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If you didn’t look too deeply, it’d be hard to believe it’s a boiling pot of subversion….
Ahead, Fulmar saw the brick and glass façade to Wagner’s Restaurant and Market.
The establishment’s name was painted in large gold lettering on the main picture window, above a round, red neon sign—RHEINGOLD EXTRA DRY—advertising beer. Its street number was painted in the same gold lettering, but much smaller, on the glass panes above the dark wooden door.
Fulmar glanced inside the window, past the blinking neon sign, but did not immediately see Ingrid Müller.
He grabbed the big brass handle of the door, pulled hard, and went inside.
The first thing that he noticed was the blast of heat that greeted him.
He pulled off his overcoat and draped it on his left arm, over the sleeve concealing his baby Fairbairn.
He saw that Wagner’s was more of a bar and grill than a real grocery, such as Schaller & Weber’s, which he had noticed on Second Avenue just up the block.
The interior of Wagner’s had dark-stained paneled walls. The ceiling was of pressed tin in a burnished gold color. The bar, also of dark wood, ran the length of the right side of the room—where a series of four U.S. flags hung from staffs in a row above the mirrors. There were wooden tables and chairs in the middle of the room and a line of booths down the left side.
At the back of the restaurant was the “market”—two open refrigerated cases, the kind found in full-service grocery stores, these containing packages of kielbasa, bratwurst, potato salad, and such, all menu items that had been prepared in the kitchen on the premises for carryout.
About half of the bar’s twenty or so stools were taken—including by a half-dozen sailors in uniform—and three of the tables were each occupied by couples enjoying their cocktails.
Fulmar noticed motion on the left side of the room, and when he looked he saw in a booth a blonde woman in a dark outfit waving to get his attention.
She was sitting alone, smoking a cigarette, and had on the table in front of her a cup of what he guessed was probably coffee.
My God! She’s gotten even more gorgeous.
He smiled and made a direct line for her table.
As he walked up, she smiled.
“I knew that had to be you,” she said. “You haven’t changed…but, then, you have.”
She remained seated but held out her right hand. When he reached to take it, she leaned forward and turned her head to offer her cheek. Fulmar took her hand, bent over, touched his right cheek to hers, and made the sound of a kiss. She turned the other way and he touched his left cheek to hers, and again made the kissing sound.
Damn, she has soft skin.
Fulmar looked at her. She wore no makeup that he could tell.
And she doesn’t need it.
Her fair skin was flawless. She had a soft, narrow face with high cheekbones, a thin nose, delicate lips, high eyebrows, and deep, ice blue eyes. Her hair was rich and thick, heavy with big waves. And her dark outfit tried but failed to hide the fact that she was fantastically built.
“It’s great to see you again, Ingrid. You look sensational.”
She smiled appreciatively.
“That’s very kind of you to say.”
She gestured to the seat across the table from her.
“Please, have a seat.”
Fulmar tossed his overcoat onto the seat and slid in the booth after it.
The cushioning or the springs—or both—in the seat were soft or old—or both—and he instantly found himself sitting in a sort of self-formed bowl.
The back of this bowl pressed at his lower backside, which, in turn, pushed at the nose of the .45 tucked in the small of his back. He discreetly reached back and repositioned the pistol so that it would not fall out of his waistband.
