THE AMERICAN

“Breakfast! For the bitches!” Joseph Späh thrusts a plate into the American’s face.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, come off it. You’re not a prude. And that is a perfectly correct reference for female dogs. Dogs which, I might add, are waiting to be fed.”

“Ulla is female. Owens is not. Therefore your plural usage is incorrect.”

“Owens?”

“We have to call him something.”

“Not something stupid.” The American looks at him with disdain, so Späh feigns an expression of mock supplication and a bad English accent. “My good fellow, would you care to accompany me to feed the hounds?”

Werner Franz has most likely fed the dog already, but the American isn’t about to tell Späh. “Might as well,” he finally says. “It’s not like I have anything else to do.”

It’s a familiar ritual by now. The American follows Späh through the security door and down the keel catwalk. The little acrobat looks wistfully at the cruciform bracing as they pass underneath. He tells the American that with a little practice he could make a real spectacle out of that climb. They are discussing the merits of such a display when a man moves toward them from the access walkway that leads to the first engine gondola.

“What are you doing here?”

The voice is hard and deep and commanding. It is the voice of Ludwig Knorr.

“The same thing I’ve done twice a day every day since this ship departed Frankfurt.” Späh takes a dramatic bow. “Feeding my dog.”

“Passengers aren’t allowed in this part of the ship.” He looks at the American and receives a disinterested shrug in return.

“Tell that to every crewman who has seen me traverse this stretch of catwalk for the last three days.”

If Späh has been intercepted on his solo trips he has not mentioned it to the American. Most likely he’s bluffing.

Knorr is unconvinced. “Names.”

“Joseph Späh and”—he looks at the American—“I don’t know his name. No one does. But he answers to Asshole in a pinch.”

“Not your names, your—”

“Right. You meant the dogs. Ulla and Owens. The latter is the dumbest name I’ve ever heard for a dog. But it’s what we’ve come to expect from Asshole here.”

“Listen, Arschmade, I meant the crewmen. I want the names of the men who let you back here.”

“I didn’t ask. And I wouldn’t remember anyway. There are so many of you. And you all look alike in your boring gray uniforms.”

The American does his best not to laugh. Späh is quick and clever. He has a rapier wit and the perfect timing of a man who is accustomed to heckling. He enjoys the game immensely. However, the banter is a nuisance to the chief rigger, and he raises a hand to silence the little man.

“I will take you to the cargo hold.” Knorr glares at each of them in turn. “And then escort you back to the passengers’ quarters.”

Knorr leads the way with the air of a martyr, watching while the dogs are fed and their messes cleaned, standing apart from them, inconvenienced and determined to let them know. The American hadn’t intended to actually participate in this ritual, and he finds it distasteful. Dogs are not hygienic creatures. The way they eat and the way they defecate and clean themselves repulses him—Owens in particular with the little clods of shit clumped around his ass. But the American is keenly aware of Ludwig Knorr’s curious gaze, so he plays the part.

They are almost done when Werner Franz enters the cargo room door holding a paper bag filled with scraps. He eyes the men in turns—Späh and Knorr first, but upon seeing the American he cannot disguise his fear. The American gives him an almost imperceptible shake of the head. Don’t say a word, the look commands.

“Why are you here?” Knorr demands.

He points an unsteady hand at the wicker cage. “To feed the dog.”

Owens sees Werner and begins to leap around, pushing his nose through the narrow slats, begging for attention. Stupid, pathetic creature and his easily bought affections, the American thinks. When Werner offers his hand the dog licks it with devotion.

Knorr watches this display of affection for a moment. “Why?”

It’s a direct question from a superior, and the American cannot blame the boy for answering truthfully.

“I was paid to do so.”

Knorr’s voice drops lower. Curious. “By whom?”

There is no hesitancy in Werner’s voice when he answers. He has chosen his course and committed to it. “Him.”

Knorr’s full curiosity turns to the American now. “It seems you have a habit of being where you do not belong.”

The poker game. The cargo hold. Knorr’s curiosity turns to suspicion in an instant.

“It is a long flight and I am easily bored.”

“Is that dog yours?” Knorr asks.

He pauses, just long enough to choose the lie. But he speaks it plainly and confidently when he does. “Yes.”

Knorr doesn’t believe him. That much is clear. But he doesn’t argue while Werner and Späh are staring at the two of them with open astonishment.

“It is ugly,” he says and then turns to the cabin boy. “Finish what you’re doing and then escort these men back to the passengers’ quarters. They are not to come back again while this ship is in the air. Understood?”

“Yes.”

And Knorr is gone, walking back into the belly of the ship. The American watches his retreating back until the cargo hold door swings shut again. He allows himself the brief fantasy of driving a knife between those shoulder blades.

“What was that?” Späh asks.

“That,” he answers, “is a complication.”