Rakehells

If her German simpering fully failed persuading Lothar, Abercrombie's approaching his desk and looming large, scowling before him, improved her case. Lothar rolled eyes off her onto "her man." Unctuousness greased Abercrombie's German.

"Even coke addled this should be easy to understand. Make her happy, keep me happy. Because I have no need to be unpleasant. To anybody. So I'm pretty sure you'll agree the fees, the charges, whatever, whatever you call your percentage, are exorbitant for this girl. We both know you can manage just as well with less from her, no?"

Lothar nodded. Words picked and spoken carefully, he said, "She's one of the club's best earners! No! The best earner! Of course the club, um, gratuity, can be, will be, reduced. Immediately!"

Satisfied, Abercrombie stepped back. The space relaxed Lothar. Peace assured, he offered his new best friend a line or two.

His menacing guest declined. He glanced at Marianne who looked at him in admiration.

"No, it's all yours," Abercrombie said. "Maybe you keep doing enough of that shit and you'll start pushing the buffet table back sooner."

The distinctly American reference confused Lothar. Marianne tried snickering discretely. Deal done, Abercrombie trailed her out. They ascended swifter than they descended. She hurled herself into the sunlight.

When Marianne turned and faced him, he saw girlish relief. She babbled momentarily about her victory's ease. Her joy faded slowly. They strolled.

Finally gathering herself, Marianne said, "I have you to thank. He wouldn't have crumbled without you!"

She tangled arms around Abercrombie's shoulders. Marianne fed him a soul kiss an excitable new lover could've mistaken as a declaration of eternal devotion. The busy sidewalk's passersby were careful not to jostle them. When this public display ran out of steam, she slipped off him. He hadn't quite matched her enthusiasm. Her new chagrin matched his current skepticism. They resumed walking.

She asked if he were angry with her.

"You never quibble with success," Abercrombie said. "But you might've given me a heads-up."

"A what?"

"Warning."

"'Heads-up,'" Marianne repeated to herself before filing it. Then to him: "You didn't seem bothered."

"A lot of my college bar tabs got paid through summer construction jobs. I probably learned more useful things about people and life doing that than I learned in school. Writing for a newspaper certainly confirms that. Anyway, I got the gist between you and Lothar pretty quick. Um, I figured it out."

She wheedled him. "But weren't you the slightest bit afraid?"

Abercrombie shook his head and explained. "If your boss had a gun, us busting in would've made him produce it. If it had been the cops, somebody upstairs would've yelled alerting him of a raid. A sudden entry like ours could only usually mean a ripoff. No gun, no worry. But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Aren't you worried about a double cross?" he asked. "Maybe make you an example?"

Marianne laughed. "Lothar is just another soft German man. Inside as well as outside. He's tough on women, but men ... Millions like him are the result of our grandfathers being so badly beaten. The pacifism, the almost total aversion of man-to-man confrontation is humiliating. Germany doesn't have men. It has male sheep. Neutered male sheep. Another docile generation of them. You being who you are scared Lothar good. Besides, he'll recoup any shortfall off the other girls."

He laughed at her easy cynicism. Nonetheless she was right.

"I should be shocked," Abercrombie said, "but I'm a newspaperman."

Marianne suggested they return to her apartment. He countered.

"My hotel is closer."

Abercrombie alone crammed his room. Adding Marianne made it a closet. Disdain of his meager lodging clear, she said nothing disparaging. He didn't trouble himself closing the curtain. During his European travels and encounters, Abercrombie had developed a theory about Old World privacy, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and ostentation. Paul Lowery, former classmate, friend, his London host, might find merit in the visitor's musings. Or he could regard it as "nutty shit."

Marianne and Abercrombie quickly stripped. The bed was a narrow single, one not meant for two big amorous adults. Moreover reclining on it would've discomforted her. A thin mattress stretched across an unyielding oak platform.

Having applied latex to his cock, Abercrombie sat cross-legged on the bed. Marianne sat on his lap facing him. Her legs circled his waist. He rushed through foreplay and didn't fill her as smoothly as the previous night. Her little grunts accompanied his insertion as well as her advantage-seeking hip shifts. Eventually they aligned for pleasure. Marianne clutched Abercrombie in dual embraces: arms around his neck, feet hooked and pressed against his lower back.

