wonder of Madison Avenue public-relations circles, a founder of Baker, Brickhill and Hillsman.
“I got on the flit and just couldn’t get off,” he had explained to me one gloomy night. “They wanted to buy out my interest, but in a moment of sobriety I listened to my lawyers and refused to sell. I’ve got a third of the stock. The more lushed I got, the more stubborn I became. Finally I made a deal. I would get out and they would bank my share of the profits for me. My attorneys handled the whole thing. I’m very rich and I’m very drunk and I know I’m never going to quit drinking and I know I’m never going to write a book.”
Cooky had been in Bonn for three years. Despite Berlitz and a series of private tutors, he could not learn German. “Mental block,” he had said. “I don’t like the goddamn language and I don’t want to learn it.”
His job was to fill one two-minute news spot a day and occasionally do a live show. His sources were the private secretaries of
Horst almost saluted.
Karl said, “Christ, the way you guys run a business. What about the Continental, anyway?”
“When I get back.”
“Sure. Swell.”
I turned to Horst. “There will be a man, perhaps two who will be checking the telephones, probably tomorrow. Give them every cooperation.”
“Of course, Herr McCorkle.”
“Good.
Auf wiedersehen
.”
“
Auf wiedersehen
, Herr McCorkle,” Horst said.
“See you around,” Karl said.
I got in the car and drove six blocks to a twin of the apartment that Fredl lived in. I parked in an empty slot across the street and took the elevator up to the sixth floor. I knocked on 614, and after a few moments the door opened cautiously. An inch. A panel of a long lean pallid face peered at me.
“Come on in and have a drink.” The voice was deep and mellow.
The door opened wide and I went into the apartment of Cook G. Baker, Bonn correspondent for an international radio news service called Global Reports, Inc. Baker was the one and only professed member of Alcoholics Anonymous in Bonn, and he was a backslider.
“Hello, Cooky. How’s the booze barrier?”
“I just got up. Care to join me in an eye opener?”
“I think I’ll pass.”
The apartment was furnished in a haphazard manner. A rumpled day bed. A table or two and an enormous wingback chair that had a telephone built into one arm and a portable typewriter attached to a stand that swung like a gate. It was Cooky’s office.
Around the room were carefully placed bottles of Ballantine’s Scotch. Some were half full, others nearly so. It was Cooky’s theory that when he wanted a drink he should only have to reach out and there it would be.
“Sometimes when I’m on the floor it’s a hell of a long crawl to the kitchen,” he once explained to me.
Cooky was thirty-three years old that year, and according to Fredl he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. He was a couple of inches over six feet, lean as a whippet, with a high forehead, a perfect nose and a wide mouth that seemed continually to be fighting a smile over some private joke. And he was immaculate. He wore a dark-blue sport shirt, a blue and yellow Paisley ascot, a pair of gray flannels that must have cost sixty bucks, and black loafers.
“Sit down, Mac. Coffee?”
“That’ll do.”
“Sugar?”
“If you have it.”
He picked up one of the bottles of Scotch and disappeared into the kitchen. A couple of minutes later he handed me my coffee and then went back for his drink: a half-tumbler of Scotch with a milk chaser.
“Breakfast. Cheers.”
“Cheers.”
He took a long gulp of the Scotch and quickly washed it down with the milk.
“I fell off a week ago,” he said.
“You’ll make it.”
He shook his head sadly and smiled. “Maybe.”
“What do you hear from New York?” I asked.
“They’re billing more than thirty-seven million a year now and the money is still being banked for me.”
At twenty-six Cooky had been the boy wonder of Madison Avenue public-relations circles, a founder of Baker, Brickhill and Hillsman.
“I got on the flit and just couldn’t get off,” he had explained to me one gloomy night. “They wanted to buy out my interest, but in a moment of sobriety I listened to my lawyers and refused to sell. I’ve got a third of the stock. The more lushed I got, the more stubborn I became. Finally I made a deal. I would get out and they would bank my share of the profits for me. My attorneys handled the whole thing. I’m very rich and I’m very drunk and I know I’m never going to quit drinking and I know I’m never going to write a book.”
Cooky had been in Bonn for three years. Despite Berlitz and a series of private tutors, he could not learn German. “Mental block,” he had said. “I don’t like the goddamn language and I don’t want to learn it.”
His job was to fill one two-minute news spot a day and occasionally do a live show. His sources were the private secretaries of
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