Round Robin (12 page)

Robin was mortified ... and, okay, a little fascinated, too. Nancy the control freak letting Robin see a little of what she had hidden behind her curtain, admitting that she had a kinky side.

Nancy looked at Robin with a bland, challenging expression.

“What?” Nancy asked, daring Robin to crack wise.

“The light’s green,” Robin replied, still uncertain she wanted to hear more.

Nancy didn’t give her a choice. She continued her story as she stepped on the gas.

“Charlie wears boxer shorts, too. The first time he saw me in them, he said, ‘So, you want to fight, huh? See who wears the pants around here.’”

Robin was surprised there was any question that it wasn’t Nancy.

“The next day,” Nancy said, “when we were getting ready for bed, Charlie threw a pair of his underwear at me. Once I got them on, he brought out these absolutely enormous boxing gloves. It was like wearing a big pillow on each hand. He said we should go three rounds.”

Unable to restrain herself, Robin asked, “What did you use for a ring?”

“What do you think?” Nancy smirked. “Our bed.”

She pulled into the supermarket parking lot.

“We had a little trouble tearing each other’s shorts off wearing those ridiculous gloves, but we managed.” As they got out of the car, she added. “Went all three rounds, too.”

Robin snorted.

“You were young in those days.”

Nancy snorted right back.

“Why do you think Charlie and I work out so often?”

Robin didn’t feel it necessary to answer that one.

As they walked toward the store, Nancy said, “Robin, let me tell you something.”

“What?”

“It’s time you saw a penis again.”

“Nancy!”

“A big, hard one wearing a smile.”

“Stop it,” Robin hissed, looking around to see who might be overhearing them.

Undeterred, Nancy said as they entered the store, “Listen, men’s underwear is fun, but what’s inside is even better.”

After they’d shopped and were on their way back to Robin’s house, Nancy dropped the bomb.

“Dad came into the office today.”

“So?”

Their father often stopped in at the real estate agency to see Nancy.

“He spent half-an-hour talking to Mom alone in her office.”

“What?”

Robin was shocked. Their parents hadn’t spent a cumulative thirty minutes talking to each other in all the years they’d been separated. For the first five years, when they’d happened to be in the same place, they’d walk right past one another without batting an eye. Even now, all these years later, “Hello, how are you?” was about as far as it went, and that was on a good day.

“What did they talk about?” Robin asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You couldn’t worm it out of either of them?”

Unlike Robin, Nancy still talked with their mother.

“No, and I tried, believe me.”

“I’ll ask Daddy.”

“Let me know if you find out anything.”

“Sure.”

Robin got out of Nancy’s car in front of her house, pleased that she was able to carry two bags of groceries without difficulty.

“Thanks for the help,” Robin said.

“I’m always here for you, kiddo. You remember that.”

Robin nodded and then she said, “I have to ask you something.”

“What?”

“How can an erection wear a smile?”

Nancy grinned, answering as she drove away.

“That’s the part you provide.”

Chapter 12

David Solomonovich, boy genius, finally cornered the wily international desperado, Manfred Welk, in the pages of
Sports Illustrated
. He’d found a dated copy of the magazine in the on-line archives of the Library of Congress that told Welk’s tale. The story intimated that Welk had, indeed, been spying for the CIA. While the details of the former champion power-lifter’s trial had been kept secret, it was thought that he had been turning over the training secrets of the East German athletic juggernaut to the Americans. This information, it was said, would be useful in detecting drug-doping by the German Communists, would threaten that nation’s future as an athletic powerhouse and would be an altogether crushing propaganda defeat for the GDR.

The story concluded that as punishment for his acts Welk had been given an indeterminate prison sentence, and might never again be a free man. Without saying so directly, the story made clear that Welk, the only East Bloc weight lifter believed to train drug-free, was a genuine hero.

The accompanying photos of Welk in competition showed that he was of heroic proportions, too. The kind of figure, David thought, who might slay thousands on the battlefield before the Valkyries carried him off to Valhalla.