Although this ride wasn't as violent, his angle and her weight compensated. Confined motion, narrow range, the small space let Marianne do a curious thing. Lips buried in his neck as he plowed her, she whispered, sighed, profuse thanks.

At first he mistook her gesture as acknowledgement of his prowess. However, once her tears wet that side of his face he realized Marianne's gratitude came from his having assisted in reducing Lothar's "bite." The two hadn't talked exact percentages but to prompt this response Abercrombie assumed the amount more than beer and gas money.

A platitude poised on the tip of his tongue. Instead, Abercrombie held Marianne tighter. Receiving indulgence required no words.

Beyond this interlude, one he saw as casual despite his level of involvement, Abercrombie wouldn't see Marianne again for years. Assured that Lothar no longer posed a threat, he begged off attending her workplace his last night in Hamburg. He cited the next day's early train departure. Which was true. But Brussels, not London, was his destination. There, he and Lowery were to meet and carouse through the weekend.

That last Hamburg night Marianne occupied his thoughts. Smallness aside, his hotel ran a bar whose outdoor seating provided prime people-watching vantages. Located across from the city's main train terminal allowed diverse humanity to engage his interest. This and cold beer after delicious cold beer did little to dislodge her from his mind.

In Brussels he sketched the situation for Lowery. Blank swaths in the telling let his friend believe she'd been nothing than an easy lay. That suited Abercrombie. He'd come to Europe for culture and on-the-fly sex, not complications.

Months later back at his newsroom desk Marianne wrote him. Her letter lacked any heart tugs or guilt twinges. Its sobriety reminded him of a business letter. She asked questions she hoped he could clarify. All focused on the Polish man living in Boston.

Throughout the next several years every piece of their sporadic correspondence referenced that man. When the former Eastern Bloc archives cracked open, her inquiries sharpened.

Five years into their exchange, a surprise. She announced a visit. Boston particularly intrigued her. Rather than guide, she requested him as her traveling partner. Marianne even volunteered to catch all his expenses.

She arrived during the winter, the off-season. Outside of New York, Abercrombie preferred Montreal in February than Boston. But she insisted. Why not. He had the vacation time. Besides, journalism was disillusioning him more and more. The trivial and emphasis on the bottom line were steadily edging out vital news anyway. Foremost, though, the man she fixated on, the Pole. What was his story? How did Marianne fit?

Abercrombie succumbed to inquisitiveness.

She'd improved yet remained much the same through five distant years. More womanly and sure at 24; however, just as assertive. Now, though, serene calculations hid behind the sex Marianne dispensed. Where she'd been unbridled before, the additional years taught her how to award favors for best advantage.

In 1989 she faked cool. In 1994 she was in control.

New York didn't dazzle her. She wasn't blasé but preoccupied. Some genuine interest flared when their rail travel took them east of New Haven. There urban America yielded to the iron grays of the Sound and sky above it, the frozen marsh grasses, compact Coastal New England towns.

Entering Providence smothered this spark. Instead of booking a chain hotel room, he reserved one at Boston's newest boutique address. On Newbury Street. Should the place suffer from fatal twee there were blocks of therapeutic shopping close-by. Most importantly, the Pole was just a short walk away in Back Bay.

Actually two attached town houses quartered the Pole's foundation. The man, now deep in his 70s, mentored an organization which once served post-war displaced persons. These days it labored to keep memories current. Or so its public relations boilerplate stated. Between that, microfilm and microfiche study, Abercrombie compiled then sent Marianne a dossier. On the whole his efforts said much yet revealed gaps. The kind of omissions that glared.

Abercrombie's extensive credentials eased an appointment with the benefactor himself. Doubtlessly his request roused no suspicions. Probably jubilation. A New York reporter! Another chance to tell, sell, burnish the story. Who knew? Maybe even one more chance to chastise about letting history fade. How hoary!

He shared his speculation with Marianne. Grinning thinly, she said, "Maybe we will bring him up to date."

The Pole's office windows stared over Storrow Drive onto the Charles across into Cambridge. Abercrombie imagined during those warm months how pleasant it must've been to watch scullers ply the river.

