Germanophobia

Dirty Don

Hard and fast it struck – a heartless, merciless thief. It snatched the souls of countless men in its sheer, unfathomable destruction. Good or bad, black or white, devout or faithless, didn’t matter. The 2nd World War shredded them all to ribbons like they were nothin’ but tissue paper. At Normandy my Pa was shot dead-cold, just a German translator helpin’ out Uncle Sam. A man like any other, caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. But in LA, the City of Angels, Pa was never honoured for his service like all the rest. No medals or badges for my old man. He was a Germ by blood, you see. So are we. Means people see Ma and me as little more than the enemy. To this lot we’re killers of brothers, fathers and uncles. Krauts, Jew-Haters, Nazis – been called it all; stopped in the street and screamed at by total strangers. Damn, how many times’ve I watched a smile fade from a woman’s face, a man’s brow furrow, as my clumsy German tongue stumbles through my vowels and churns my W’s into V’s? I lost count long ago. Lucky me.

Ma’s a real believer though, thinks things’ll just work themselves out in time – I know better. We’ll be knockin’ on death’s door long before this mucked up city starts treating us Germans like people again. A little after the war ended, the bank gave me the flick. Gave my job to a veteran. Pa’s old Chevy got stolen the followin’ summer. Cops looked the other way. Ma and I won’t see the snow livin’ it straight, not with this city the way it is. So I joined up with the only organization left in LA that still judged a man by his deeds before his accent. I joined the mob.

I slip the doorman a fiver – my last fiver – and he thuds on the door with a single, masculine fist. I watch the words Don Caster:  CEO of Don’s Waste Disposal veer inwards as the door swings ominously open. I never see the other doorman; it’s as if the door decides to open on its own accord. It’s a bad omen, some would say, for a man to witness a sight so ghostly, but I’m no man of superstition. I welcome it like a Christmas gift – the first I’ve had in a long, long time.

I enter the office, my pace slow and wavering. I try my best to look the part, to seem imposing or perhaps intimidating – a promising member of the family. I struggle to look either. There’re so many pairs of surly eyes pickin’ at my tattered soul, belonging to men who’d sooner shoot you than ask your name. My feet are sinking rapidly into the plush crimson carpet like I’ve stepped into a pool of bloody quicksand – I can’t do this. I slip. I falter. They laugh.

Pull your head in Baldur. You need this. Ma needs this.  

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the dimly lit room. The only feeble source of light filters through a wall of Venetian slats, casting thin strips of light against the overwhelming darkness. That – and the glower of Cuban cigars. The air hangs thick with dark smoke, a Cuban mist that obscures several strong-jawed faces. But I can still feel each and every eye that’s on me, all expecting me to sink instead of swim, hoping for an amusing spectacle just to pass the time. Monsters stuffed into fancy Italian suits.

My eyes draw across the crimson plush, to a finely polished Hekman & Newport presidential desk standing proudly in the centre of the room. I can feel the object radiating with authority, its intricate pillars and cornices dripping with strength and substance. This piece of furniture was made to be marveled, truly a sight to behold. But its beauty pales in comparison to that of the woman standing behind it.

She leans against the desk; an elegant, manicured hand perched softly upon its varnished top. She wears a little black dress, and sports a pair of olive legs that go all the way up to her neck and then some. She caresses the ear of a seated figure with her speech, her voluptuous lips smacking together as she whispers in her sweet, sweet voice. She finishes her sensuous sentence, looks up at me with a pair of bewitching dark eyes and smiles suggestively. I can’t feel my hands, or my feet, or anything. Nothing matters but her. She walks right by me, flicking her lavish black hair to waft her fragrant perfume in my direction. She smells of Gardenia and Honeysuckle, of wildflowers – how fitting. For those eyes of hers tell it all; there’s something wild within, concealed by her utter beauty. I’m stumped for words, and by the time I find the right ones she’s already gone. A perfectly-shaped olive heel is the last I see of her. For a moment I consider dropping everything and dashing after her, but I know I can’t.

I have business to attend to.

‘Heyyy Casanova!’ A spry Italian voice splits me from my thoughts. ‘Looks like you’ve made quite the impression on my lady friend there!’ His voice croaks with decades of liberal smoking, and as I move closer, I realise that he smells just so. The Cuban mist parts to reveal a grizzled, well-lined face, largely shadowed by a jet black trilby. He’s the very essence of a mobster if ever there was one; the sort that makes your blood run ice-cold. His wrinkly nose hooks so far forth you could hang a coat on it; his eyes two pin pricks of darkness that’d send you mad without so much as a wink. Fear slithers along my skin, hissing at me to up and leave, but it just confirms what I already know: I’m in the right place.

I greet the man formally, outstretching a single sweaty palm; ‘H-hello Sir.’ He turns his nose up at me and grimaces like I’ve just offered him poison. ‘Woah woah woah! Do I look like a Sir to you boy?! The man who carries a fancy title like that, is the man who is always first to bend his knee. Are you tellin’ me to bend my knee?’ A sudden whiff of tobacco infused with garlic seizes my senses and scatters my thoughts. ‘Sorry uh…’ My hand retracts. I search my mind for the correct title. Don’t find one. Luckily the old mobster helps me along; ‘Its Don boy, Don. You got that?’

‘Crystal.’

‘Swell. You got yourself a name?’

‘Baldur.’

‘Boulder? Like the rock?

‘No, it’s Ba-’ he cuts me off.

‘I think I’ll just call you Casanova, save us the trouble. What use is there learning your name? After all, you might be dead in five minutes.’ A twisted smile from Don reveals several golden teeth amongst a bleached set of pearly whites. I don’t smile back – death ain’t a funny thing.

‘So what’s that I hear in your voice son? German, is it?’

I nod.

‘Is that gonna make problems for me, Casanova?’

I shake my head; ‘Not in the slightest Don, I-’

‘Mm. No need to explain. I know how you feel kid. The Italians get a bad rap round these parts too. Damn Americans don’t care if we’re patriots, Nazis, fascists or whatever – they hate us all the same.’

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself.’ I reply.

‘No. No you couldn’t have. Now, it’d seem I have myself a decision to make. I can tell why you’re here, you know – can see it in your eyes. You want in. I get that. But this ain’t just any job. If you sign along the dotted line to play for my team, you play for life. No drink-breaks, no half-time. You play to win, or you get dropped. The sort of drop you don’t come back from. Capisci?’

What choice do I have? I swallow the smoky air desperately; a lame attempt to stop the dizzying head-rush the decision’s givin’ me. ‘K-Kapeesh.’ I eek clumsily.

‘Don’t say that word kid. You Germs don’t have the tongues for it. Not your fault, not my problem. I don’t want you goin’ all Italian on me anyway – we could use a quality German. The Jews, the Chinks and the Doughnut Patrol ain’t gonna know who hit ’em, until we make it known.’ An impressed grumble paws around the room.

But. I ain’t in the business of takin’ on just any Kraut trash. You might want this more than the Feds want me dead, but you’ve still got to prove yourself to kind, old Don – and to the family.’ Don raises his arms to gesture at the mobsters about the office, a smouldering cigar in his hand. I remain silent and a now little more composed, absorbing every word like its holy.

‘Tell me Casanova, where was your last line of work?’

‘I was a teller at Californian Trust.’

‘THE BANK?’ Don’s voice skyrockets to a fever pitch, his cigar nearly slipping from his hand.

‘The very one.’ I say it like it’s nothing, but I know what he’s getting’ at – greedy pig. But I got nowhere else to turn; no one else who’ll care. A wicked grin rips across the old mobster’s craggy face.

‘My boy, I have just the job.’