Steelie 2

The big guy walked back with the drinks in his big hands in a stilted way as if he’d a book on top of his head and he was auditioning for America’s top model. Steelie wasn’t the only one watching his progress. Sharon had pushed her hair back behind her ears and put her phone down beside the till. Her elbows were on the bar, her arms folded underneath her big breasts. She craned forward, watching the show.  

His smile was unexpected as if he was a young buck, trying a new aftershave and waiting for praise. ‘I got myself one of those shandie things.’ He placed the glasses down in front of Steelie. ‘And I got you one of those “hauf” things.’

Steelie chuckled. ‘That’s great—Did you get yourself wan?’

Head tilted and his lips pressed together like scar tissue. ‘One what?’

Steelie held up the whisky glass in salute. It sparkled in the low light. He inhaled the pungent musk of water and fire. He made an ‘Ahhh,’ sound as he tipped the glass. ‘God’s own.’

The American shook his head.

‘Well, of you pop then. Get yourself a hauf and get me another wan—a double—and get Cockeyed Bill wan. Then we’ll talk.’

Sharon quickly bent down to wipe a spill, where no spill was, when she saw him coming towards the bar, again. ‘Forgot something?’

‘Yes, can I get another one of those…?’

She’d already started pouring before he’d finished speaking. He flicked a finger towards Cockeyed Bill. ‘And could you make it doubles. Add an extra one for that gentleman there.’

Cockeyed Bill’s weathered face looked up at him. He smiled at Sharon when she put the drink in front of him. ‘Much obliged.’

She waited until the American had paid her and spun around, grabbing two pint glasses and insisting on carrying them to the back tables, while he ambled behind her trim figure, light-fingered, holding the small glasses.  

   She shoved the pints atop the racing news, crumpling and ringing the circled favourites. Waited a heartbeat, spinning, standing straight and tall, with her hands held primly behind her back until the American had put his drinks down in front of Steelie. She was almost on tiptoes, her head tilted. ‘Anything else?’

She ignored the low rumble of Steelie’s laughter with an easy grace, in the same way that she’d ignored lewd comments and slapped away groping hands.

The American rewarded her with a smile. ‘No, nothing.’ He watched her drift back towards the bar.   

Steelie poked his empty glass further along towards the edge of the table. ‘Take your jacket aff, if you ur staying?’ He took a mouthful of lager and swilled it around his mouth before swallowing. ‘Naebody here will steal you gun. We don’t need them.’

The American tugged at his jacket, before sitting down. ‘I’m not staying. I’m just delivering a message and leaving.’

‘I know son, I know.’ Steelie pushed a whisky towards him. ‘Take a drink and you’ll feel much better.’

The American sipped at his shandy. ‘Don’t think so.’

Cockeyed Bill shuffled over the worn floorboards towards the door. The air grainy inside from fag smoke and the residue of chalk dust.

Steelie  said, ‘Can’t remember what you said your name was?’

‘Didn’t say.’

‘Oh, we’re playing that game then?’

‘I’m not playing any games. I’ve gave you a message and I’m waiting for your reply.’

‘Oh, aye, I know your type. Sure, I’d have given o’er half my allowance of lice-powder to be attending the inauguration of that President of yours. The moron’s moron, Trump.’      

 The American was watching Sharon, a smile on his face. His half pint tucked between his hands on his lap. Not really listening.

‘It reminded me of another joker I knew. He wrote Mein Kampf. It was a two-parter, of course. The second part came out in 1926. The guy was a known criminal. His book was a joke. He was a joke. In your American south, in places like Alabama, he’d have been the leader of the local chapter of the KKK. The newspapers loved him—and this was the golden age of newspapers—cause his rambling speeches made good copy. He was a delight for cartoonists. Hitler’s moustache and empty head were skewered caricatures in Berlin long before Charlie Chaplin got his chops intae him.’  

  ‘Sir,’ there was an unmodulated note of irritation in the American’s voice. ‘Even those with a tenth-grade education, would know that was impossible. Because that would make you well over 100-years old. So if we can stop the games and give me a simple answer. I’ll pass it down the line.’

‘You’re right. It was impossible. We thought so tae. How such an imbecile could grab power. But, now I think about it. It was pretty simple. No bread and circuses—although bread was in short supply—but promises that things would be like they used to be, when adults were children. It would be a good idea to give Hitler adult authority to punish those that didn’t believe like them. The unbelievers who don’t believe in hate.’

Cockeyed Bill stumbled back through the swing doors. Fag smoke clunk to him with the usual haze of stale beer. He glanced across and held a hand up in salute. His arm dropping slowly and his head flopping as he made his way to the bar.   

The American pushed his drink away and stood up. He held out his hand for Steelie to shake. His grip crushing his fingers in the way he’d felt the itch to crush his neck. ‘Nice meeting you, Sir.’

‘You too, David,’ replied Steelie, kneading the fingers of his right hand.

The American’s eyes crinkled. ‘How come you know my name?’

‘How come you know mine?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘I can’t tell you either.’ Steelie smacked his lips and took a drink of whisky. ‘What I can tell you is when you start with a campaign of hate, you start with the books before you start with people. Orpenplatz, within peeing distance of the grand University of Berlin. Rich and poor met there. Left and Right. A bit like Hyde Park. 25 000 banned books began the bonfire, well before the night of Kristallnacht and burning down the Reichstag, the cornerstone of a fragile democracy.’

David shook his head and offered a thin smile. ‘I’ve been instructed to tell you, we can offer you $20 million for the information we need.’

‘Not interested. It’s only money Mr Brody. Money you don’t, yet, have. Did I tell you my students at the University in Berlin piled my desk with flowers?’ Steelie teared up, sniffing as if a profusion of honeysuckle and lavender were lying in front of them. ‘Poor boys. Poor boys. Just like you. How quickly they changed, Mr Brody. How quickly Germany changed, Mr Brody. How quickly America is changing.’