The Pole's pictures did him justice. In the right light, standing at right the angle, Abercrombie assumed his eyes twinkled above the kindly smile. His dentures, as well as the now snowy pile of blond pomade which added inches to his stature, gleamed off every wall in grin and grips with potentates and presidents. Few of whom knew precisely why the Pole was exalted, but knew exactly the personal value of sharing his sheen.

Joining Marianne and Abercrombie in the man's office, his sole child, a daughter. The reporter judged the women as contemporaries. The Pole had married as late as reproductively possible. The foundation's PR alluded to his hard work having been limned by harder playing during the 50s, 60s and 70s.

Looking at the Pole's daughter, Abercrombie saw one primped, pampered, plush, innocent, voluptuous brunette. Her father's reputation, the probity sustaining it, opened any door she breathed upon. She wasn't merely delicate. She'd been doted upon and sheltered. In spite of such disadvantage, the daughter nevertheless emitted a quiet fierce pride in her father. The kind which would turn feral if the old man came under threat.

Abercrombie glanced at Marianne who also assessed the Pole's child. Something approaching pity waved across the German's face. Marianne likely considered the other woman an incomplete adult. Unlike the visitors, the daughter had never needed to make her way. Nor extract herself from some "situation." Or known the indescribable elation of creating one's own accomplishments.

Were that Marianne's summarization, then she regarded the daughter as a waste of life. He was sure the German barely registered with the other woman. The daughter was ordinarily elegant, while Marianne, although turned out demurely, still looked hard and cheap by comparison.

Effusive handshakes all around then the Pole settled behind one of the Sun King's misplaced desk. Abercrombie, Marianne, the daughter, each sat in chairs exceeding the reporter's annual salary.

Pleasantries ladled, the Pole interrupted Abercrombie's questioning. Instead he seized on Marianne's nationality. He asked which newspaper carried her byline.

"Even though your generation bears no responsibility, it's good today's Germans don't forget," the Pole said.

Marianne grimaced at his sloshing sagacity.

Half of Abercrombie wanted her to relate to them how she entertained in goosebumps -- just to witness their eye-popping. Marianne wasn't playing.

"It's good not to forget," she said, "but it's better to learn."

Marianne uttered names she'd never mentioned before. The surnames smacked of long ago titled German prosperity. Each first name a lovingly or jokingly given diminutive. Especially the female ones. As she gave the litany, the Pole lost his muzzy glow. She destroyed his complacency altogether. His body stiffened and his face grew rigid.

Marianne didn't smile. In German she did ask whether his daughter spoke the language.

The pole's German harsh, he said, "No! The little fool is a thorough American. She only bleats English."

"Good," Marianne said. "We must conduct business. I don't want your precious darling hurt ... if I can help it."

"What sort of pretenses brought you here, slut!?"

"In the depths of human vice I believe sluts are still a rung above devious peasants, you pig-dick fuck. I can still smell cow shit on your ankles."

"Why don't I take my peasant foot and kick your Kraut cunt out onto the street, bitch!?"

"Because that would prompt the worst sort of publicity. After all this time do you really want all these Americans you've fooled so long, so badly, truly seeing who you are? And how about precious over there? Your time is short. Do you really want to leave her as the daughter of a ...?"

Three sets of eyes shied upon the Pole's daughter. The German being spoken baffled her good. While the Pole seethed, Marianne turned to Abercrombie. She asked him if he remembered what they'd discussed.

Marianne's maternal side originated in Prussia. Or what had been Prussia. After the Red Army steeped the region in German blood, eradicating centuries old towns and villages, the new Poland's western border subsumed history and heritage.

Until this erasure her maternal family consisted of low-rank nobility. Their name carried the "von." With total defeat, the fortunate escapes of too few, the survivors were merely grateful to occupy their skins.

Before insanity and subsequent conflagration, the Pole had labored on manors near the maternal homestead. Common knowledge circulated that the nobles hedged their bets on the Third Reich's longevity. Although laws prohibited wealth from fleeing Germany, the well-born, the well-connected evaded such hurdles. Who knew how many hundreds of millions of Reichmarks seeped into foreign accounts?

All the account holders or their beneficiaries had to do was survive the war. With the conflict's cessation and loosening of travel restrictions, a modicum of pre-war life might resume. That was once foreign accounts were rescued and new money provided succor.

These were prudent plans. But who could've foreseen the Red Army's savagery? It's lust for complete revenge negated all the old rules. Mercy was no longer a component of warfare.