The thought of this guy living in Robin’s house made David intensely jealous. David might be too smart to take on the CIA but, with his teenage hormones raging, he was going to find a way to keep this Kraut away from his Robin.

Robin had put her groceries away and eaten a light lunch. She’d been thinking about her damn doctor’s admonition to lose weight and now she was peeking through the foliage to look out the park’s front windows and see if Manfred might be arriving home from school. She noticed the car parked out front next to the fire hydrant.

The car was a Porsche 911, nondescript gray and in need of a wash. In Robin’s neighborhood, it blended in as easily as if it were a Chevy. Actually, on her block, it would be the domestic car that stuck out like a sore thumb. There was a man sitting in the driver’s seat, not doing anything in particular. Robin thought he might even have been sleeping, but she couldn’t see if his eyes were closed.

In their eternal search for wrongdoers and parking fine revenue, a patrol unit of the Chicago Police Department soon pulled up next to the Porsche. The cop got out and tapped on the driver side window of the Porsche. The guy had been sleeping and woke with a start. He lowered his window and smiled at the cop. Robin could see from where she was that the guy had nice teeth.

He took something out of his pocket and showed it to the cop. The cop reached for whatever the guy was showing him, but the guy shook his head and put the object back in his pocket. Playing keep-away from a Chicago cop is not a course of action taught in Driver’s Ed. So Robin was surprised that the cop didn’t yank the guy out of his car and throw him in the back of the patrol unit.

Instead, the cop got on his radio, all the while staring at the guy in the Porsche, who was still smiling pleasantly. A moment later the cop apparently got some news he didn’t like because he flipped off the guy in the Porsche and drove away at high speed.

All without giving the guy a parking ticket.

This was a bit of street drama that Robin had never seen before.

The next thing she knew the guy got out of the Porsche and was walking right toward her building. He was a nice looking guy, average appearance, neatly groomed and wore a good suit. He could have fit into the neighborhood as easily as his car. Better, actually, since he didn’t need a wash. He shocked Robin by waving at her as he entered her front hall.

Robin backed away, not knowing how he could have seen her through the foliage.

She retreated further toward the rear of the park when the doorbell rang.

How had he known she was here?

She decided to wait him out, not answer the bell. Even when it rang the second time. But on the third try, the guy rang “Shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits.” Something about that told her that the guy had a sense of humor, that he was probably all right, and maybe she should at least listen through the outer door to what he had to say.

Robin opened the front door to the park.

The guy looked at her through the panes of glass in the outer door and smiled at her. He really was good looking, like the boy-next-door all grown up and making his way in the world quite nicely, thank you.

“What do you want?” Robin asked brusquely.

“A good German beer,” the guy said, still grinning, though up close Robin could see deep circles of fatigue under his eyes. “I’m reliably informed I can find some in your basement.”

How did he know that, Robin wondered in amazement. That Manfred lived here and that he drank German beer.

For that matter, how had he known she’d been in the park? Robin asked.

“Your camouflage is pretty good,” the guy said, “but I saw your breath condensing on the window pane.”

Somebody’d notice something like that?

“Who the hell are you?” Robin asked.

The guy reached into the same pocket he’d used for the cop. He brought out a little ID folder and flipped it open.

“Warner Lisle. CIA. I’ve been flying most of the past 24 hours. I’m here to see Manfred. Now, may I please come in and have a beer before I pass out?”

“Now, I remember,” Robin said. “You were here before, but you were wearing different clothes. I didn’t recognize you.”

“Thank you,” said Warner Lisle.

Robin let him into Manfred’s apartment. True to his word, Warner found the fridge, pulled out a beer, opened it and plopped down on the living room sofa. He took a long drink, sighed contentedly and renewed his smile in Robin’s direction.

“You’re not my idea of a spy,” Robin told him from where she stood near the front door—the better to make her escape, should it prove necessary.

“Thanks again. That’s just the way we like it.”

“Why?”

“Think about it. What you want in a spy is someone who’s easy to accept and hard to remember. That’s me. You’ll have a hard time describing me an hour from now. And tomorrow, forget about it. Still, I looked agreeable enough that you let me in here.”

That last bit made Robin uneasy again.

“Why’re you telling me all this? Why did you even admit you’re a spy at all?”

Was he going to kill her?

It didn’t appear likely when he put his bottle of beer on the floor, stretched out on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter who knows I’m a spy anymore because I’m about to retire.”

That would never have occurred to Robin, that spies could retire like anyone else.

“So what’re you going to do, write your memoirs?”

“I signed an agreement not to do that.”

“Then what?”

Warner turned his head toward Robin and opened his eyes.

“I’m going to Hollywood. I’m going to design special effects like you wouldn’t believe.”

The CIA agent smiled and closed his eyes again.

“Are you here to tell Manfred about his daughter?”

“Can’t give away all my secrets,” Warner said drowsily.

“I’ve agreed to let her move in here with him.”

“Then brace yourself.”

And with that the semi-secretive agent fell asleep and started snoring softly.

Manfred noticed Warner’s car as he drove down the block in his old Mercedes. He knew that his friend must have some word for him about how the negotiations with Ulrike had gone. A wave of anxiety swelled in his chest; he had to hear the news ... but he couldn’t find a parking space anywhere on the block.

Since he’d moved in, he’d had extraordinarily good luck finding parking. He’d had to park more than a block away only two times, and since he liked to walk he hadn’t minded. But now he had to find a parking place immediately and he knew only one sure way to do that. He pulled into the alley behind Robin’s house.

He’d park in her garage. True, he’d bargained for only half of the space there and his weights and equipment occupied that area, but Robin didn’t have a car and he knew the other half of the garage would be available. So just this once ...

Manfred slowed down as he approached the garage. He tapped the button on the remote control to open the garage door. He’d installed a new opener last week but Robin hadn’t noticed. He was about to roll inside when a skinny kid wearing glasses rode up on a bicycle and stopped directly in front of the car. Manfred slammed on the brakes, missing the kid by a whisker.

It didn’t seem to faze the kid. He pointed a bony finger at Manfred.

“I know who you are,” David Solomonovich told Manfred, “and I’ll be watching.”

Then the kid rode away leaving Manfred utterly baffled.

But he didn’t have time for mysteries now. He pulled into the garage, lowered the door and raced toward the building to find out what Warner had to tell him about Hannelore.

Robin had just opened the door to her apartment when she heard Manfred storm in on the first floor.

“Is that you?” Robin called.

Who else could it be, the building was shaking.

“Ja,”
came the voice from below, somewhat impatiently she thought.

“I let a friend of yours into your apartment, says he’s with the CIA.”

“Danke.”

That was it. She heard the door to the basement apartment open and slam shut. Robin had been hoping the remark about the CIA would call for some explanation on his part, but apparently not. Well, she’d find out soon enough anyway.

What surprised Robin was how eager she was to know what was happening.

Manfred called her on the phone an hour later.

“I was rude earlier. Please forgive me.”

Robin couldn’t remember the last time a man had apologized to her for a breach of manners. Possibly it had never happened. But she liked it.

“Okay,” she said. “Just don’t let it happen again.”

“I have also read your reply to my note. You are very generous.”

Now, he was complimenting her. It was a heady feeling.

“You do what you can,” Robin said modestly.

“I would like to make dinner for you tonight,” Manfred told her.

Robin gulped, thought it was a good thing she was fat or he’d hear her knees knocking.

“I ... I don’t think so.”

“My daughter is coming,” he said “It has been arranged.”

A long silence ensued.

“Bitte,”
he said softly.

The word was quiet, but the plea it contained was a shout. He had wonderful news and he was dying to share it. Robin also heard a note of anxiety. Her moat monster was afraid. He’d wished long and hard to get his daughter back, and now that it was about to happen it scared him. His fear, more than anything else, was what persuaded her to accept.

“I hope it’s come as you are,” she said.