His nationality spared the Pole. The Russians simply thirsted to kill Germans. Also the Poles were useful. They hated Germans with nearly equal bile. The lumpen proletariat readily informed on its former masters.

The Red Army denuded Prussia of Germans. The Poles watched from relative safety yet only a few could work it to their advantage. In that fraught time between roundups, retribution, rapes, looting and mass murder, some scavenged what remained. The smarter ones left the silverware to the red conquerors. Instead they scoured the smoking ruins, sought inroads to accessible and convertible foreign funds.

Wily fellows like the Pole went farther. Post-war chaos presented opportunity. On the surface his displaced persons organization smelled legitimate. Endemic confusion and misery, his apparent help alleviating such, kept him from beneath any loupe's scrutiny.

He used access to myriad relief organizations to ascertain whether those missing jibed with dead lists. Such matches greatly reduced chances of rightful claimants skewing his robberies. Or as he saw it interfering with his pocketing found money.

Spelling out the benefits to pliant Swiss bankers was catnip. How many could refuse making use of "abandoned property"? Banking ethics only precluded thievery from live customers. The dead couldn't audit nor complain.

The stories Marianne's grandmother told the child stuck. These grew and followed her into adulthood. The Pole's name, his activities, the evasions, piqued Marianne. Trawling, sifting, waiting, persevering, and finally dumb luck personified by meeting Abercrombie one otherwise nothing night conspired to form this moment in the Pole's office.

Marianne's German returned them to the present, 1994.

"That you raised no objection verifies the contention."

The Pole shrugged. "I needn't dispute fanciful conjecture." He turned to Abercrombie. "Young man, how did you get dragged into this? Did this whore open her creamy white thighs and invite you poke her dripping Kraut snatch until you passed out? Just fuck her at will?"

"Oh," Abercrombie said, "absolutely."

Marianne disregarded the Pole's insults. "Your scheme, its execution, the whole stealing in plain sight, I must admit was daring. Extremely clever. Right up to the point where it affected my family."

"Her great-grandfather's account remained viable thanks to grandma making it past the Elbe," Abercrombie said. "You walked off with funds from an active balance. No matter how you explain it, that's larceny."

Marianne spoke to the Pole. "I'm not here to cry vengeance or seek my own retribution. Those people caused lifetimes of grief. They were punished for it. All my sympathies lie with their victims. Neither am I here to demand some outrageous amount of hush money. I'm a businesswoman. I just want what's ours."

She flitted eyes between the two men. In English, Marianne said, "I want we should wet our beaks. Just a taste, not the whole chunk."

Her sudden English burst after the German torrent provoked mixed reactions. The Pole's daughter was glad for the brief inclusion. As did Abercrombie, the Pole recognized and, despite the circumstances, appreciated her allusion. He smirked.

Resuming German, Marianne added, "In perpetuity."

The Pole soured. She continued.

"Naturally you're debating whether to dismiss us. Take your chances. You have banked decades of good will to call on. On the other hand, I have based this intrusion on a simple old woman's tricky memory. Piecemeal research. My own unshakable convictions. On the surface I must concede your superior position. However, you must concede mine is enough to urge somebody with more resources to begin a detailed search. You of all people know how righteous and indignant these Americans can get. Especially over moral matters."

She let the Pole digest her last statement. Then she concluded.

"You haven't long left. You've created quite a legacy. It should keep shining your name long after your bones are dust. Dredging up your past will tarnish that. You won't be here to defend yourself. Would you have your daughter do that? I'm sure she'd be a ferocious advocate -- as far as that goes. But really, your daughter? She'd be a mouse among tigers. She has soft hands, a weak grip and can't even file her own nails. That's who'd you trust to protect your memory?"

The Pole's face passed through every permutation from defiance to dismay before surrendering. He sighed then composed himself. Feigning cheer and benevolence, the Pole directed English towards his daughter.

"Darling, wondrous news. Fraulein Witmershaus brings us an exceptional request from Germany. I'll explain it over dinner. In the meantime get our legal people. Our disbursements will need amending."

An imitation of his kindliest, crinkliest smile lifted the Pole's face. Instead of twinkling, light glinted off his eyes. The act nonetheless jarred his boob child into motion. She left them to obey his command.